Poems over three-minutes long are penalized, and group performances are allowed in place of an individual reading. Props, costumes, and music are against the rules. Reading from memory is the norm, but scripts are allowed. The team with the highest cumulative score wins. Before the weekend is over, these basic rules will serve as the nexus of debate, division, and unbridled animosity.
Protest is as much the rule as the rules themselves.
The heat is on. Poems spit forth like steaming asphalt, fast and furious, increasing the Texas humidity with lip friction. We talk after the round and manage to sweat out the heat that will make poets faint throughout this weekend's tournament. The slam seems to be both a channel for and target of the rage he has worked through since his gangbanging days. With a slam poem, I don't get too spiritual.