The prize money at the end of most slams was a mere fifty bucks, but money never mattered more than praise, respect, esteem, recognition. People liked...him more when he won, and he was a disappointment when they weren’t enraptured by something he recited. He could be as controversial as any other slam poet, but not so much as to offend. He combined controversial subjects with a deep, black ghetto voice, as though the warden just released him from Rahway, and this was what the audience came to. "My goodness Thomas, what is wrong?" She said opening the door and finding me propped up against her door."Sorry I can't drive any more, I need somewhere to lie down. I guess I drunk too much," I slurred out. I can clearly remember saying these words."Come in I can't have you driving up the rest of the way home, you'll kill yourself on that road." She took me into her spare downstairs bedroom and lay me on the bed. That was the last I remembered.I woke up surprisingly without a headache, but a. More

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