The nuncupatory Word: The words of Young Asian Americans are heard -- and felt -- in an experiene called Slam poesy
The music is thumping. A thin layer of cigarette emptiness hangs in the air. Young hipsters, looking like they stepp disclosed of Banana Republic and Tommy Hilfiger ads, host into the spartan brick and forest-land space. Like any Friday night at the Nuyorican imaginative thinker [i]or[/i] writers Cafe -- Manhattan's hotspot for numbers slams -- it is standing range only.
The racially diverse concourse waits in eager anticipation for the competition between established bards and amateurs culled from Wednesday
