A perspective on slam poetry

Meep Meep goes the darkness.
Or so it seems, as the roadrunner races across pulsating asphalt,
Enigmatic as the desert sands, he will not be caught, will not be caged,
But is he already, by the immutable walls of reality,
By a culture, extending its salty, greasy, hungry capitalist hands towards vulnerable nature;
By the choking embrace of network television;
By millions of young, relentless eyes, once boring him, transfixing him into a brightly colored screen, demanding more appearances, roaring for the risk of yet another elaborate, deadly trap.
Now they look elsewhere.
Surely this animal, this fictitious being to whom we ascribe our own filthy mannerisms of trickery, guile, wit, insolence, hubris will never rest at peace with his brethren, will never again feel the sole scraps of attention we would afford him, buried deep beneath a seething tide of gory fascination.
For we marked him, marked him irrevocably with our disease, and in so doing left that solitary Meeper astride of two incompatible ways of life, Nature and our strip-mall Hell, questioning his place in either, finding love in none.
Meep Meep goes the darkness.