Top honors for the July 11 Op-Ed Slam went to Tim Shea of Minneapolis.

Judges were an assortment of folks who were challenged by the wide range of 3-minute presentations. Some sang, some shouted, some railed, some simply read, and some waxed poetic. Some had opinions.

Other awards went to Colleen Kruse of The Rake fame (see one of her entries in this month’s column) and Omaur Bliss.

Read Tim, Colleen and Omaur's slams on the following pagesFantasia by Tim Shea

This is the fantasia
played through red clarinets
inflaming each liquid breast
and stomach, reaching
up to every floor
in this high rise
stone hotel
They said it like:
come suck on my suck on my suck on my
suck all my suck all my
glands till they’re shriveled
hands till they’re wrinkled
head
and feet and tattooed shoulders
till they taste like your filed teeth
like wilting sour dandelions
imagine how pretty
this body can look
when women burn their shirts
to make that bed cook
when priests burn
their bushes to make their souls cook
and read up on younger boys
in the back of the book
Fantasia played through wide curled lips
prime to pucker, prime to gloss
prime to drink
Drawing circles upon circles
on the next flexed six pack
that tightens like a cascade
"you are what my mother wouldn’t speak of,
you are in my generation
the generation I grew up in,
let me paint you a bulls eye
and drink you into my oblivion
you better shut your mouth and embrace
this helpless
Fantasia."

Next page: My still head by Tim SheaMy still head- by Tim Shea

I want a boy who has taken a razor
and written on his body
Written "Evil Empire" across his chest
as if he were made of stone,
until the medal has made a statement
with his own drying blood.
And if I found him, I would sing to him joyously.
I would ease him by playing classical music
through my fingertips,
until my own vibrations filled his wounds.
I would kiss his forehead
And call him a prophet.
And I would tell him
Tell him softly
Like this
I found you now.
Now we are boys touching.
So you fish too,
and you caught the big one.
And now you see.
See that when you fish
in a swamp of brutal unknowns,
You reel out deeper
until you run out of line.
Until you get out of line,
and fall in to the muddy waters.
In your still eyes I see you already know
You can’t catch something
that weighs more than you.
I want a dying boy,
one who can only move his fingers.
I would see the veins on his hands move
And imagine them losing color
As he lost blood
I would kiss his forehead
And call him a prophet.
And cut his shirt
from his clinging body
using only the blade I found in his palm.
I would offer my tears as a second baptism
And massage his back
where he had no cuts
I would whisper methodically
that he did the right thing
And I would kill him
Kill him softly
Like this

Next page: Sunny Blue by Tim SheaSunny blue by Tim Shea

Sunny blue,
There’s a fire under you,
but you blunder through days hoping it’ll go away.
but it stays close by, now you don’t know why,
cant rid that flame no matter what you go try.
you tried drug abuse, but it was no use.
only left you aggravated stuck and confused.
Now you sit hear, trying to get your shit clear.
but I cant tell you nothing if you cant admit fear.
you want to find your home, don’t want to die alone,
you want to grow up, you don’t want to get old.
you want to trace the first word you spoke
and reconcile for every lie that you told.
So what can I say, no you don’t fit.
yeah your smart kid, but you don’t know shit
everyone around you is dying quickly,
even your life is a dangerous mystery
sunny blue, what troubles you humbles you,
I’ll give you another clue
don’t focus on what others do.
When you front you loose your breath.
cause your breaths as thick as what’s in your chest.
and your chests as thick as your strength of heart,
so either wait to die
or make your mark.

Next page: Evening Snacks by Tim SheaEvening snacks. by Tim Shea

I’m here
In the confines of the inscribed masculine
Area code, inked above a nightly abdominal
Struggle
When a night compounds the world
Into the worst curious game:
Who will shake an uninhibited belly?
Who will die for their city?
How far can your legs stretch before memories mesh like
Sandpaper crispies?
I take walks and play late night dress up between headaches,
Where I ware a sock, and god sports silk.
"hunger and worry are edible! They are impatient like sisters!"
such is an answer that insulates this atmosphere,
where a posed question is a moment of dead air.
My feet slow as the bedrock walkway changes,
Now a garden of imaginative methods
For a woman to blossom:
There are hearts planted
Nowhere near each other,
That I pet in passing with my two longest fingers.
There is wide foreskin
grafted like a plane of sod,
that No one intended for me to walk around.
There are flowers who have evolved with self-pity,
Who crumble upon the contaminant of breath.
In the middle is a stout tree
Who’s cherries show the care of a lifetime.
She will die soon.
How ignorant she must be to expose such a legacy.
I tell her that I have freed her.
to droop Or be uplifted.
As red juice spreads
to the corners of my smile

Next page: Slam by Colleen KruseBy Colleen Kruse

In the movies, when rich, smart, powerful people suffer indignities and disappointments, they usually morph into a more reckless, stylish evil version of themselves. I think it’s the Type A thing just playing itself out.
Tommy Lee Jones in “Batman:” Vat of acid? Two-Face!
Willem Dafoe in “Spiderman:” Lousy severance package, untested serum? The Green Goblin!
And now, Martha Stewart: CEO of Martha Stewart Omnimedia. Host of the Food Network’s “Cooking With Martha.” Gracious living guru to all and prime suspect in a French lace doily of financial deceit. What will become of her?

Since the Imclone insider trading scandal broke, Martha’s Omnimedia stock has plummeted, resulting in a net loss of $235 million to Our Lady of Perpetual Perfection. Sure, when you’ve got so many cookies in your jar, you can afford to have a few crumble, but Martha’s business relies on her
spotless reputation-if this keeps up, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if Martha withdrew to her sewing room to whip herself up a chic lycra jumpsuit with a flowing jadeite green cape, along with a recipe for revenge.

Of course, like all master criminals, Martha’s decent into villainy must have been a gradual one. Layer by layer, like a tiered wedding day masterpiece, building her corporation. First, write a cookbook or two. Second, systematically infiltrate all media outlets. Then, create name awareness so powerful that it actually changed her name into an adjective, (as in, “Nice duvet cover, Very Martha.”) Convince America that we couldn’t even make our beds until she showed us how. Yes, total control was almost in her grasp.

And then, it was suddenly snatched away. People began to gripe about how inhumanly perfect she is. How the beautiful pictures she presents us with each month make us feel inferior. How she inflated prices at garage sales by declaring them “quaint.” Suddenly K-Mart goes bankrupt. And now this Imclone disgrace is chipping away at her, forcing her to decoupage a smile on her face for the camera. Even sugar has a boiling point, folks, and what’s left behind is a hard, glassy, splintering mouthful that will hurt you if you’re not careful.

A lot of the accoutrements are already in place. Martha has her supervillian mode of transportation. A helicopter. Celebrities usually buy jet planes, like John Travolta. Martha’s choice of aircraft implies that the fewer eyewitnesses that are onboard, the better. I can see her now, thwock-thwock-thwocking over the congressional investigators, crop dusting them with purple clouds of lavender aromatherapy mist.

Martha: “You’re getting sleepy, Greenspan! Don’t fight it! It’s a gooooood thing. Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha!”

No need for henchmen. Having already lived in fear of Martha for as long as they’ve known her, her underlings are a standing army of experts ready to create carnivorous flower arrangements, blinding color swatches and heart-stopping cream sauces.

At this writing, Martha has taken leave of her CBS “Morning Show” duties, to avoid confrontation and chooses instead to tape video messages from her lair in Connecticut.

Watch the skies, Gotham.

Next page: Scrutiny by Omaur BlissScrutiny by Omaur Bliss

Peep the illegitimacy of a loss of tranquility caused by the orchistrators of illuminati
Wolves in sheeps clothing supposed to serve and protect
Baptized by the devil to keep godís people in check
Demonic hunters victimizingly stalking their prey just to put them on display
Lrking within the shadows waiting for primal opportunity
Just for a chance to completely anialate our unity
Open all three of your eyes and see
They even use television to train us to believe in pseudo-democracies
autrasities to anybody living righteous
Temperatureís risin ëcuz they livin more infamous than Mob Deep
Creep prepare for warfare
Before you witness your freedom evaporate into thin air
All these haters do is live wild
Pulled out a gloch and put a slug in the back of a child
egotistical uncivilized beings trying to fuck with my serenity
Theyíre the watchdogs for the society that resides secretly
I warn you that your prey donít attack back
the verbal vigilante bustin on all you devils with the impact of a mac
All I really got to say is fuck those and they scrutiny
All I really got to say is fuck those and they scrutiny
All I really got to say is fuck those and they scrutiny

Next page: sun up by Omaur Blisssun up by Omaur Bliss

Hold on my brother, hold on my sister
for the hunt is on .
Do not be shaken for godís gonna trouble the water
Theyíre trying to divide us
Theyíre trying to bend our wills
Pulsating, pounding, whipping, cracking of flesh
as they try to brand us with this new world order of how they say itís gonna be
But, hold on my brother, hold on my sister , cuz gosís gonna trouble the water
Theyíre trying to destroy us
Theyíre taking babies from us
Suffocating us with their hate cuz all weíre trying to do is live
But they want us to die, they want our minds to die
Hold on cuz you are all that Iíve got and I am all that youíve got and we are all that weíve got
Hold on
Never let them take our minds, never let them take our spirits
Hold on till itís time to fight the good fight for our babies, our babies
Hold on my brother, hold on my sister cuz godís gonna trouble the water.

Next page: The City's Burning by Omaur BlissThe City's Burning by Omaur Bliss

The city's burning and I canít stop this inferno
The city's on fire and thereís no where to go
The city's burning
Too hot to breath
Too hot sweat for fear is grasping at cape
Too hot to be Black, White, Hispanic, Native, Asian, middle class or poor
Itís too hot to be poor
Too hot to think
Heat exhausted notions of truth, justice and miss american way
Too hot for liberty so she was turned to steel
Itís too hot to feel
Too hot to love ourselves, each other
Cuz this city's burning and I can't stop this inferno
The city's burning and thereís no where to go
Too hot for having rights cuz omni-society secretively keeps us leached by lawless long arm
Too hot for representation cuz the masses are left to ashes
Incinerated by carnal corruptors who devise new enslavement tactics as we speak
It's too hot for freedom cuz truth vaporized so my mind will never be free
It's too hot for difference cuz then assimilation would be easy
It's too hot to create cuz some would want to mutate
It's too hot to conceive cuz reason left cuz heat wasn't too cool
It's just to hot
The city's burning and I can't stop this inferno
The city's on fire and there's no where to go.