The very first spoken word poem I ever released opened with a story about Dennis Rodman I had originally heard on The Last Dance.

It’s a story that’s just as much a lesson to the listener, as it is an on-going reminder to myself to always nurture the wild within.

If I’m remembering correctly, it goes something like this…

The Detroit Pistons are in the midst of practice.

Dennis Rodman, the six-foot-seven defensive assassin is standing somewhere on the hardwood looking off into the distance as an assistant coach attempts to provide him with instruction.

Legendary coach Chuck Daly calls the assistant over and tells him to leave Rodman be, “You can’t put a saddle on a mustang.”

Humanity has forever had a bizarre fascination with the maverick that marches to the beat of their own drum.

Dennis Rodman was this to basketball.

Sylvia Plath was this to poetry.

David Bowie was this to music.

These mustangs rage onto the scene. They think and act and behave and live and create in ways the rest of us can’t seem to fathom.

Unsure whether to be offended or inspired, we try to break them… only to find they can’t be broken.

So instead we take to the sidelines––the same way Chuck Daly was forced to do so long ago––and watch on, unable to take our eyes off of them.

Anytime I notice my creative spirit waning, I pull up Swimming Pools and I listen to myself tell that story and I let my words cut into me like the bite of a spur begging me to comply.

By Cole Schafer.

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