No matter how much you write stuff down, one is always dependent on someone else actually reading it. While you can reach a tremendous amount of people over a long period of time, the written word lays dormant, waiting for the fresh eyes to discover its meaning. Spoken word is the opposite. It is immediate, vocal, fleeting and masturbatory. The reaction is instant and powerful, but it is much more difficult to commit to memory. Even if you can't remember exactly what the message is in the long run, spoken word can make for a good show.

This week, Albuquerque hosted the National Poetry Slam 2005. 75 teams from around the country including over 600 individual poets competed in the bizarre concept of scored poetry called Slamming. Yes, even poetry can be scored on a scale of 0 to 10. Most of the slam poets are intense, loud, poignant, rhythmic and impressive. They write, they memorize, and they perform in front of coffee shop junkies and bar bums. If you can't do that, you can't slam.

A few years ago, I had a poet for a girlfriend. I attended many a reading and slam. There was merit in witnessing the events, but I knew it wasn't my medium. I could never get over the scoring bit. Although our intimate relationship fizzled over time, we always remained friends. This week, she returned to town to slam at the nationals with the Four Corners team. I made a point to see her Wednesday night bout, and she hooked me up with tickets to the Saturday night finals.

I admit that I had good time knocking back beers and taking in the personal rants of poets from around the nation. In these times of cable TV propaganda, Internet blogs, red and blue attitudes, and a lingering war, it was refreshing to see individuals and teams express themselves, live and in person, with nothing more than a microphone and a bunch of words to say. Organic stuff is good for you. The topics included personal empowerment, corruption of the government, racial unrest, tragic deaths, frustration, a call to action, a scorn for conformity and on and on.

Poets are a special bunch of freaks, and slam poets are the most outspoken bitches in the bunch. The Slam Nationals brought out the best in the country, and they did not disappoint. The finals consisted of the seven top scoring individuals from the semis (and prelims before that) and the four top teams. Their poems were well thought out and performance ready, and their messages were personal and powerful.

What I enjoyed was how much and many of their topics were not based on the garden variety national media stories. One female finalists blasted hip-hop declaring that it hates women and has no value left (you hear that, MTV?). A geeky guy empowered the desolate to shake the dust off (you hear that, depressed guy?). A gay man mocked the multiple ribbon magnets stuck on SUVs (you hear that, suburbia?). A black woman raged with what she had left in her voice (four days of slamming is tough) about a life lost that was almost still living (you hear that, bored brethren?). The reaction was instant and powerful, but like the penultimate orgasm we all seek, the emotion was gone fifteen seconds after the accomplishment. Next contestant please.

The team finalists consisted of Charlotte, Fort Worth, Hollywood and Albuquerque. Each had their own style and attitude during their four rounds of three minute pieces. Albuquerque pushed the racial issue and was the most uplifting group in the bunch. Hollywood went off on personal empowerment. Charlotte called for a serious look in the mirror, and Fort Worth brought the most in-your-face intensity. How do you score which one is the best? They found a way.

In the end, Albuquerque narrowly beat out Charlotte for the crown. Maybe there was a little home cooking, but you couldn't say the home town team didn't deserve it. It didn't stop a member from the Charlotte team from insulting the locals in the packed house (hey, that's me!) and her team protesting the results with arms crossed in an X (ironically, it reminded me of the fascist salute from the movie The Wall). No matter how impressive slammers look performing on stage, they made sure to remind us that they were sensitive egomaniacs when they didn't get their way. Remember folks, it's still just poetry after all.

Witnessing the national slam was fun, but now even one day later, the experience is fleeting. The messages are already fading from my brain, but I will always try to remember one thing: it is better to be freak with something original to say than to be part of the flock that blindly follows the rhetoric of whatever the collective is dishing out. Keep it up, slammers.

Chris Jungle has one published poem he wrote in college entitled Upon Realizing I Am Not The Second Coming of Christ.