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 670,000 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.

Friday, June 27, 2003

Dean

the Beats never spoke to me
Ginsburg, Burroughs, and Kerouac
sat alongside
Donne, Milton, and Sidney
in the list of poets I'd read
to graduate
but not read to enjoy

Academic and historical
the Beats were rings in the tree
that started with the Word
and ended with me
there, right close to the edge
close enough to know someone
who knew them
2 degrees separated over a beer
from Kerouac
3 from the rest
i thought i knew them
enough to forget them

then Neal Cassady cold clocked me

and I become the third silent musketeer
cavorting on the road
with Sal and Dean
starving hysterical naked
with those angelheaded hipsters
sleeping on the roof of the car
beneath mexican nights
loving women in moments
who'll can't comprehend our madness
continually criss-crossing the country
looking for a home we'll never find
or fit into

the Beat Gate
is not poetry on a page
in college classrooms
but poetry at 2 am
after a fifth and a sixpack
and Newport 100s littering our feet
while two Word-lovers
take turns reading Howl at full howl
and the words swim
in the alcohol chaos behind our eyes
swapping our stories of the crazy shit
we did as kids and would do tomorrow
cause we both know
the feel of jail bunks
when to throw a punch
or take the hit
and the fear of becoming our fathers

happiness is the dream requiem
after the drug enters your blood
or the silent thanks
when you wake the next morning
and realize you're not dead
yet
everything in between
is a delusion by marketing departments
or filmmakers
nod your head and smile
nod your head and smile
miss the fucking point

the Beats opened their minds
and opened ours
by letting us accept a world
where freed conversations
get us closer to the Word
and make this cesspool of boredom
bearable
because when Dawn sheds off
the bedsheets of herself
and we can count three pack of cigs
two empty 40s
and not a drop of shuteye
since we saw her last
but instead recall meandering stories
winding through our histories
like we meandered across the map
the Beats break forth into our skins
like madman archangels
and the best minds of our generation
win one more battle
against the destruction of complacent time
that swallows us one by one by one
leaving nothing behind
but scattered graffiti
on apartment walls soon painted over,
or drunk poetic pronouncements
of the way God sees humor
shouted to blind sky
while the fallen slaves sleep
then wage for wages till they fall dead
of broken hearts and bulging prostates
while we, the bastard children of the night
sing of our sad songs
down another shot
and drive to another bar
as a conglomeration of brothers and sisters
breathing and breeding
staying a few steps ahead of the reaper
above the poverty line
and endlessly fighting
against unrealized and unrealizable hopes
of our parents and parent's parents
back to the first failure
of the First Boy or First Girl
that original sin that has doomed us all

but with the vanguard Beats
and bottles of booze breaking us free
from the frames that hold us here
from rules and rationalizations
[that don't mean shit in the long run
or when you think about it]
we can see the lives we should had have
if we were still angels
we can hear the Word clearly calling
but can't clearly comprehend the message
but there are enough of us
who hear it, who love it, who drink and join the dance
and interpret the echoes in our own way
and paint our pasts into the present
struggling to keep the drip-drop passion
alive one more day
till at the end of the end of the end
one of us may shout it all out
or write it all down
and make sense of the mess
we've endured since the beginning
before "let there be light" was shouted
in a thousand different simultaneous tongues
and the last of the last of the last
drunk and beat and in love
will speak back the Word
to the only ears listening
and then smile from ear to ear
as it all comes crashing down

Tuesday, June 24, 2003

Kerouac and coffee

Current Mood: energetic
Current Music: U2 "God Will Send His Angels"
While sipping coffee on my patio this morning, I finished Jack Kerouac's "On the Road." I kept waiting for something dramatic to happen. Nothing did, and perhaps that's the point. In that respect, it was more real life - just like a travel journal. But I think the major reason I wasn't real excited is because I've done most everything Sal Paradise has, with the exception of Mexican prostitutes.

driving cross country on a whim
going to Mexico with no money and no guides
hooking up with beautiful women with beautiful souls in a Bohemian kind of way
having crazies and/or druggies and/or wanted/convicted felons as friends
falling in love with the endurance of mankind in the barrios and ghettos of America
stealing cars, running from cops, getting arrested
recreational drug use
writing, dancing, writing, loving, writing, driving, writing, talking, writing


I've done it all at one time or another. maybe in 1950 when no one had done it, it would have really appealed to me.

The real reason I picked it up is that we have the same birthday and I wondered if we thought the same way. Astrology and shit. We do, by far, maybe that's why my life seems relatively parallel to his. We do see the world a lot more beautiful than many other people do. And we're in lot with the mad, twisting, sweetly blind mass of mankind.

Monday, June 23, 2003

House of Paper

boys are the carbon copies
of their fathers
chromosomes filling in the 'why'
do we do the things we do
patterns of patterns
of past behaviors
and here were are at square one
and I wonder if Adam was as fickle as I am

i swear i could be better than i am
when the chance comes
i could to be the superhero
the warrior
the badass
the protagonist
but post-modernism is cynical
and i'm still stuck in the epilogue
of my adventure
waiting for the author the set the world in motion
scribble down the first few lines
that ignite the conflict
of my epic-yet-to-be written

and i'm getting antsy
page one sucks ass

my imagination
is playing cards at gunpoint on page 68
racing jet planes on page 122
fist-fighting the billion-man Chinese army on page 181
curing a plague on page 254
dodging bullets on page 365
and telling the girl i met on page 9
that I want to marry her on page 909
but we have 500 pages to get to know each other
and 1,000 pages after that to love each other
till my deathbed confession on page 3269
that i did it all for her
'cause she was the great adventure

i don't want to die
as the secondhand, hastily-assembled sequel
to my father
sequel to his father
sitting dog-eared on a bookshelf
with the rest of them
squarely between diatribes
on genetics
and fate
hunkered down in low class used bookstore
tettering on the brink of bankruptcy

when my story ends
i want to be an endcap at Barnes & Noble
Borders will celebrate me
with an entire week of book signings and readings
Changing Hands will rake in the dough
I'll dropkick Harry Potter
Warner Bros. will fight for the movie rights
they'll bring Stanley Kubrick back from the dead to direct
because Steven Spielberg would just fuck-up the ending
i'll be an AOL keyword
a breakfast cereal
a fully-posable action figure with kung-fu action
i'll be in happy meals
on t-shirts, shower curtains, and bedsheets
and after Armageddon,
my story will inspire the survivors to rebuild
then i'll fade away
take up a nice retirement home
alongside Gilgamesh, Beowulf, the Iliad, and the Odyssey
talk about the weather
and complain about whippersnappers

only a footnote
in a C-minus high school paper
will mention the those carbon copies
of my failed fathers
but everyone everywhere
will know the name of the girl

Saturday, June 21, 2003

Jeanne d'Arc

On her 19th birthday, 1431, Jeanne d'Arc had already been held by the English for a month after being sold by Jean de Luxembourg, an Anglo-Burgundian lord who had held her for six months after her capture in Compiègne, six months after she turned 18.

She woke in the tower in Rouen on the morning of her birthday.

The arrogant professors at the University of Paris, who saw themselves as the defenders of the faith wanted her because she threatened their view of themselves as the defender of the faith.
The Duke of Bedford, viceroy in France of the English King Henry VI wanted her because her support of French King Charles VII threatened English soveriegnty in Normandy and northern France.
Her ransom was 10,000 écus.

Luxembourgs's wife, Jeanne de Béthune, aunt, Jeanne de Luxembourg, and stepdaughter, Jeanne de Bar were all Armagnac and liked Jeanne d'Arc personally. But Charles VII did nothing to free her or pay her tremendous ransom. In the end, Luxembourg sold her to Cauchon, the Bishop of Bevais, who mediated the differences between Beford and the University of Paris. He paid the ransom using funds from both the English and the Burgundians.

They call the tower in Rouen castle the Tour de la Pucelle, 'Tower of the Maid'. Throughout France, masses were sung, prayers were made, and candles were lit begging God for Jeanne d'Arc's release or rescue.

Of the company of Englishmen who watched her, there were always five English guards in her cell at all times, commanded by a man named John Grey. She reported later that these men taunted, bullied, and assaulted her, and if it had not been for Cauchon and the Earl of Warwick who oversaw her before the trial, they would have done worse.

The English feared her like no other.

Wednesday, June 18, 2003

Third Sunday in June

Current Mood: lonely
Current Music: Tonic "My Old Man" ... coincidence ... spooky ...
the third sunday in june came and went
without dinner,
phone call,
or a stamped hallmark with
"wish you were here,"
ever, dad
and i remained oblivious until 6 hrs 12 minutes
into my shift
when she wished me a happy father's day
from six hundred miles away
the kind of grandmotherly thing to do
when she couldn't gauge the age
of my twenty-something-er-other voice

the third sunday in june came and went
as i drove home
wondering if my paterfamilias
had paused midway between
the Gary Larson sketch
and the hilarious punchline
- something about purple aliens
flying saucers
and first contact -
and thought about me

but the better angel of reality
doubts this realization
came to pass

because march 12ths
mean i check my mailbox three times
hoping for an acknowledgement
that i matter
and june 17ths
mean i call my mother
close my eyes
and imagine her dressed in white at 22
october 28ths
mean i buy my brother a beer
even if he's not around
december 24ths
mean i donate a tie and cologne
to a shelter
december 25ths
mean a long morning in quiet contemplation
that even god and his son
had their disagreements

the third sunday in june came and went
and the cycle of
man to son
man to son
man to son
is bordering on generation #4
maybe more

i will bookend this repetition
i want to bookend this repetition
can i bookend this repetition?
can i end this?
can i?

or will my son
repeat them
every third sunday in june

like i do?

Sunday, June 15, 2003

What I Did on My Summer Vacation

Trailer:

Opens on the vacant desert. We see a scorpion cross the sand then run across asphalt. It pauses. We wait. Suddenly, the frame is filled with a beat-up silver pickup truck heading away from the camera down the arrow-straight road.
From a distance we see the truck appear from the right, then take a full thirty seconds to cross the frame on the road The landscape is barren, save for huge yellow bushes, the precursors to tumbleweeds.
Road stretches to the horizon, but is moving away. Pan down until settling on the hood, looking past the cracked windshield into the cab. Windows open, hair going crazy, two nicely tanned, nicely sunburned gringos gaze ahead. Driving is Christopher Fox Graham. Riding shotgun is Michael KuKuruga.
Pan up along the metal pole of a road sign. Highway on the left of the frame. Halfway up, the silver Toyota roars by down the straightaway.
The sign reads, "Puerto Peñasco, 50km."

Cue video montage of the silver Toyota slicing along the highway.

WEHAVE2DAYSOFF PICTURES
and
DOS EQUIS STUDIOS
present
a WE GOTTA GET OUT OF PHOENIX production

Christopher Fox Graham as CFG
Michael Anthony KuKuruga as KuK

"MEXICAN WEEKEND"

with Donna
Rick as Big Rick
and Lenea as Fire Girl


Co Executive Producers
Christopher Fox Graham
Michael Anthony KuKuruga

Directed by
A. Whim




Prologue
Sunday Night, Tempe


CFG on the road. He heads to KuK's empty apartment covered in graffiti poured on the walls from a dozen different nights of drinking and conversation. At first glance, fhe apartment looks like the interior of a New York City Subway bathroom. But poetry covers the walls. Art from spray paint and sharpies. Philosophical pronouncements. Haiku. Portraits. Abstract art.
CFG walks in without a key; KuK never locks his door.
CFG walks to the bedroom, "KuK!" he shouts.
KuK wakes, dresses, and the two hit the roads of Phoenix, talking about nothing as the hours pass. At hour 2 1/2, CFG says, "you want to go to Mexico?" KuK is wary, finances have been thin lately. "Why do you want to go?"
"Why not? I have nothing better to do."

Monday Night, Tempe


CFG rolls home after a long day at work. His brother Brandon is waiting. He piles in and the two head to The Vine tavern. Inside, KuK and his neighbor Ashish are shooting pool and had half a bottle of wine before heading over. CFG and Brandon join them. CFG plays a game with KuK against another pair, one of whom is a dead ringer for Hootie. Blowfish are no where to be seen. CFG and KuK win one game by default as Hootie's partner grazes the 8 ball into a pocket.
A pack of people enter, and KuK knows them all. Their leader is KuK's best friend Kevin. He says, "everyone I know in Phoenix is here"
CFG tells him that there is a Chinese proverb that says if all a man's friends show up at the same place, the man can expect to die the next day. This freaks out KuK. After the joke has bee made, CFG reveals he made it up.
Brandon has one of the bartenders nearly disassemble the ATM, claiming he dropped his card into the machine. The bartender apologizes profusely. After 20 minutes, Brandon finds the card still in his wallet. He tells CFG this very quietly.
Brandon takes over as KuK's partner and the two run the table, game after game after game.
An Interior Design Major catches KuK's eye and he sets off. He's like a flirt-shark picking up on the single drop of estrogen in the water. She tells him that he's cute.
CFG hits on the bartender by asking her, "how may times a night does someone ask you out?" After her tentative reply, "depends on the night," the male bartender asks, "hey, can I use that line?"
The interior design major is replaced by an Italian with great eyes. KuK starts flirting almost immediately. Her name is Donna.
The night ends with a flawless round of pool won by KuK and Brandon. Outside, KuK keeps to conversation going with Donna. She gives KuK her number on CFG's phone. The boys pile into Brandon's car, ride the 1/2 mile home and drop off Ashish. KuK picks up his clothes and the bottle of wine and Brandon drops them off at CFG's. En route to the apartment, Donna calls. and talks to KuK.
CFG makes himself a bagel, KuK puts in "the Score", unsure if he had seen it.
45 minutes later, Donna calls again. She and her friend Rachel aren't busy and Donna enjoyed the conversation. The boys take up her invite and head to her place. KuK takes point, CFG is wingman. The girls are on the patio, smoking and drinking. The girls Donna's friend Rachel is hammered. CFG keeps her talking despite the shallowness of her conversation. Such is the role of wingman.
Rachel's contacts Schmuck 'n' Buck, as CFG calls them, show up with weed. She offers, the boys decline, preferring to remain on the deck with Donna. The girl is amazing. Dark italian eyes coupled with a dry wit and an engaging conversational style. She's a Public Works Major who'd rather be in Architecture. The conversation winds late into the morning while Rachel and Schmuck 'n' Buck remain inside watching "Johnny Bravo".
The boys ask Donna to join them en route to Mexico, but she declines because she's just met our heroes. Despite that, the boys know the trio would get along famously.
Dawn rises.
CFG says he wants some sleep before they embark. KuK says, "why don't we just go now?" The boy is brilliant.
KuK and CFG part company, walking Donna to her car after the 5 hours of getting to know her. The audience sighs.

The Weekend
Tuesday Morning, Tempe


Clean skin and new clothes. The boys bounce out by 6:30. They score gas and grab fruit and a loaf of bread at a grocery store. CFG hands $40 to KuK saying with a grin, "this is your allowance." They are advised to get smaller bills by the cashier at the grocery store.
The boys cut south down I-10, then head into Casa Grande and its southern towns. They have gotten lost twice before crossing over I-8. CFG tells KuK that he is not the first driver to whom CFG has said, "sure I know where we are, uh, just keep going."
CFG had no idea where he was.
The boys cross into the Tohono O'Odham Reservation. No cars, no towns for nigh-odd an hour. The boys talk about anything and everything. KuK sings a host of Irish drinking songs he learned through repetition from one of his few CD. Though CFG says little regarding this, he is greatly amused
They stop for 1/4 tank of gas in Why, Arizona. Why not.
They slide to the border and cross into Sonoyta.
They cheer.
5 kilometers into town, they realize that they forgot to get smaller bills, so they swing around. Border Patrol offers no real help, and doesn't check the car. KuK gets a stick of gum and breaks a $20. The cashier gives him shit for it. He refuses to sell CFG anything when he sees the 4 $20s he has.
For the 2nd time in 20 minutes, they enter Mexico.
They cheer.
They cut through town, KuK giving shit to CFG every time he goes over the speed limit. Paranoid CFG falls for it every time even though locals and tourists alike routinely violate the limit. Wayne Newton is running for Gabornador de Sonora. He and his competition have posters everywhere. But Wayne Newton stares out at us like Ronald Reagan, Fred Thompson, or Sonny Bono, like a Republican Hollywood invasion of the electoral process.

The boys hit the frontier and accelerate down the road, winding through the desert.

To combat unemployment, the Mexican government has commissioned the construction of buildings in the desert, then refused to complete them. Also, the government has placed expiration dates on many buildings ordering them to be demolished or partially demolished in the desert for no reason whatsoever. Such the viewer believes. It seems people are paid to move and or sweep dirt around as well. The boys find this the topic of some humor for most of the drive.

The road seems to never end. Straightaways. Heat pours in, cooled only by the speed with which our heroes travel. They have not turned on the radio all day.

On the flat horizon looms the outposts of the town. The few billboards offer no corporate logos or American restaurants. Just bars, cheap motels, and local businesses own and operate the 15-foot postcards beckoning the boys into the interior. A faint smell of the sea blows loosely across the sands.

Unsure of where to go, what to see, the slim Toyota cruises down the main strip. While we have no idea to where the boys aim, we sense that they have almost arrived. They arrive at the Old Port, along a single lane road that wraps around a rocky butte. They cut slowly down narrow streets and pull over in front of a local school just as students are breaking for lunch. Maneuvering down the streets toward to sea, the audience's pulse begins to race. Noonday sunlight glares down and the dull roar of the sea breaks on the rocks.

For a moment, the boys hang back watching the waves crash. KuK, excited like a child, throws up his arms as though he commands when they'll break. Ear to ear his grin lights up the shore. To outsiders, the boys look drunk on joy.

They saunter down the small strip of stores, selling trinkets, clothing, and other non-necessities to tourists desperate to waste money 'proving' to friends, family, and co-workers that they actually came to Mexico. KuK and CFG are not fooled, though every shopkeeper that calls out to KuK seems to draw him in. He must consciously say no or risk entering shop after shop after shop, all selling different versions of the same tacky crap they've seen Phoenicians carry back from the border.

As suggested by two sources, they boys leave the port, searching for Manny's Beach Club, supposedly a jumping beach bar on another main strip in town. Still relatively lost, the boys pull into an RV park hoping for directions. KuK scrambles out and scores a local map in English and directions to the bar, less than two hundred yards back. Rolling in, they hop for hundreds of beach bums, tourists, and locals enjoying the noontime lunch hour. Instead, they find a barren restaurant open to the sea, floored in sand, and populated by less than a baker's dozen of Americans. They wet their feet and ankles in the sea, then return to Manny's

The audience sees that KuK finds this all horribly amusing, while CFG is frustrated, hoping that this initial failing will not repeat. While nothing is spoken, they both quietly hope that in the next ten minutes, 600 people will magically appear.

The waiter offers drinks, KuK and CFG both order margaritas, hoping for a salt encrusted jewel of a drink the size of their heads. They are greeted with two small 6oz plastic cups of what appears to be lemonade. There is a faint smell of tequila and a stronger smell of disappointment. They order food, also expecting sustenance measured by the tonnage. However, the audience is one step ahead and prepares to laugh at whatever humor the screenwriter produces. They are not disappointed as the portions would qualify as an appetizer north of the border. CFG begs for a Taco Bell. After blowing $17 on a meal worth $5, the boys leave discouraged. They vow to avoid every American-owned restaurant or tourist target in the town.
The audience quietly cheers their choice.

The boys head north to Playa Bonita, vacant of a buzz. With KuK now on the map, they snake their way through the town's small streets, but KuK can't seem to locate the roads CFG shouts to him. Turning right at a dead end in front of a large, 5-story modern hotel they are flanked by a huge berm of white sand. Camera pans from the right side of the truck over the berm to a huge curved beach line of white sand. KuK and CFG head back the way they came to a closer parking spot, then make their way to the sea.

Locals line the beach selling trinkets. Few are buying.

KuK, giddy like a schoolboy strips to his shorts and makes a mad dash into the surf. CFG having forgotten both shorts or swimming trunks, strips to his boxers and runs afterward. Roughly 200 people line the beach. Children and young adults play in the waters while adults sit idly under rented tents. Aging drains the love of the sea from adults.

Video montage. Beach Boy songs play while the tourists frolic. Perhaps a dozen women provide eye candy to our heroes.

After roughly an hour in the sea and on the sand CFG and KuK dig up their money and valuables buried in the sand beneath their clothes, and head to the aforementioned resort and grab a table overlooking the beach. After a few cigarettes, KuK introduces himself to another table of six Americans, roughly their age. This crew is currently in their own film, "The Mismatched Adventures of Coworkers IV: Mexican Fiesta". KuK get directions to a bar on Choya Bay, far to the west. The boys consult. CFG smokes two of KuK's cigarettes in the style of William Faulkner. The audience notes the resemblance for future films starring his character. Roger Ebert and Richard Roeper will seize on this in their review. KuK now starts up a conversation with a woman using the observation, "you have an oral fixation."
CFG watches in awe.

The boys make their way to Choya Bay by cutting through the shantytown barrio north of the beach. Without getting pulled over by the Federalis or hassled by locals, they find the road west. They pull into a area of new construction; large luxury homes and American-owned resorts. They pull down a cul de sac overlooking the sea, tip the seats back and nap.
Camera pans down the shoreline to the roaring surf.

The boys wake around five. CFG has woken a few times, read a little "Fast Food Nation" in between, and gone back to sleep. Both groggy, the boys start up the truck. The Reef, though large and with ample parking, has only 3 cars out front. A bust, they head back into town.

The audience senses something is amiss. Is a conflict brewing?

CFG is at the helm, but keeps turning down uninteresting roads. At an alto sign, they switch seats and coast south. Back in the Old Port around, they wander out, looking for a place to eat. Starting north and working south, most of the shops and restaurants are closing up. They find a discotheque entrance, but it too is closed. They settle on the upper floor of a beach front restaurant wherein they are two of ten customers, and the only non-couple. The audience senses a general sadness in the air around the boys. KuK gets a Dos Equis, CFG a Pacifico.

What happens now? Will they head home? Has this been a bust?

After light talking, KuK asks CFG if he wants to head home. CFG is a little taken aback. He hadn't considered such, but if KuK wants to head back.... KuK says no, he thought CFG wanted to... Without packs of college kids or gaggles of girls in skimpy suits, why stay? What happens to our heroes? the audience wonders.

From below comes a bellowing voice. Up the stairs comes a tribe of Americans. The waiters set up a table for 15. KuK and CFG watch eagerly. The females of the tribe are in their forties, tanned and demure, the males are obese and loud. The man who sits closest to our heroes has "US MIL" tattooed to his left shoulder and has the tan of an Anglo who has slept on the beach every day for three weeks. The kind of lobster red you'd shuck a shellfish for.

His booming voice deafens the patio. The boys just watch. A conversation begins between this bear of a man and the boys about Puerto Peñasco. He first arrived here 14 years ago and hasn't been back in six years though he used to head down 4 or 5 times a year. Though nothing is said, all agree he owns this town. The boys ask where to go, he lists places left and right. He complains bitterly that tourists have ruined this town by buying into the price-gouging so that now goods and services cost more here than in the States.

Cue sunset.

The conversation continues. He leaves his table to join us while KuK smokes a cigarette. He does two hits of snuff and offers. The boys have never done so before but take two hits each. The tobacco almost instantly clears their sinuses and the boys can feel the nicotine in their system. He speaks of his sons, one whom he kicked out at 18, and the other who married too young, and where in town to get some tail. "For good bitches, go to the Pink Cadillac." As they part, he holds out his hand, "name's Rick." He has one of those hands best suited to wielding a claymore or a battleaxe. CFG feels like he is ten-years-old again. The boys head down stairs and find three huge dune buggys parked right on front. One obviously belongs to Big Rick.

The boys checkout some of the bars Rick mentioned, but as he said, many are closed because today is, after all, only a Tuesday. They buy a bottle of rum and settle on "Around the Corner," a frat bar. They take rum shots and head in. They shoot a game of pool, KuK runs the table and CFG orders food. No one is present besides two bartenders and a single customer hitting on one of them. Yet, everything feels fresher, newer. The enchiladas are twice the size and 1/3 the price of Manny's. The audience quietly cheers.

As they pay the bill and head outside, a girl appears. Demure, petite, and polite, she has a hemp necklace, short black beachworn hair, and terrific smile. She catches their eyes and holds longer than a glance. Undeterred and without pause, they approach her. She has a unique accent that CFG trys to place. Lilting intonation, soft vowels, and several strong consonants hint French as her primary language. Lenea reveals that she is from Quebec by way of Vancouver, Brittish Columbia. Her profession is fire. This throws the boys off until she explains that she spins fire at circuses, renaissance festivals, and other such events. She runs a company in Vancouver creating and selling fire sticks to other performers. She's spent the last six months touring Mexico with a circus and uses her profession as an ice breaker because she is unbelievable shy. Fortunately, the boys are not. She supplies the quote of the night, "fire is very important part of my life right now." However she mentions a boyfriend and this breaks the boys' hearts. Despite no real intense contact with a gaggle of girls as in their recent cameo in "the Real Cancun", sweet Lenea has made the trip. They depart for the beach.

Back at the resort, the hear the booming sound of fireworks reverberating. They maneuver through the building and wander down to Playa Bonita. They sprint down into the surf and race each other along the shoreline until CFG unsuccessfully tries to tackle KuK. Boys will be boys.

They watch the pair setting off fireworks on the beach and drink more rum. Video montage. Cue audio.

Heading back through the resort, they have now finished the aforementioned rum and look at a pair of free passes to Babes Topless Bar. Based solely on the humor of poorly translated English, the boys enter. They order Dos Equis and sit through twelve songs by four girls. After each song, a triumvirate of bouncers and hosts ask if they want a table dance for $10 or a 'private room' dance for $25. Although curious what a 'private room' would entail, their better judgment keeps them voyeurs. The invitations become more frequent and invasive and the boys decide to bounce out.

Shortly down the street, they stop at an outside restaurant run by a boy and girl no older than our heroes and an woman in her late 30's. They fumble over the language barrier with wide-eyed smiles and score a quartet of tacos, topping them off with fresh vegetables and various spicy condiments.

They drive back to the rich development and pull into the same cul de sac as earlier in the afternoon. They lean the seats back and sleep off all that booze and dreams.

Dream sequence.

Wednesday Morning, Puerto Peñasco


Dawn comes early and low. There are no mountains nor trees to block the first rays and the boys wake periodically, adjust in their seats, and drift to sleep again.

Around eight, they are woken by an American, that "you can't camp here." They acknowledge his presence, but aren't exactly 'camping,' as it were. Their logic, however is lost on the man, so the boys start up the truck and head back to the town.

Across from the resort are a line of shops built to gouge Americans. They park nearby and KuK uses the hotel's facilities. CFG heads to Max's espresso house. Coffee here is more expensive than in the states, but CFG orders a cup. A tiny Indian woman with a huge hat walks by, offering sombreros and wooden trinkets made in the southern states of Mexico. CFG believes that with such a headdress, she must be the Queen of Rocky Point. The audience agrees.

KuK arrives and they converse about a whole host of topics.

A five-year-old Mexican girl appears, grabbing KuK's chair and holds up a handful of necklaces and bracelets. Her mother is shortly behind. CFG buys a small simple bracelet from the mother more as a souvenir than real adornment. Also, the girl is adorable.

The conversation turns to family. They've each had their own unique troubles. Perhaps because of his reading material, CFG muses to himself that the blended family trees of Americans are convoluted at best, depressing at their worst. Bloodlines and marriage trees connect scores of souls, yet, there is a profound hollowness in American families. CFG admires the simpler, stronger structure of families in this new country. This is the deep, meaningful part of the movie wherein the audience feels they have learned a lesson about their lives. At the academy awards, this inner monologue will earn CFG the nomination, though not the win, for best actor. That win always goes to a character with a drug/alcohol addition or handicap. But, it is a honor to be nominated, they say.

KuK misses his family, both close and extended. CFG concurs. KuK scores a bagel and both leave without being charged anything. There are more tourists to gouge this morning.

They walk to the beach and sit on deck chairs on the sand overlooking the sea from above a cliff. A huge thatched shade reminds them of a Corona commercial. As such, CFG disappears and returns with two Coronas from the hotel. It is 10:30 AM.

Cue commercial endorsement. "Corona Extra. Miles Away From Ordinary." (http://www.corona.com)

They head to the Old Port, looking to fulfill CFG's postcard fetish. He's also searching for something turtle related. Long story.

The boys search up and down, watching tourists by the same crap at every store. Shirts, toys, jewelry, glass, ceramics, etc, etc. Capitalism is an animal and tourists are blindfolded, hogtied prey. The boys try to offer advice on bartering to a pair of girls as a way to flirt. Speaking of prey....

Later, KuK finds himself fascinated with a blonde in sunglasses. Unable to leave the port, he decides to approach her. "I can't leave Mexico without asking you for a kiss."

Although he plans to ask this, he decides not to, thinking it may come off less innocent than his intention. He settles on conversation while CFG takes wingman.

They head east up the hill and stumble through shop after shop. At the peak is a four story shop packed with ceramic crafts of a thousand different styles lining the floors, the walls and the rooftops. On one corner they have passed for two days is a demolished building. Local children have been sitting out front, waiting for the bus. Spray painted on the side is "for sale". CFG muses what he would do if he owned it. Across the street is another abandoned building with an open window. KuK, fascinated by the echo starts shouting through the window. The resonance is almost 12 seconds and has overtones. KuK shouts, screams, and yells into the window while the boys listen to the echo. Schoolchildren across the street laugh and yell back. CFG finds three postcards to prove he came to Mexico.

Deciding not to get hosed on beer at the resort, the boys pick up a six pack of Dos Equis from the same convenience store from which they purchased the rum yesterday. For less the resort's 2 Corona's they score and entire six pack.

They grab the same seats as the morning and bring with themselves the remaining fruit purchased yesterday. After a time and long discussions about 20-something male life, they maneuver down to the beach and KuK gets one last long, great swim with CFG adjusts his bracelet.

They are just boys in the world of men.

After much discussion, they decide it is time to head home. It is early afternoon. They look one last time for food, but find nothing appetizing as they head out of town.

Realizing that they have a two hour drive, four bottles of beer, and half a bottle of wine, all of which they must abandon before crossing the border, they imbibe the contents. Everything Mexico feels like 1950. Sleeping on the beach and not getting hassled by the police, free conversation with strangers, beer, and driving with the windows open. They feel free for the first time in a great long while. Free and sunburned.

With a healthy buzz, they roll into Sonoyta and stop for food within sight of the border checkpoint. Four locals, two male, two female operate a small roadside stand, similar to the one the night before. They serve the boys one last meal, like crossing the border is synonymous with walking the green mile. Twenty-something José runs this operation and sits with the boys, trying to again overcome the language barrier. Neither KuK nor CFG speak a word of Spanish. CFG does make a crazy attempt to speak German, but he always does so after a few beers. This foolishness makes him admirable as a character, endearing him to the hearts of the audience.
They finish their meal and CFG pays $10 for the $4 meal, instructing José to buy Cervesa for his staff.

As the head for the border, KuK says CFG did a great deal for his karma. True, the audience concurs.

Border patrol asks the tanned boys what they've brought back. CFG replies "postcards". The agent takes their driver's licenses, KuK gets nervous, but nothing goes down. They cross the border without hassle and head north. KuK chides CFG, mainly because KuK hasn't bought cigarettes all day, "trying to quit" he says. But all in good fun. They stop for gas, switch drivers and head north through Ajo. En route, they agree that each is an excellent friend and has enriched the other's life. This declaration does classify this movie as a buddy road-flick, but gives a warm, fuzzy feeling in everyone's belly.

Epilogue


As sun falls, our heroes roll into Tempe. At KuK's place, they embrace like brothers parting ways, and CFG boards his truck for the lonely ride home.

Cue sunset.

Roll credits.

Cast
Ashish_____________________________himself
Big Rick____________________________himself
Brandon______________________Brandon Dame
CFG__________________Christopher Fox Graham
Donna______________________amazingly herself
Hootie____________possibly Hootie, of the Blowfish
José______________________________himself
Kevin_____________________________himself
KuK________________Michael Anthony KuKuruga
Fire Girl_____________Lenea from British Columbia
Rachel_____________________________herself
Schmuck and Buck__________________themselves

Monday, June 9, 2003

Four Hours on the Road, in the city

Last night, around 10:30, I went over to KuK's. I broke in and found the boy asleep on his floor. I kicked him out of bed, he got dressed and we hit the road.

We drove through the streets of Phoenix for 4 hours, talking about everything and nothing. We rolled down Southern westbound until the street ended, then came east and snaked up Central until it hit the mountains and died into a neighborhood. Went around it and passed into the eastern frontier of Anthem, then back south and east into Fountain Hills before cutting down through Scottsdale.

Four hours just talking, driving, and smoking.

Conclusions:

1) We have no idea what we want in life. When asked, "what's your goal?" We ask "whadya got?" When younger, our parents would ask us, "where do you want to eat," etc. but wouldn't really listen to our responses. "No, I don't like xxx, yyy is too far away, how 'bout zzz?" If you're not going to listen, why ask? All it's done is produce two 20-year-old boys who can't make fucking decisions about our lives because they don't matter. Someone else will decide for us, like always.

2) Women are crazy. Without question or exception. The best we can hope for is one who's insanity we can tolerate that won't hate us. Well, more than that. We both want a woman who is spontaneous, intelligent, communicative, decisive (cause we're not), and a good kisser. Everything else we can teach her if needed. We also need someone who has bigger dreams than she can handle.

3) None of this shit matters. Rolling past the next mall, the next next car dealership, the next shopping plaza, the next cookie-cutter neighborhood, it came to my attention that none of this matters. It's all just maintenance, but maintenance of a damned machine. Our culture of sprawl is just masturbation without climax.

4) We've lost hope in the powers that be. Post-election, post-9-11, post-Iraq, we trust our government less than ever. In the Clinton years, we thought the world was getting better and the US was the penultimate ethical, admirable power. We weren't Neo-Rome. The world loved America not because of our military or our money, but for our rule-of-law, and our restraint. We were respected. But the faux-election that no one really protested, 9-11 that didn't really change much socially expect allow us to risk a massive number of rights that the government could snake away at any time. I was never one to say, "the government this" and "the government that" but I do now because I don't trust it. Republicans and Democrats wear the same coats now. My vote obviously doesn't count. Things aren't getting better, they're stuck in the same rut. I don't think we're headed toward 1984, but we're not headed toward Star Trek either.

5) We don't want to become our fathers. We know their flaws intimately and must not repeat them. The only time my father and I didn't loathe each other was during "Law and Order".

6) Our view of God is based on our view of our fathers. I am an atheist.

Sunday, June 1, 2003

Let Nature Take Its Course

Current Mood: amused
Begging for special treatment
she complains at 96:
"I have a rock hard liver,
I'm on kidney dialysis,
I'm on an oxygen tank,
I have onset Alzheimer's,
a weak heart
bloated feet
cataracts
a new hip
liver spots
osteoporosis
a blown spleen
thin blood
colon cancer
lung cancer
intestinal cancer
mouth cancer
skin cancer
three heart attacks
and a brain aneurysm.
what do you think that means!?!"

"oh ma'am, i don't know,
maybe it's god's subtle way
to ask you to die?"

insomnia and no drugs in my system

still awake at 2:39 am

probably stay awake until 5:00

then go to work

on a sunday

supremely disconnected to it all

i have to keep reminding myself that this is real

what does that mean?

tv internet radio movies
give us a portal to view the world
safe at home on the couch
what happens when the portal sticks to real life
and we forget it's on?

i thought about driving off an overpass today
not that i suicidal or anything
not that
i just thought it would be interesting
maybe press pause halfway down,
rotate the camera angle
zoom in
zoom out
1st person
3rd person
press play and watch in slow motion
full speed
and reverse
then it hit me that this is real life
and that kind of mindlessness would get me killed

too many video games
it's all fucking with my head

i keep hearing commericals in my mind
as i walk at dawn from bed to bathroom
use scope
try aquafresh
tommy, by tommy hilfilger
dove 99.99% pure
do it the hanes way

where's the volume knob?
where the fuck is the reset button?

i keep hoping SARS hits the west coast like an a-bomb
sweeps east and turns NYC into a ghost town
refresh the old world too

we need a Stand to clear the palate

1 of 3 dead and gone?
i'll play those odds;
it's better odds than vegas
better than vegas.com

at lease our generation will be known for something more
than the dot com bubble burst
we?
we survived the second plague
now shut up and finish your cereal, kids
the whole world's 1/3 cleaner now
1/3 lighter
1/3 safer
1/3 quieter
and we know we're lucky to be here
because nature hit reset
before it was too late

Friday, May 30, 2003

Poetry in Arizona

I spent about an hour on the phone with Christopher Lane discussing poetry and poetry politics. He's of the same mind that there is a deep division between Phoenix-based poetry scene and exo-Phoenix regions of Southern and Northern Arizona. This has been evident over the past few years as the Northern Arizona scene has grown from a monthly slam in Flagstaff run by a pack of exiles from Phoenix, Southern California, Las Vegas, Seattle, and Texas into strong local poetry movements in Flagstaff and Prescott and smaller ones in Sedona and around Arcosanti.

Other scenes I have visited all have dashes of their local color, politics, and drama, but there is a unique isolationist exclusivity in the Phoenix scene. It's pervasive in a lot of other mediums of art as far as I can tell, but poetry is obviously my concern.

Still, after all this time, Northern Arizona still seems more embracing than Phoenix. After slams and events in Flagstaff, almost without exception, poets and fans would congregate at one cheap restaurant or another and not discuss poetry, but just hang out. The same can not be said for Phoenix, with few exception.

Northern Arizona has a sense of community about it that Phoenix hasn't contained for me. There, I felt like a real contributing member of a group, but Phoenix is too big, too spread out, too disconnected for the same sensation. Despite never having lived there, I have felt more artistically connected to Sedona and Prescott and even Arcosanti than Phoenix and it's suburbs. Perhaps its the general facelessness of the city itself, or the permanently transient population, but I still feel like a permanent exile here. Even though I've spent 2/3 of my almost 3 years of slam in Phoenix, I'm still "Christopher Fox Graham from Flagstaff". I don't care about the title, but there is a mindset behind it.

Part of it is benefit; I like being on the fringes sometimes, but even when I want to be in a group or community, it feels like it's forced. Events, meetings, and gatherings down here quite honestly feel false or half-assembled, or are put together last minute, or the rules change at the last minute, and not everyone shows up, leaders included. Again, I'm sure part of that is the general layout of the city and the sheer size of it. But bottom line, in Prescott and Flagstaff, when an event goes down, everyone shows. That's very reassuring when trying to build a community.

I guess it comes down to the fact that if one missed an event or a gathering, one truly felt missed. I've never felt missed in Phoenix.

I'm not asking for a ego-boosting rock-star worship; who gives a fuck? I hate that shit anyway, it makes me uncomfortable when some audience member compliments my work, then stands there. I never know what to say. If you like it, applaud, buy a book (if I'm selling one), come to the next event, and go home and write something, dammit.

There should be no special treatment; just fair treatment.

There's a different mood in Northern Arizona too. A certain independence, even from the past or other factors. Last time Josh Fleming and I slammed in Prescott and Host and Slam Master Dan Seaman was announcing future events, he mentioned Keith Breucker and David Escobedo as members of Save the Male, but not Josh and I to avoid influencing the judges. I was told that Danny Solis came to the Arcosanti Slam hoping to be on Brandy Lintecum's Phoenix team but Dan Seaman denied him because Danny Solis wasn't from Arizona. It wasn't malicious; it was the rules. He invited him to calibrate but not compete. As long as I've known him, Dan Seaman has always supported the arts but both stuck to his guns and his rules. Danny Solis may be good and have been an "Old Guard" Slammer but he wasn't from Arizona, end of story, that's the rule. Other SlamMasters in Arizona haven't been as fair to their own rules nor as unbiased, most notably Brandy Lintecum and to a point Nick Fox. As such, I have a deep respect for Dan Seaman. Likewise, Christopher Lane doesn't offer any special treatment of the poets at his slams.

Northern Arizonan audiences, poets included, also seemed happy to have poets read. There's a desire to swallow the out-of-towners, whether touring or not, that Phoenix doesn't have.

Most unsettling is that there seems to be an underlying contempt for exo-Phoenix art scenes on both a scene-wide and individual level, as though Northern Arizona and Tucson is the boonies when them local-yokels fuck cousins, don't bathe, and write poetry on the side. But Phoenix isn't Rome and I've seen some great work come those scenes. Maybe it's the youth of their scenes that makes them so inclusive. I don't see any of that "Old Guard" mentality up north that I seen in Phoenix. Northern Arizona poets also see slam as more of a game. I always do. But at slams in Prescott and Flagstaff, I've never had to plan a strategy; winning didn't really matter. You were just happy to have a captive audience. But in Phoenix and Mesa (or Sedona and Arcosanti wherein Phoenix poets were included) there's a desire to win that outweighs the game. Slam is verbal chess, not WWII. It's a joke and a crapshoot. In a sport where we pick 5 random people who've never seen spoken word before, how can anyone take a slam seriously?

I think it's more of a challenge to write something well and perform it well and have a good time doing it. I like the brutality of a tight cutthroat bout, but it's nice to read at a slam and have other poets critique or compliment someone's work as though it's admirable. It just feels good to have an audience, especially peers, pay attention to one's work.

Perhaps its the legacy of Eirean Bradley still in the veins or something deeper. Who knows?

But when someone asks what scene I hail from, I don't say Mesa or Phoenix or even Tempe. Usually, I just say "Arizona" because none of the other titles fit.

Go figure.

Thursday, May 29, 2003

Sedona All-Star Slam II review

Prologue


I drove to Sedona on Friday with my friend Michael Kukuruga and his girl, Nikki. If I had a Tyler Durdan, Kuk would be he. We can say more without saying a word and we've been through a lot of similar experiences. We both know what it's like to sleep in Tempe Jail, for instance.

We drove up in Nikki's car while I read "Fast Food Nation" and Kuk read my chapbook "I've Seen You Naked". We rolled into town around 13:00, got something to eat from the organic market next to the Canyon Moon Theater and then hit the kitchy part of Sedona to molest statues and offend tourists. After parking illegally, then sneaking through a hotel lobby to avoid getting towed, we hit the street.

America, I love you, you capitalist whore


If you have to debate whether or not to shoplift in every store, does that make you a bad person? I'm talking every store.

Kuk and I wandered from store to store, place to place, making small talk with the locals and the tourists while Nikki followed with a camera in hand. Among other things, Kuk dry-humped a bronze statue and made out with a cigar-store Indian. We played a Kuk'd eye game that everyone wants to play but none have defined, till now. Pass by that girl you've been checking out, slowly. Then glance at her. (We all do that glancing thing wherein we look a someone but we don't want them to think we're looking, so we look around and "happen" to see someone. Milk it.) Wait until she "glances" at you, then catch her with a "gotcha" or "I won", then move on.

Main Event


We met the poets at the Red Planet then headed to the venue. They included from Las Vegas/Flagstaff Andy "War" Hall, from Sedona: Jarrod Karimi and Rebekah Crisp, from Flagstaff: Logan Phillips, Dom Flemons, Suzy La Follette, and SlamMaster John R Kofonow, from Mesa: Tony Damico, Corbet Dean, Julie Ann Elefante, Taneka Stotts, and Jonathan Standifird, from Albuquerque, SlamMaster Danny Solis and Kenn Rodriguez, and from Tempe, Christopher Fox Graham. Our Host was my good friend Christopher Lane. Also up but not competing was Halcyone whom Kuk spent all of dinner hitting on in some crazed attempt at a threesome. Ah Kuk, sigh.

Then the battle began. It was harsh for Julie Elefante who had to lead the first round. Despite an over the top performance that landed him sprawled out on the ground, Dom Flemons didn't make it to round two. Rebekah Crisp, I think, had no idea what to expect and Jarrod Karimi pulled a wrong piece at the wrong time. He made it as the dark horse alternate for Flagstaff in 2002 doing freestyle but picked a poem that was just too short for this bout. He has a poem "She is a Cactus Flower" that is brilliant and would been gold. Little John R Kofonow had the most inventive poem of the night, about the tortoise and the hare, but it was too unrehearsed and still on page. It was good to hear him read again, and do so happily. I still regret the way he felt in Vegas in 2002 when the relatively unresponsive crowd at the Cafe Roma dampened his spirits. I still think he's a great kid. Danny Solis also got knocked out early. "Fat Man" was too subdued for a first round poem and he went too early in the round. Jonathon Standifird did a great piece, but the audience for some reason was not receptive. Their loss.

Suzy La Follette's poem for Christopher Lane's fiance Akasha, was brilliant and I was praying to follow and target her (Suzy) with "She Needs it Bad", but I was wary after the tongue-lashing I got from last time. But Kenn Rodriguez followed her. I had a number of poems prepped for the first round but Logan Phillips's Night Poem left me without a real clue of what to do and I selected my first poem while at the mic. Andy Hall is insane and I love him. Round two left nine poets. Brief Intermission.

That being said, ROUND TWO: EVERYBODY DIES (I had to keep from laughing when I thought that on stage). Have a someone you want to kill? Do it in Round Two. All in all, I think we had a five-year-old, a five-year-old's mother, a high-school friend, and someone's father bite the dust in round two. Even Andy Hall brought a downer. Thank GOD for Tony D. I think we all moved the audience and even I was moved by some of the performances by the other poets, but from a cynical, critical point of view.... The Klute's piece about killing imaginary friends for the sake of slam would have gone over well, despite the true sincerity of all the poets.

Round Three left just six. Suzy La Follette and Tony D Score 30s. In the end deciding between three pieces, I pulled "Coming Home" and scored a 29.9. This was apart of the cosmic reason from two posts ago.... I managed to sink the intensity and the humor into one of the best performances I think I've ever done of that piece. Rounding the night was Suzy La Follette, Corbet Dean, and Christopher Fox Graham in 1st, 2nd, & 3rd respectively.

The whole night was a beautiful crapshoot, and I remember leaning over to John R Kofonow as the wave of 9.0+ score took over in round two. The whole night was a bit high as the difference between Suzy La Follette and myself was only 0.5. With lower scores throughout the night, things would have fared differently.

Epilogue


On the long drive home, Nikki slept in the back seat. She had originally planned on coming to Sedona to interview for a job at a camp after a brief stint in Florence, Italy this summer. The Slam was just a happy diversion after the interview. She scored the job.

Kuk and I talked strategy and I swear, it was like the kid had been watching slam for years, rather than this being his first slam. An hour of debate and analysis with someone who is as skilled at the verbal chess as I am. I miss having a true game-player in slam. Someone who sees the whole thing like one big fencing bout. I hadn't felt that engaged about tactics since Nationals. Why doesn't he write?

By the way, I now have internet access at home. Yay me.

Thursday, May 15, 2003

Y'all Know What It's About

I feel great about the Slam off last night. I did perhaps the best renditions of three poems I really feel are strong, solid pieces.

Round One Manifesto of an Addict

I had thought about doing English Major, because humor goes over well at Essenza, but general slam-offs that I've seen, humor takes a back seat to serious poems. Going so early in the round, after David Tabor's humor piece got low scores, I figured it was a lock. If I had seen how the night was going to turn out, I might have save it for a later round and done English Major, for a quick high score. Bottomline, Manifesto of an Addict was an top-notch performance, but bad strategy.
I hadn't done the piece since tour and one fluke drunk slam at Essenza in December. I don't think I can break it out in a hard-core competition again because it doesn't soun right as a solo poem.

Round Two He Needs it Bad

Target: Corbet Dean. Maybe a bad idea (especially if I knew his sister and mother were in the audience). I didn't want to early again for the rest of the slam, yet there I was first in round two. Good performance, great laughs, but the rule of score creep levels all. If Corbet and I carpool to Sedona next week for the slam, I may not make it back....

Round Three This Poem Has a Secret Title (sic)

I had a toss up between English Major, Bookstore Dreams and , This Poem Has a Secret Title. In the end, I wanted to do the poem I had always wanted to read in Arizona. I wrote this poem in downtown Manhattan the night I and my Save the Male Tour featured in the Nuyorican's Poet Cafe, June 21st 2002. It felt great to read it and get it off my chest, and I thought the beauty of it outweighed any score, high or low. By that point, 4th was a distant goal, only if Regina and Jon Standifird got time penalties and I were to get an unbelievably high score. Bottomline: my best piece of the night and the one I felt most proud of. It's deeply personal, with good reason, and the real title and inspiration is known by only a select few....

SIDELINE COMMENTARY
Round One
Score Creep is mother-fucker. David Tabor and Julie Elefante took the brunt of it. I got a bad piece too, and the real scores didn't start flying until Regina Blakely read.

Round Two
[info]theklute was genius. I love that anti-slam slam poem. I hope he does it a Nationals, hopefully, in the early rounds to pre-empt and drop-kick the other teams.
David Tabor got raped on scores.

Round Three
The only slot really up for grabs was 4th. Alternate was also eligible, but that fourth slot was the only target for the 5 of us who weren't already assured. I think Regina Blakely rightly snagged it because she brought out a crowd-pleaser. No foul. The four of us who did not make the cut read what we felt and did an kick-ass, true-to-heart reading.

Overall

#1 One of the single best slams I've seen outside of a National team bout. Maybe Flagstaff 2001 was better, despite the venue, a slam I saw on tour at the Cantab where all 20+ poets were spectacular. I guess, with some reservation, that the point system does work.

#2 Cutting to 8 after round two was a bad, bad, bad idea. Everyone who slammed last night deserved to read three times, even if they had no shot at the team after round two. Everyone worked on three poems and being unable to read them was a harsh, bad idea. I disagree strongly with the decision to cut. This isn't Urbana, nor is it Boston. We read because we love to, not because we're cutthroat about points. There were no tears last night (except during poems) and no screaming and yelling afterwards. There was good blood among us all so that decision, again, was a serious flaw to the fairness of the sport. [Off my soapbox and stand to the left].

#3 Any one of the 11 of us deserved to be on that team. What it came down to was slot-pulls, the ever-permanent crap-shoot that are judges, and a few shitty scores.

#4 There is a cosmic reason I didn't make the team. Other forces were at work. Call me a crazy Pisces, but I all I know is what I know, if you know what I mean.

#5 Yay, Slam. You cruel, beautiful bitch, you. It's the only chess match artists have.

Wednesday, April 16, 2003

Gentle Prose Eyes

I'm been writing prose stories of my autobiography for the last three days. This is one of the products. Maybe more to come.





This physical details of this story are true, though the interpretation is entirely my own. The names have been changed to protect the guilty. The very, very guitly. Enjoy.

Rupert


Rupert always liked shocking 'mundanes,' members of that vast majority of people who sit home at night, every night, laughing it up over the scripted behavior of sitcoms. There was a time, we're told through textbooks of mosaics and vases of naked athletes, when actors were on par with beggars and con men, thought no higher than the urban campers that migrate through downtown Tempe by night and curl up on benches at the park just outside my flat, ogling the young Spanish mothers. But the ancient class of pretenders have become celebrities, usurping the role once held in our grandmother cultures by orators, warriors, politicians, and the beleaguered breed of poets. Rupert would not have considered himself any of these things. He once referred to himself as a "shockster," tagged with a chuckle, once when we split a bottle of wine on the roof of the Matthews Center. He chucked the bottle into orbit after we downed it, bursting like a star of broken glass on Cady Mall.

If he had more forethought, I would have called him a performance artist. Without his conversation, I would have debated his sanity. If he ever wrote his brain into a page, I would have described him as a writer of prophecies.

Unfortunately, Rupert was impulsive and hated writing. His life was built on spoken words and he could bullshit his way out of anything and often did. He once scored a one-night stand with a business sophomore after telling her she had nice teeth. He blasted epithets in the theater, not at the screen, but at other moviegoers, shouted across Mill Avenue to friends and foes alike, and was politely asked to leave various establishments under threat of calling the police. To know Rupert was to know an anarchist who hated anarchists, but wanted to throw a bit of chaos in the comfortable life of soccer marms and white-collar suburban middle-managers whose life goal was owning an SUV with 1.2% APR.

I can't remember how I met Rupert. Most of the players in my life slide up from the sides while I'm watching protagonist and heroine bicker center-stage. Pause. Sideline character becomes supporting actor, epigrammatic lines emerge into the venue, soaking into the brains of watchers, and the audience asks, "where did he come from?"

Rupert always stole his scenes.

Too much coffee in our systems while he paid the check. He always had money it seemed. Just enough cash to survive, I thought, but he always had a bill in the beat-up wallet I'm sure he lifted from some thrift store, more than likely with slight of hand than with a receipt. On our treks, we never stopped at a bank, and he job was fuzzy something or other, so I knew he was a dealer; coupled with the number of strangers that would stop him in bars or on the street to say hello.

Start parenthesis. Here I insert the fable of the stork among crows for those of you with a lofty moral compass and no dangerlove. I never dealt in any organized sense, but materials illegal fell my way from time to time, the floorscore of my acquaintances as it were, and I passed on the substances I wasn't into with a marginal profit.

Rupert though, always had a story about getting roughed up for one reason or another, and he could read tags, gang signs, and knew what areas of town to not head into looking for trouble. I was far more naive so he kept an eye out for me. End parenthesis

Too much coffee and he had finished more than a pack of Marlboroughs. I'm not one for cigarettes and can barely tell the difference between a filter and the other end; being the heir to a registered nurse can do that to a boy. The waitress had a smooth butt and a nice smile in a dull midwestern sense. One of those flat states that ends in a vowel that no one remembers driving through, despite gas station receipts proving otherwise. Rupert always overtipped for good service or a pretty face; he knew a serious waitress, like a poet, could make a ten dollars stretch a week.

The water glasses were just chunks of ice now, and Rupert and I sucked the sweat off the cubes like ants milking aphids.

"Wanna pick a fight?"

The room is half-packed. In a booth to the left are three kids, younger or older than us by a few months, suburban black kids in sweaters and baggy jeans cleaned and pressed by mothers or girlfriends or young wives, and they're not up for a friendly tussle with strangers. To the right is a family of four, Homer in a maroon polo, digital watch ticking down the seconds to his inevitable heart attack, Marge in her Friday "we're going out honey" blouse. Bart and Lisa pick off the remnants of the children's menu burgers with cute names aimed at the youngest youth market. College couples abound elsewhere in pairs or quads, but I'm not up for dropping soft-skinned science majors desperately trying to score subtlety with their newest virgin targets, or roughing up goofball boyfriends in front of girlfriends far too good and fine for them, but doomed to imitate the cartoon breeders to our right.

"Sure," I quietly say, thinking we'll head outside and spill drinks on thick-necked frat boys sauced on overpriced Long Islands.

Keep in mind, dear reader, that I am by no means a warrior, nor is Rupert, and I only fight back in self-defense. Rupert, conversely, saw confrontation as means to an end, if only that end is to pass the time with some shared excitement. There was no humor in a knockdown, drag-out fight where one party incurs a debt with their health insurance behemoth. It was always about the subtlety of the confrontation, the maneuvering, the drama. It was a chess game, Rupert said, to agitate a normal person into throwing the first punch, then getting the fuck out before the law arrived to ruin the experiment.

Rupert is instantly standing, his chair tumbling backward behind him toward the empty table behind us. Legs spring and he is suddenly airborne and our table is the deck of an aircraft carrier. He skids across it at full speed, wheels missing the non-existent tow cable and the ice cubes become frozen projectiles tumbling across the floor. His hands plant on my shoulders, taking me over in the chair to the floor. My torso topples back, my head does not, but locks halfway to floor, so my skull does not dribble across the court.

I distinctly remember hearing the one black kid facing us shout, "shit!" as I tumbled.

Rupert's knee is planted on my chest, fists wailing. He has a ten-year-olds smile, not at the thrill of assault, but the reaction of the crowd. Homer is dumbstruck; he's only seen shit like this on every single one of his 500 channels except PBS. Now in reality, he's unsure whether this is scripted or sports. Marge repeats the same two-word prayer over and over to her deity, while Bart and Lisa get to see R-rated violence for free.

Rupert's dive broke a glass he never did pay for.

Fists flying, his into me, mine into him, but he's pulling punches. (No permanent damage kiddo, not that pretty face). I'm returning body blows but have no momentum due to the floor. I block whatever else I can. The black kids have half-stood, unsure of the proper moment to intervene in what does not seem to be their affair. College couples have all turned their attention away from banal small talk and sexual pursuits to watch Rupert (apparently) beat the living daylights out of a me, pinned to the floor.

Later, Marge would be heard to remark: they seemed like two nice, quiet young gentlemen, before the recent unpleasantness.

Rupert lands an excellent shot across my jaw, jerking my face to the right into wet carpet. I start laughing uncontrollably, more out of shock than design; perhaps some long repressed survival tactic to distract opponents in a tense situation.

Rupert begins laughing too and his punches fall softer until they halt altogether.

By now, management and the cook staff have been alerted by the commotion and emerge into the dining room , appraising the scene. One of the black kids has emerged from the booth. Two college kids have split from their dates in moral outrage and to demonstrate their virility. Hormones flow. Adrenaline. Testosterone. Estrogen.

Rupert backs off me, grabbing me up by the arm in a single fluid motion. I stabilize. I glance at Bart, letting him see that the wounded hero is still alive after the commercial break, despite the cliffhanger postulated minutes before.

Rupert faces the stunned crowd, even more stunned that the scene ended so abruptly. He bows slightly, and shouts, "thank you, you've been great."

Afterwards, I informed him that when I told the story years later, I would remember him saying something humorous and dramatic. In reality, though, after he pulled me up, he shouted something far more lowbrow, like "fuck", or "run", or "now" and he bolted, halfhazardly dragging me with him, toward the waiting area.

Inbound customers hover like Vietnamese Hueys for the next hostess in the foyer as Rupert, then I, dash past. Rupert halts just long enough to grab a handful of peppermints from a basket on the hostess stand. Some fell out on the way, skidding across tile like carnival hockey pucks.

He slams shoulder-first through two doors and I followed, laughing hysterically the entire way.

We hauled toward Rupert's pickup. He took the helm, I leapt into the bed and we disappeared into the night, while bruises formed like medals in our skin.

Wednesday, March 5, 2003

Spring Project Poem # 43

break down the sentences between us
twist the syntax like an orange rind
and swallow the juice
dribble vowels down your chin
lick the adverbs off your fingertips
serve prepositional phrases with sugar
to soften the tartness

find reasons to make desserts
nouns and cherry pie
strawberry adjective cake
punctuation chip cookies leave question marks
on your teeth
if eaten too soon after baking
but a nice subjective clause meringue
tops any pastry nicely

break down the sentences between us
leave your belly bloated and warm
press my ear to your navel
the digesting characters
funnel echoed words
back into my ears
like a seashell

Wednesday, February 12, 2003

What am I worth?

I am worth $2,293,214.00 US Dollars
and with today's current exchange rate converts into:
3,362.48 Platinum Ounces
6,511.55 Gold Ounces
9,655.64 Palladium Ounces
509,602.90 Silver Ounces
1,419,804.81 United Kingdom Pounds
1,680,465.77 International Monetary Fund Special Drawing Rights
2,139,048.34 Euros
3,503,510.23 Canadian Dollars
4,185,790.32 Deutsche Marks (now Euros)
8,262,449.54 Brazilian Reals
8,600,011.14 Saudi Arabian Riyals
8,711,919.99 Malaysian Ringgits
11,151,899.68 Israeli New Shekels
14,038,533.31 French Francs (now Euros)
17,885,879.19 Hong Kong Dollars
18,980,473.64 Chinese Yuan Renminbi
19,239,030.87 South African Rand
25,137,968.82 Mexican Pesos
72,534,358.82 Russian Rubles
98,631,134.14 Thai Baht
109,637,920.94 Indian Rupees
278,135,230.52 Japanese Yen
2,736,980,850.12 South Korean Won
3,664,555,972.00 Venezuelan Bolivares
4,146,133,645.47 Italian Lire (now Euros)
11,167,952,180.00 Zambian Kwacha
6 bars, 18 strips, and 63 slips of Gold-Pressed Latinum

but you can have me
with one deep kiss
that can bend my doubts over backward,
write your tongue onto my endoplasmic reticulum highways,
and turn my spine into mushy oatmeal.

Thursday, January 2, 2003

My Five of Five

Five things that 2002 taught me:
1. I can survive for 4 months on $300. Pretty well in fact.
2. My poetry doesn't suck. I am actually good at what I love to do.
3. By selling it all, choosing homelessness, and going on tour, I've done more at my young age to follow my heart than most people will do in their entire life. I'm braver than I thought I was.
4. I have to make my own destiny. Fate doesn't exist.
5. Life sucks without a car.

Five personally significant events of 2002:
1. Disowning my father. This was his second chance to be my dad in any way and it went worse than the first. Now I know how not to treat my children.
2. Finally telling Daniela to put up or shut up. She's been a cock-tease and a love-vampire for the last three years and I let her use me because I'm a coward. But I've finally stood up. I'm almost certain I've lost her but I'm free.
3. Getting arrested. It was stupid, I was guilty beyond doubt, and I don't want to commit the same crime ever again.
4. The Save the Male Poetry Tour. 39 shows, 26 states, four men, three months, two countries, and one van. Wow, what a ride.
5. Leaving Flagstaff. It's a good place if you can stand small towns and intrusive personalities, but I'm a city boy and need the diversity of 4 million people. I'd rather be a little fish in a big pond than a big fish in a soup.

Five things I want to do in 2003:
1. Make a National Slam Team and do the thing in Chicago.
2. Be satisfied with my poetry. The kind of poetry that isn't just selfless mental masturbation.
3. Have a meaningful relationship with someone who isn't 18, or in high school, or recently divorced, or my boss. A punk rock art chick who'll break me.
4. Make enough money to buy a car, get a computer, and start publishing the chapbooks of poets across the country.
5. Plan my next national poetry tour.

Five things I don't want to do in 2003:
1. Procrastinate.
2. Let fear or fear of loneliness paralyze my better judgment.
3. Settle.
4. Write crap poetry and try to pass it off as art.
5. Blame writer's block.

Five (groups of) people who I'd like to know better in 2003:
1. My three step sisters, Jessica 19, Danielle 17, and Kristina 11. Jessica got engaged over the weekend, Danielle has a secret artistic side I think I could coax out of her shell, and Kristina is more like me now than anyone else I know.
2. Corbet Dean. He's been the most supportive of all the poets I know, but I don't really know him like I should. He could also help me improve my performance.
3. Klute. He and I could have one of the great friendships that art scholars will debate for decades.
4. Trish JusTrish. I like her and her art more and more I hear it.
5. Scott Creney and Mathew Moon, the two Guerrilla poets from Boston moving to Prescott this month.

Sunday, December 22, 2002

What is Christopher Fox Graham about?

Christopher Fox Graham is about to reassure us
Christopher Fox Graham is pushing the case
Christopher Fox Graham is going on
Christopher Fox Graham is more plentiful
Christopher Fox Graham is in the ratings hunt
Christopher Fox Graham is trying to leave the door open for those who have yet to come through it
Christopher Fox Graham is saying 'is'
Christopher Fox Graham is in the henhouse
Christopher Fox Graham is Ralph Stricker
Christopher Fox Graham is shutting down
Christopher Fox Graham is running
Christopher Fox Graham is back at camp in a new way
Christopher Fox Graham is pledged to continue
Christopher Fox Graham is good
Christopher Fox Graham is brown and red
Christopher Fox Graham is now available as a toolkit
Christopher Fox Graham is trapped by the tentacles of power
Christopher Fox Graham is a sly teacher to keep kid's attention
Christopher Fox Graham is hungry
Christopher Fox Graham is over eight thousand days old
Christopher Fox Graham is named employee of the month for march
Christopher Fox Graham is not a useless piece of trash
Christopher Fox Graham is based on TV
Christopher Fox Graham is put into practice by the government of Suriname
Christopher Fox Graham is one of Staten Island area's most respected fishing advocates
Christopher Fox Graham is in the open
Christopher Fox Graham is back
Christopher Fox Graham is a sly fox
Christopher Fox Graham is seen in this file photo
Christopher Fox Graham is Charlena Marie Wilson
Christopher Fox Graham is committed to land protection
Christopher Fox Graham is not on the run
Christopher Fox Graham is elvis
Christopher Fox Graham is the newest Lifetime Channel member
Christopher Fox Graham is trying to cancel Futurama
Christopher Fox Graham is better than MTV
Christopher Fox Graham is a remarkable glider
Christopher Fox Graham is a stream
Christopher Fox Graham is a director
Christopher Fox Graham is Canadian
Christopher Fox Graham is about to reassure us that Bush can scold wall street with a straight face
Christopher Fox Graham is right
Christopher Fox Graham is doing it
Christopher Fox Graham is full of crap, and lots of it
Christopher Fox Graham is IS
Christopher Fox Graham is frying many fish
Christopher Fox Graham is our logo
Christopher Fox Graham is pushing the case with his popularity high
Christopher Fox Graham is staying home
Christopher Fox Graham is indecent
Christopher Fox Graham is maxine
Christopher Fox Graham is symbiosis
Christopher Fox Graham is in the ratings hunt
Christopher Fox Graham is off base
Christopher Fox Graham is trying to leave the door open for those who have threatened our delegates
Christopher Fox Graham is shutting down websites
Christopher Fox Graham is pledged to continue Mexico's subordination to us
Christopher Fox Graham is a good randy playboy trick
Christopher Fox Graham is a new stretch of 11th street opened by the city of Springfield
Christopher Fox Graham is common in most of northern North America
Christopher Fox Graham is better than CNN
Christopher Fox Graham is this
Christopher Fox Graham is that
Christopher Fox Graham is a saying about kings
Christopher Fox Graham is found in the treeless tundra extending through the arctic regions of Eurasia
Christopher Fox Graham is put into practice by the publisher
Christopher Fox Graham is lowest profile standard unit available for real time clock applications
Christopher Fox Graham is taking from my *$#%@!
Christopher Fox Graham is a Southern writer who understands heat
Christopher Fox Graham is hunted by hounds following the line of scent
Christopher Fox Graham is great
Christopher Fox Graham is smaller and skinnier than the red Christopher Fox Graham
Christopher Fox Graham is one of two fox species found in the southern mountains
Christopher Fox Graham is one of the most common mammals in Ireland
Christopher Fox Graham is suffering from rabies as well as other fox species
Christopher Fox Graham is the state
Christopher Fox Graham is solitary
Christopher Fox Graham is a professor of industrial engineering with cross appointments in the department of computer science and faculty of management science at the University of Michigan
Christopher Fox Graham is guarding the chicken
Christopher Fox Graham is a pest and his population needs to be controlled
Christopher Fox Graham is singing again
Christopher Fox Graham said "I joined because Iowa was one of the first states to start recycling mandatory returnables"
Christopher Fox Graham is at the top of it's food chain and has never naturally been hunted
Christopher Fox Graham is getting a bum rap
Christopher Fox Graham is tops for redbird gymnastics on senior night
Christopher Fox Graham is Christ
Christopher Fox Graham is called a reynard
Christopher Fox Graham is an exciting glider
Christopher Fox Graham is coming
Christopher Fox Graham is a lot better that MTV
Christopher Fox Graham is one of the most widely distributed carnivores in the lower 48 states
Christopher Fox Graham is casting single men and women for a new reality show
Christopher Fox Graham is making a mistake
Christopher Fox Graham is like to fly
Christopher Fox Graham is 'lucky' in love
Christopher Fox Graham is a C++ based toolkit for developing graphical user interfaces easily and effectively
Christopher Fox Graham is spotted
Christopher Fox Graham is a spiritual theologian who has been an ordained priest since 1967
Christopher Fox Graham is a dual national
Christopher Fox Graham is a large fruit bat weighing 400 ounces
Christopher Fox Graham is found in the far north
Christopher Fox Graham is on the town
Christopher Fox Graham is evil
Christopher Fox Graham is located on the southwest corner of Oak Park Avenue and Lake Street in the Scoville Square office building
Christopher Fox Graham is all that AND a bag of chips