Russel Simmons presents Def Poetry.
Ladies and gentleman, your host from the planet of Brooklyn,
Mos Def.
What up, what up, what up?
(applause)
What's up, New York?
I say what's up, New York?
Where Queens at?
Where the Boogie Down at?
Where Uptown at? Where Jersey at?
Where Brooklyn at?
That was just three mother fu..ers.
Thank you all for coming out to the first Def Poets.
Tonight you're going to hear from a lot of different people
from a lot of different places.
People tend to think that there's only one type of
poet, only one type of style,
but tonight you're going to hear from all different races, genders,
perspectives, and they're all united by one thing and that's
the power of the word.
So is you all ready?
Yeah!
Is you all ready for some poetry mother fu..ers?
(applauses)
Our first poet is 1998 Slam champion.
Please give it up for Steve Colman.
(applauses)
I want to hear a poem.
I want to learn something I didn't know.
I want to say yes at the end, because I'm sick of saying so.
I want to hear a poem about who you are and what
you think and why you slam, not a poem about me and my poem,
because I know who I am.
I want to hear a love poem, a sad poem,
an I hate my dad poem, a dream poem, an I'm not what I seem poem,
an I need poem, and I also bleed poem,
an I'm alone poem, an I can't find my home poem.
I just want to hear a poem.
I want to hear a poem about revolution,
about fists raised high and hips twisting and a rumble like a rumba.
I want to follow the footsteps of Che and hear the truth about
the day the CIA killed the Mumbai.
I want to hear a poem about struggle so that when I
open my mouth I can step outside myself.
I want to listen to no less than the sounds of protest in the
factories where workers sweat and make Air Jordans and
PRO Keds because if you want
to take shots at people, target Phil Knight and Bill Gates.
Contemplate how they own the products and they got the goods,
how they act like they care, but they're just Robin Hoods.
And because every second matters, I want to hear
long poems and short poems about time and its limits,
because it took less than three minutes to attack Abner Louima,
to frame Assata Shakur and destroy Hiroshima,
to kill Eleanor Bumpurs and Anthony Baez,
to gun down Malcolm with bullets they bought from the feds.
I want to hear a poem where ideas kiss similes
so deeply that metaphors get jealous.
Where the subject matters so much that adjectives
start holding pronoun rallies at city hall.
Because I want to hear a poem that attacks the status quo,
that attracts the claps of the cats with the fattest flows,
that makes the crowd pass their
hat and pack my cap with a stack of dough.
I want to hear a poem that makes this audience yell ho!
Because I want to guess your favorite color then
craft rhyme schemes out of thin air.
I want to hear a poem about why the statute of
limitations for rape is only five years.
I want to hear a poem. I want to feel a poem.
I want to taste a poem.
Give me your spot on the mic if you want to waste a poem.
I want to hear a poem.
(applause)