"I Want to Be in a Band," Slam Poem UPDATED

Last week, the poet and author Dasha Kelly visited our school and shared some of her prose and poetry. It's been a long time since I have watched some quality spoken word. I missed it. It made me yearn.

So, if I ever produced a greatest hit, here it is. I read this around town, and in a few other towns I was invited to. It was going to be in an anthology that never happened. Maybe I can get a video of an original performance up on here. Until then...


I Want to Be in a Band

I want to be in a band.

I want to be in a beat-box bee-bop band.

I want to look like I’m in a band.

I want to look like I make the

mad crash smash sounds a band makes.

See, bands are cool.

They rocket-rock on stage,

and have super secret jazzy jams

at home,

with the lights lazy low and

the smoke’s craze haze

kicking out the brand ass-spanking new

sweet soft melodies

double deep heart throb harmonies,

then you yank crank the volume

and your feet ground pound and

your head up down,

and you scratchy scream,

“Thank you!  Good night!”

in a British accent, even if you’re not British,

even if you’re from, you know, Wisconsin.

I want to talk like I’m in a band,

Say, “dude’s sup?” and “Yo, a’ight”,

and flip flop my street nouns,

and grab ‘n go my ghetto verbs,

and have cool catch phrases,

someone asks me “How’s it goin’”

I say, “Top ten, baby”

They say, “See you later”

I say, “Keep it flat, man.”

They say “Whassup?”

I say “Don’t touch that dial.”

I want to eat like I’m in a band,

lazy late morning room service tacos,

late night low-life all you can eat buffets,

and I’ll hire a dude,

and whenever I say, “I want pizza!”

he’ll get me a pizza,

and whenever I say, “This pizza shit tastes like shit,”

and throw it against wall,

he’ll peppy pick it up

and happy haul his ass

to get me some

good god damn buffalo wings.

I want to sleep like I’m in a band,

I want to crash bash on my pillow,

grab my rock and roll teddy bear,

and say, “Man, I am so fucked up!”

I want to wake up like I’m in a band,

see a disk-spinnin, ass-kickin tattoo on my arm

and say “Where the hell did that come from?”

I want to shower like I’m in a band,

brush my teeth like I’m in a band,

I want to read my book like I’m in a band

play Nintendo like I’m in a band,

drive to the show like I’m in band.

And I want to stand on stage with

Dolby whack slammin’ the drums,

Buzz low tonin’ the bass,

Scratch scream strikin’ the guitar

Elwood pop plunkin’ the piano,

and I’ll ting tingle a triangle tirade

and Dolby will

du-du-dun, du-du-du-du-dun-dun,

and Buzz will

bow, bow, bow, bow-bow-bow

and Scratch will

Juh, juh-juh, juh, juh-juh-juh

and Elwood will

pling, plang-plang, pling, pling, plang

and I’ll

ting, ting-ting, ting-ting

and then I’ll change it up

ting-ta-ting-ting, ting-ting-ting

and then I’ll smash my triangle into the amp,

and I’ll crowd surf like I’m in a band,

right out onto the street, where strangers will come up

to me and say, “Are you in band,”

and I’ll say “Double digit”

and they’ll say, “I want to be in band”

and I’ll say “Bands are eight lane.”

Damn, I want to be in a band.

Eric RasmussenPoetry