We’re at it again, readers. Another slam season approaches. In this year of political ugliness and uncertainty on the horizon, this is exactly what we are in need of, and those are the doctor’s orders.

We would certainly be fools not to follow their command. Just as long as they aren’t some devilish Rhode Island witch doctor, then steer clear. Believe me folks, that’s a recipe for disaster followed by those with an appetite for pure destruction. Speaking of that, I need to get ahold of Rum and tell him to bring me some of his sanity pills. The end of the semester is drawing near far too quickly, and I feel myself sliding into a complete mental collapse.

This is beside the point, let’s get back on track.

On Thursday, a whole crowd of poets will converge on The Max. They will consist of the young and the old, the weird, the mystical, truth tellers who can be described only as a motley bunch of beautiful freaks and geeks. In other words, the good guys in this world of horrid villains who do their best to convince us they are the only people we can trust.

Thursday will be a night that reflects the glories of ancient Greece, of Rome at the height of its power and potential (without all the blood and guts spread from North Africa to Britain). It will be a time when people share their souls upon a stage covered in glory. For those of you who have never seen it, the stage is something to behold. The names of previous winners cover it like tattoos, a tapestry that serves as a testament to the wonderful creativity that exists in this bizarre world of ours.

For those of you who have witnessed my past commentary on the slams, this will not seem as such a shock, but for the uninitiated, I have a thesis that has come up in multiple pieces that states that poets should be the ones running the show. I have certainly heard about the negatives of such a thing, and even I see the fault in such a belief, but I’ll always stick to my guns on this one, folks.

While it may be a short trip into chaos and insanity, it would prove to be one hell of a ride. For once, we could live in a society in which a person says what they mean, rather than hiding behind ruthless lies and quid pro quos. Now, isn’t that a thought to hold onto?

Indeed. It would be a place where one could exist without having to worry about the grim reality of this modern century, a time when barbaric actions are seen as common place with school shootings and corruption occurring on what seems like a never-ending blizzard of shame.

If you have nowhere else to be, make your way to the Downtown scene, be a part of the wonderful craziness. If you do have plans, move them to another block on the calendar so you can stop by and listen to words that will sink into your soul, providing some peace from the bitterness of the approaching winter.