My brother, the poet.
Even as I type that, I laugh.
Who would’ve ever thought that my inferior twin brother, the one who is afraid of diving, the one who is allergic to horses, the one who could never write the alphabet without it looking like a slasher-movie victim, the one who had to perform somersaults backwards before he could do them forward, would one day compete on the national stage for slam poetry.
I repeat: I laugh.
Maybe, though, looking back on where he was and where he is now, he may have always needed to have those seemingly embarrassing characteristics.
Sure, he may be afraid to dive into a pool, but he dives into books as a substitute. Horses cause his nose to run wild, but his words become the wild horses he rides on and he becomes Oskar’s Wild. Messy writing is his venue for messy thoughts; a perfect equation for his spoken word. And most of all, although somersaults may be backwards to him, he rolls on forward only to find something he is great at: slam poetry.
Now, I don’t want to butt-kiss my own brother. I already said he is inferior to me in every way, so he should be butt-kissing me if anything. But this week he is competing on the national stage for poetry, and I must concede that I wish him nothing but the best. Which is another way of saying, if he isn’t the best, then he is nothing.
Just kidding. If he does lose, he won’t eat for two weeks. That’s about it.
Double bad joking aside, in the spirit of his slam-poetry, I present Oskar Niburski and Co.
Good luck, brother. T to the win, indeed.