This is the official blog of Northern Arizona slam poet Christopher Fox Graham. Begun in 2002, and transferred to blogspot in 2006, FoxTheBlog has recorded more than 423,000 hits since 2009. This blog cover's Graham's poetry, the Arizona poetry slam community and offers tips for slam poets from sources around the Internet. Read CFG's full biography here. Looking for just that one poem? You know the one ... click here to find it.

Wednesday, February 18, 2004

I've been guilty of this before

for Tarah Leija

some dreams taste better on paper
sketched sideways on a bedroom wall
beneath a poster of rock stars you’ll never be,
and the action-adventure flick you’ll never live,
lives lived like airbrushing on a pin-up,
displacing the dips in hips,
misplaced moles,
and a 9-year-old’s asphalt elbow scar
the toys changed in relation to height
from lego blocks to lovers lips
I’ve been guilty of this before
painting feminine heartbeats into the bedsheets
so I don’t have to sleep alone

some dreams are the unique conversation
between a freight train and puppy
that’s how I imagine she kisses
the tossing hips of a hundred latin generations
condensed into the pursing press
an oral tsunami surfing her tongue
looking for a seaside village to annihilate

the army should draft her kiss
have it lead a tank brigade
it should require a full biohazard suit
to avoid complete loss of strength in the knees
or special training to endure it
without getting lost in the middle
it should bear the same warning label
one sees on the side of an hydrogen bomb:
“if you can read this
abandon all hope”

the training manual suggests
that I should lean backwards and brace for impact,
bend as a buddhist and let her wash over me
but I want to resist,
push back enough so she feels my ricochet
send the lip-tip poetry of a hundred million boys
deep beneath the sheets of her skin
to nestle up on a pillow and whisper her to sleep
I want her grandchildren to feel
the swirling tremor of my tongue
in their whirling twirl of their fingerprints
her bone marrow should carve my name in memorial of the subatomic quake
her dna should add a third helix
so that future cells born after it can pass on the memory
whole new mythologies should articulate our tactile conversation
so that when this world implodes beneath itself
the next will speak that “in the beginning was the kiss
and it was good”

but sometimes
my dreams get the best of me
and I lose my now in the what-ifs
of kisses and heartbeats and poster pin-ups
I’ve been guilty of this before

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