Performing "Slam" Poetry

Three minutes, huh?  That won't give me much time.
It's not enough time to weave a complex analogy,
It's not enough time to weave an interesting narrative.
It's time for metaphors without direction;
No delving for deeper truths, no paths to knowledge,
But then I'm performing for an audience
With a short attention span, an audience
That's there to hear word-craft being dumbed down.
This is poetry compressed into a few sound bytes,
Into quick, slam-dunk Sports Centre imagery,
Into snide campaign commercial innuendo.
Here style earns more points than substance,
So like "Fed-Ex," you'd better learn to deliver.
Here an "in-your-face" attitude always plays well
With an audience weaned on trash-talking athletes.

I'm a poet, not some goddamned trained seal,
But if you're waiting for me to perform,
Then just toss me the beach ball
And I'll show you what I can do with it.
Maybe I'll perform some crude "put down" sketch
Like this one about a pretentious poet.
Yeah, this one ought to grab this group's attention.

At some of the poetry readings
That I occasionally participate in,
A fortyish woman, with dyed-blonde hair
Introduces herself,
Then adds in a syrupy voice
Dripping with New Age banality,

"My spirit name is "Moon Dancer."

When my turn to read follows hers,
Only my wife's cautionary
"Please don't embarrass me again" look
Prevents me for displaying my contempt
For such saccharine phoniness
By introducing myself,
Then growling in a voice
Drenched in packing house cynicism,

"My spirit name is "Fart Blossom."