Robert Brown and Taylor Brown – the Brown Bombers – are the poetic pride of Paseo High

It's a packed house on this mid-May evening at the Blue Room. The third Tuesday of every month always draws a specific crowd to the jazz club at 18th Street and Vine. It's poetry slam night, when wordsmiths from across the metro gather to show their skills to a jury of their peers. Secret judges are scattered throughout the crowd. Whoever wins takes home $100.

Tonight is extra-special because Mayda Del Valle is the featured performer. Exactly one week ago, she was at the White House, having been invited by President Barack Obama to be part of a presidential poetry slam. She's known for her work on Russell Simmons' Def Poetry on HBO.

In the crowd are two Kansas City spitters who look at Del Valle and see one possible future.

Robert Brown and Taylor Brown have the same last name but aren't related. They're as famous as poets get in Kansas City without going national. When they perform together as the Brown Bombers, people in the crowd come up afterward and ask to book them for more readings. They've given poetry workshops for college students at the University of Kansas and for elementary-school students at Baptist churches. Though they're only 17, they regularly win slam competitions against veteran poets who have been in the game for decades.

Del Valle starts her set in front of an improvising jazz band. Taylor and Robert are sitting at a table in front of the stage. Del Valle is talking about lying men and the lessons from her mother's kitchen when Taylor leans over to Robert and mutters: "We going to practice or what?" Robert shakes his head. He doesn't think they need it.

When Del Valle finishes her set, the two get up and leave the room. This is when the slam part of the night begins. Close to a dozen poets will come to the mic to read their works and compete for the $100.

Taylor and Robert reappear at the side of the stage just as the contender is finishing. As the next competitors go up, the Brown Bombers show no sign of nervousness or intimidation. They're barely noticeable, the tall, lanky boy and the shorter girl with the circular hat on the back of her head, arms crossed across her chest and a stoic expression.

Glenn North is the MC. He and his partners, Marcus Brown and Jay Hawkins, kick-started the city's slam scene in the late 1990s, organizing the now-defunct Verbal Attack open-mic event. Today, Marcus Brown is in the audience and still encouraging careers. The 36-year-old is Taylor's uncle, the man who pushed her to develop her talent.

"She had flunked the sixth grade, and I was at her mama's house and found this poem she'd written and left out on the table," he says. "When I called her in to talk to her about it, she thought I was mad at her. I wanted her to keep it up. It didn't read like something a sixth-grader would write. It felt like something a mature adult would put down."

When it's their turn onstage, Glenn gives them a longer introduction than any of the other competitors. He talks about how they competed in a national Brave New Voices slam that was taped for an HBO series. He describes the Brown Bombers swooping in and taking awards wherever they go.

Tonight the Bombers are flying parallel to each other rather than together. Robert goes up first.

As soon as he opens his mouth, the strength in his voice surprises.

He's tired of people questioning his age. The way racy topics can sometimes elicit a heckler's "we've got kids in the room" or someone at the bar asking about his bedtime.

Philosophy like a sage on a good day. Wouldn't read it from the page on a bad day. Mold each stage I grace like a wad of clay but the audience can't get past my birthday. And it's not the new bloods that pissed me off. It's the seasoned fight-the-good-fight types. Never had the urge to bite types. Hear about a slam the day before and that's the only time they write types... . One night some cat said I got poems that old and all I could say was yeah I know. 'Cause I hear it each and every time you come to a show.

The crowd cheers and whoops. Del Valle throws her head back and laughs, puts one arm in the air and pumps it.

Real poets don't care about the fame as long as when I step from the mic deception is slain.

Except for Glenn's quick interjection that this is the second half of the team, there's barely a pause before Taylor picks up the mic.

She cries herself to sleep most nights. Because she's been beat most nights. Most nights she's too scared to speak. So she prays to her god silently like, Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

But if my wounds don't heal before the wake, I pray the Lord my life to take.

And she cries. And as tears flow to her cheeks she begins to feel the same pain felt in past centuries ... I killed my daughter so she didn't have to be a slave kinda pain. But black women that's OK. We be strong.