Big sur to drown out the pounding headaches kerouac probably woke up with every morning, Denver to cast the most oppressive style of depression over dark circles beneath the eyes of a poet. He climbed mountains in his sneakers, carrying heavy 50's style canvas camping gear, jug of wine, it was romantic to me back in my early seattle days--when I first started to go to poetry readings and realized that I was becoming a superstar...the invisible kind of superstar that people only hear about after they drink themselves to death.

I was headed for the Poetry Slam scene, poised to travel the country sharing my words with hundreds and hundreds of people. It all came down to one night, on stage, competing with a friend for a slot on the team. To her, it was her whole life, what she got up and brushed her teeth for, what she dyed her trademark red hair for. To me, it was a crack at living the dream I've had since a child, to be alone on a stage before hundreds of people...craving me...attently listening...loving me...appreciating me. But in order to sustain that dream, I would have to feed them what they drooled for--surly chunks of ashtray lyrics, rum-spiked sex scenes, curse-riddled spit balls wadded up with words curled around the wetness. It was exciting to write and read words like that, but it wasn't really me.

I wanted to inspire people to think beyond their programming. to dare to change and grow no matter how painful. To learn to listen to the higher voices and believe them, trust them as much as we trust a traffic light. Those pieces were heard and received by only a small crowd of faithful poets. Our version of Kerouac's family dawned, rose, peaked and waned like a gorgeous sunny day--it was a true happening--and then it was over. I knew I wasn't going to find that in the Slam circuit. I was going to end up in bars, smelling like cigarettes and living on mini-mart snacks. I was going to keep producing pieces that wouldn't really help anybody except to justify their vices. My friend, on the other hand, had a way of translating truth and love into a kind of raspy, motorcycle-booted romanticism...and I knew that she was the sentinel they needed.

So i threw the contest. I chose a piece that I knew lacked the punch I needed to win, and I read it thinly as if I'd never known the goddess. And my friend went on her way...a dozen boxes of Miss Clairol later, she's still in it...and I haven't written much since. Except for things like this, which seep gently out of me like the way a yogi sweats.