It’s time that we take a breath, readers. The beautiful chaos of the slam season is now in intermission. For those of you who missed it, Poetry Slam XXXVIII saw 34 men and women providing us not only with their words, but their very souls in the packed back room of the Max. It all came down to the battle of the married poets, with Sharon Cole taking first place, and her husband, Vito Cole, coming in a close second.

For this old con, simply witnessing the night unfold was a spectacular experience, but for the first time, I was taking part of it from behind the judges table.

Serving as a judge at one of WSC’s slams isn’t an easy gig, especially with 34 people taking the stage. It involves careful calculations based on the strength of the poem, and then there is the fact that you have to balance those calculations with a never-ending flow of free alcohol. It’s not a task for the weak of heart.

We have no need to worry about that though, do we? No, sir, we have no need to concern ourselves with that.

We’re too deep into the bizarre ugliness of the Trump Administration to have anyone left who is lacking in their ability to keep on trucking. Whoa, I’ve got to take a step back here. I have to remind myself to avoid the politics. I’ve ingested far too much rum and Coke for it, and believe me when I say that I’ve worn myself thin.

It’s not healthy to discuss our decayed national foundation in this state of mind. Of course, talking about this presidency isn’t showing signs of being healthy for anyone.

A friend of mine was sucker punched just for mentioning it this weekend when he stumbled into a drunken nest of Trump supporters.

Now that Slam XXXVIII is a mark in the history books, life should be returning to quiet simplicity, but my four-day weekend was not as restful as I had hoped. Where are we going with this, readers? I really have no clear idea. For those who know me well, that’s nothing new.

Four days of hard living can leave even the most savage beast weakened to the point of exhaustion, both physical and mental. Anyway, let’s try to get somewhere with this piece.

Poets are the ones who should run the country. Perhaps even the world. We’ve seen the outcomes of the career politicians, the veteran generals, the businessmen.

We should abandon the traditions of yesteryear and go with something new, even if it does result in anarchy. With the poets I’ve met, the ones I have judged, I am certain we would be in good hands, or at least bigger hands than those handling our executive orders.