What are you doing in 2012? Consider throwing away your vote on me

Hello, Sedona residents, my name is Christopher Fox Graham and I want to be your mayor. Not any time soon. I'm talking 2012. Why? Because I said it as a joke four years ago and people took me seriously. Now my pride's on the line.

Actually, my overblown ego is just part of my sense of humor. But I am self-confident like mad, so much so, I like hearing people talk smack about me because it still makes me the center of attention even when I'm not around.

I am egotistical. I am brash. I can be jerk just on principle alone, just ask Christopher Lane, Aaron Johnson, Greg Ruland, my ex-roommates, or my family. I am tenacious. I am a good speller and a great speaker. I am a Pisces. I am a phenomenal kisser, a mediocre boyfriend, a terrible cook and a hilarious dancer. I am a poet. I am a Jedi ... if only in my mind. I will fight for Sedona; I will fight for you because it's the people in my life, in this city, who make my life worth living.

Yes, I have little funding. About $13.41 at last count, and that has to go for a 12-pack for a party this weekend. So, no posters. But I can't be bought. I'm allergic to money, which I why I spend what little I do earn on my friends, acquaintances, and those in my community who need it more than I do. Think of me as mayor like that. Spange me, Sedona, and I will provide.

The city of Sedona has such potential to support its residents, but this effort is lost on poor communication between residents, businesses and city government. I propose the city partner with local businesses and residents to promote our local events, boost community participation, and develop a sense of true community. One local newspaper and a smattering of disconnected websites isn't enough to keep residents informed about all the activities, fundraisers, venues, arts events, concerts, festivals, shopping deals, and special events. New media is the future. I propose public-private partnerships to make Sedona a wired city, one needed to thrive in the 21st century.

Rents for businesses are so high that most do not stay in business for more than a year. Businesses have extreme difficulty drawing locals to shop. Locals prefer to stay home because they say there's nothing to do. Everyone in Sedona wants to share, but no one is willing to make the first step. I propose working with residents - and not just the 100 regulars who show up to city council meetings - to develop a true, free, city center where all residents can celebrate our community ties.

I propose spending less city money on bringing in tourists and more money on supporting local businesses that cater to residents. Tourists pay the bills but residents vote the votes. And I like votes. But residents like doing things in the city without getting their wallets sucked dry like they were tourists, too. I propose businesses institute a citywide locals discount, but receive tax breaks and write-offs from the city for supporting the community.

Why 2012? Why not 2010?
To prepare. To consolidate. To procrastinate. To get distracted by shiny things. To play really great video games and watch a good movie, and maybe make some Raman noodles. To get angry that we're procrastinating and get off the couch and get motivated to change the city.

Besides, if Sedona's New Age and metaphysical community is right and the world is coming to an end, why not throw your vote away on a hard-luck poet with a charming manner and good intentions. If the Mayan gods don't raze the planet by 2013, then Sedona will be in good hands.

Why CFG? Why not. Some leaders become great, others have greatness thrust upon them. And a few like me, strive for greatness because a fake ego masks of a sense of humor.

What will I do in office: I will talk to you. I will hear your concerns. I will fight for you. I will speak honestly and slow. I will speak plain English, with occasional dashes of cursing in English and Klingon because it's funny. I will put measures before council. If they fail, I will point the blame at those who voted against them. I will have logical, dispassionate arguments for all of my decisions. I can separate my personal biases from my decisions as an elected official. I will be honest. I will think about embezzling but realize that I'll probably get caught eventually or have a guilty night's sleep, so I won't do it. I love sleep. I hate guilt. And my ego is a joke, not real like former Illinois Gov. Rod Blagojevich’s.

I will network with whomever can help this city. I will work late. I will get up late, too, so it's kind of a wash. I will be creative. I have an IQ around 150 and think outside the box. Like MacGuyver, will find ways to fund city programs with duct tape and fountain pens. I am honest to a fault. I lost my virginity in Cabin 8 at Mingus Mountain Methodist Church Camp. I was horrible, but she loved me despite it. See, that's real honesty you can rely on in a leader. Maybe too much, but it means I won't have any Lewinsky-ish late-night incidents in the mayor's office. Unless there's a gun to my head. Or if the Mayan gods come in 2013. Or I'm having a Clintonesque wet dream, but only after I make peace in the Middle East. I am an atheist. I am a socialist. I am still good friends with most of my ex-girlfriends, and for a poet, that's saying a lot. I was convicted of a DUI in 2002 and possession of stolen property in 2004 or 2005 for some road signs my roommate and I had in my apartment when I moved from Flagstaff. But I paid the fines, said I'm sorry, and months later had a beer with one of the officers laughing about how cool the road signs looked from a photo.

What will I do to win? I will campaign. I will debate and crush my opponents. I will thumb-wrestle. I will engage in pissing contests, both metaphorical and literal if need be. I will kiss babies. I will kiss large and medium size dogs. I will not kiss small dogs, they get scared and have a tendency to play "Where's your nose?! That's right! It's in my belly." I like my nose on my face, occasionally in flowers and sometimes smelling the hair of a beautiful woman on a lazy Sunday morning.

Vote CFG. Vote Fox. Vote ego. Vote Ciff. Vote Cyph. Vote Siph. Vote for variant spellings. Vote Christopher Fox Graham (... just not in 2010. Although I'll serve if I win as a write-in in 2010). Vote Christopher Fox Graham for Sedona mayor in 2012.

And if the Mayan gods destroy us, at least Sedona was vaporized with a cool mayor in control.

Poetry Word Cloud

I used Woodle to create a word cloud involving my poetry over the last 18 months.

Obamism is contagious

"Praise Song for the Day" by Elizabeth Alexander

I was disappointed by the poem for Barack Obama's Presidential Inauguration. The poem itself is unremarkable. I was hoping for something moving and sweeping. Obama is from Chicago, the birthplace of poetry slam. I wasn't asking for a slam poem, but a more theatrical reading would have been appreciated.

Elizabeth Alexander was born in 1962 in Harlem, New York, and grew up in Washington, D.C. She received a B.A. from Yale University, an M.A. from Boston University (where she studied with Derek Walcott), and a Ph.D. in English from the University of Pennsylvania.

Her collections of poetry include American Sublime (Graywolf Press, 2005), which was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize; Antebellum Dream Book (2001); Body of Life (1996); and The Venus Hottentot (1990).

Alexander’s critical work appears in her essay collection, The Black Interior (Graywolf, 2004). She also edited The Essential Gwendolyn Brooks (Graywolf, 2005) and Love’s Instruments: Poems by Melvin Dixon (1995). Her poems, short stories, and critical writing have been widely published in such journals and periodicals as The Paris Review, American Poetry Review, The Kenyon Review, The Southern Review, Prairie Schooner, Callaloo, The Village Voice, The Women's Review of Books, and The Washington Post. Her work has been anthologized in over twenty collections, and in May of 1996, her verse play, Diva Studies, premiered at the Yale School of Drama.
About her work, Rita Dove has said that Alexander's "poems bristle with the irresistible quality of a world seen fresh," and Clarence Major has also noted her "instinct for turning her profound cultural vision into one that illuminates universal experience."

In 2007, Alexander was selected by Lucille Clifton, Stephen Dunn, and Jane Hirshfield to receive the Jackson Poetry Prize from Poets & Writers. She has also received a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship, a Pushcart Prize, the Quantrell Award for Excellence in Undergraduate Teaching at the University of Chicago, and the George Kent Award, given by Gwendolyn Brooks.

She has taught at Haverford College, the University of Chicago, the University of Pennsylvania, and Smith College, where she was Grace Hazard Conkling Poet-in-Residence, the first director of the Poetry Center at Smith College, and a member of the founding editorial collective for the feminist journal Meridians. She has served as a faculty member for Cave Canem Poetry Workshops, and has traveled extensively within the U.S. and abroad, giving poetry readings and lecturing on African American literature and culture.

Alexander was a fellow at the Whitney Humanities Center at Yale University, an Associate Professor in the school's African American Studies Department, and currently she is a fellow at the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study at Harvard University.

She was selected to read at Barack Obama's Presidential Inauguration in 2009.



"Praise Song for the Day"
By Elizabeth Alexander

Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other's
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.

Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.

We encounter each other in words, words
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
the will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what's on the other side.

I know there's something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.


Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,

picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.

Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,

praise song for walking forward in that light.

"Air and Simple Gifts" arranged by John Williams

My favorite part of the inauguration of President Barack Obama. Perhaps what made the piece so profound -- besides the fact I knew all the words to the Shaker hymn "Simple Gifts" due to my upbringing as a choir boy in the United Methodist Church, not bad for someone who's been an atheist since age 12 -- is that noon passed during the piece, meaning that under the 20th Amendment to the Constitution, Obama became president during the performance.



Air and Simple Gifts is a classical quartet by American composer John Williams composed for the January 20, 2009 inauguration of Barack Obama as President of the United States. The piece was first performed at the inauguration in Washington, D.C. by Anthony McGill (clarinet), Itzhak Perlman (violin), Yo-Yo Ma (cello) and Gabriela Montero (piano). It was the first classical quartet to be performed at a presidential inauguration. It was performed immediately prior to Obama taking the oath of office.

Williams based the piece on the familiar nineteenth century Shaker hymn "Simple Gifts," by Joseph Brackett. The source piece is famous for its appearance in Aaron Copland's ballet Appalachian Spring. Williams chose the selection from Copland, one of Obama's favorite classical composers.

'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free,

'Tis the gift to come down where you ought to be,

And when we find ourselves in the place just right,

'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.

When true simplicity is gain'd,

To bow and to bend we shan't be asham'd,

To turn, turn will be our delight,

Till by turning, turning we come round right.

The piece lasts a little under four and a half minutes. It is structured in roughly three parts. The first section presents the "Air" material, consisting of a spare, descending modal melody introduced by violin, pensively explored in duet with cello and piano accompaniment. The entrance of the clarinet, playing the "Simple Gifts" theme, signals the beginning of a small set of variations on that melody. The "Air" melody at first intermingles with the "Gifts" theme, though it is supplanted by increasingly energetic variations. Midway through, the key shifts from A-major to D-major, in which the piece concludes. A short coda reprising the "Air" material follows the most vigorous of the "Gifts" variations. The piece concludes with a unusual series of cadences, ending with chord progression D-major followed by B-major, G-minor and finally D-major.

And what else did John Williams write? That's right ...


... which proves Barack Obama is not just president ... he's a Jedi.

President Obama-wan Kenobi

In just 12 hours, a Jedi becomes our president ...

She Only Loves Me When The Bars Close

she only loves me when the bars close
and no one else is willing to take her home
spilling drama Ibsen would envy
about this girl or that boy
who said or did something
we must deal with right away
even though the guilty parties
aren’t around to argue the contrary

she comes in the back door
as my roommates sleep oblivious to the impending Armageddon
soon to destroy us all
fights past all my contradictions
to slip into my satin sheets
and call me to bed
no matter whatever late-night duties require my attention
I just want to sleep
without a stranger’s tongue in my mouth
drift off to sleep alone and contented in my loneliness
without her arms wrapping envious tendrils around me
desperate for my attentions, tongue or cock
to remind her she’s human and wanted

I’ve lived my days without a woman
to make me feel like a man
just give me a soft pillow
and dreams of past lovers
or memories of travels
or fictional visions of potential futures
and I drift into dreamland
with a smile until dawn
but she calls me to bed
to wrap myself around her
hold her like all the lovers she’s left behind
I am not them
I am more than a body
with a hungry organ seeking a cathedral
to play my music in
while the seats sit empty of religious devotees
I don’t need the fictions
that tonight is the night two twin souls find each other
one drunk on whiskey
the other loaded up with gin
making long island iced tea love
ripe with thick cigarette smoke on our breath
to stink the air beneath the sheets

she slips off her clothes
throws her panties to floor
as if the only key I needed to her moistness
was the lack of a cotton barrier

my hips learned the motions
the thrust and throb of hips
from wise women who could have taught
a hundred thousand men
the way to love properly
I have been a student of masters
who still make my head spin
years after they taught me how to play

one who showed me how a tongue can speak verse
by the way it flicks and glides across a clit
as if poetry was not the sound of words
but their movement in space
another who wanted to fuck everywhere but the bed
finding the best place of all
was an overloaded dryer
bouncing off-balance
while the buzzer went off every 15 minutes for hours
another who taught me the way to find perfect rhythm
is to pretend you’re a jazz trio
accompanying a polka band
while the titanic sinks

loving a woman with hips and skins
takes intention and concentration
but their arts are wasted when you are, too

she calls for lips
pops a pill to ease herself
pulls close my muscles
and wants the better parts of me
to fill her
but when the competition is eighty proof
I see no reason to trespass on her intoxication
I want to love her
but her stories change too fast to trust

she stretches her limbs
rubs below my belt
to awaken what she thinks she wants
and opens her anime eyes to my otaku desires
but I’ve seen the way this ends
and no one in Neo-Tokyo lives to tell the tale
I am more than her cartoon perfect playmate
I’ve seen her pull the football out from her Charlie Browns
only she’s left unsatisfied and oblivious
while they go off to find
little red-haired girls to love

she treats her pussy like a daytrip destination
instead of somewhere one wants to live
pay a mortgage,
build a white-picket fence
and eventually retire
we’ve all gotten postcards
from those who’ve been there before
and the mystery has become a cheap tourist trap
we only visit for the novelty
of saying we’ve been there, done that

she spreads her legs
to spill honey
but she’s only catching flies
so I zip mine up
and sleep on the couch
by myself at least I’m with someone who loves me
for what I dream of
not what I dangle between my lonely thighs

she only loves me when the bars close
only calls after 2 a.m.
and I can tell her time zone
by checking the clock
each message begins with slurs
about missing me with extra “s”s
and how much she hates me for not calling back by three
but how much she loves me, but hates me, but loves me
whatever my name is tonight

she curses my lovers
points at their photos and says they’ll never love me again
but that’s not why I keep them
they loved me once
and that’s all I have in the end
she hates my wall-hanging lovers
because she hasn’t been one of them

she doesn’t remember
the night I let go of these rules
slipped part of me into her
and watched her writhe with joy
as her hips shook uncontrollably over and over and over
she asked me the next morning if we fucked
they way you’d ask someone
if they’d read a news story
or seen a movie
or cleaned the rain gutters last year
if she can’t remember
why remind her

I’ve fucked for fun
and for curiosity
but not to be forgotten
I don’t need any more stamps in my passport
and I’ve visited countries like hers before

she only loves me when the bars close
but I don’t serve what she’s drinking
I only save her a barstool
pour water and soda until she’s so drunk on her own vintage
that she doesn’t know what year it is
drifts off to sleep in my arms
only then is she finally honest enough
for me to trust her
only unconscious, still and silent
do I believe what she has to say
only then
when she can’t contradict me a thousand ways
I whisper what she wants to hear

She Only Loves Me When the Bars Close

I've been writing poetry for nearly a decade and I generally stay away from graphic sexual content or references; I think it's part of my conservative childhood. I avoid words that directly reference sex, but my relationship with the girl in this poem seems to revolve around sex exclusively despite my attempts to make it more meaningful.
As such, I include these references in the poem for dramatic effect.

--Contains sexual content and strong language--

She Only Loves Me When the Bars Close
Of Ashley Wintermute

she only loves me when the bars close
and no one else is willing to take her home
spilling drama Ibsen would envy
about this girl or that boy
who said or did something
we must deal with right away
even though the guilty parties
aren’t around to argue the contrary

she comes in the back door
as my roommates sleep oblivious to the impending Armageddon
soon to destroy us all
fights past all my contradictions
to slip into my satin sheets
and call me to bed
no matter whatever late-night duties require my attention
I just want to sleep
without a stranger’s tongue in my mouth
drift off to sleep alone and contented in my loneliness
without her arms wrapping envious tendrils around me
desperate for my attentions, tongue or cock
to remind her she’s human and wanted

I’ve lived my days without a woman
to make me feel like a man
just give me a soft pillow
and dreams of past lovers
or memories of travels
or fictional visions of potential futures
and I drift into dreamland
with a smile until dawn
but she calls me to bed
to wrap myself around her
hold her like all the lovers she’s left behind
I am not them
I am more than a body
with a hungry organ seeking a cathedral
to play my music in
while the seats sit empty of religious devotees
I don’t need the fictions
that tonight is the night two twin souls find each other
one drunk on whiskey
the other loaded up with gin
making long island iced tea love
ripe with thick cigarette smoke on our breath
to stink the air beneath the sheets

she slips off her clothes
throws her panties to floor
as if the only key I needed to her moistness
was the lack of a cotton barrier

my hips learned the motions
the thrust and throb of hips
from wise women who could have taught
a hundred thousand men
the way to love properly
I have been a student of masters
who still make my head spin
years after they taught me how to play

one who showed me how a tongue can speak verse
by the way it flicks and glides across a clit
as if poetry was not the sound of words
but their movement in space
another who wanted to fuck everywhere but the bed
finding the best place of all
was an overloaded dryer
bouncing off-balance
while the buzzer went off every 15 minutes for hours
another who taught me the way to find perfect rhythm
is to pretend you’re a jazz trio
accompanying a polka band
while the titanic sinks

loving a woman with hips and skins
takes intention and concentration
but their arts are wasted when you are, too

she calls for lips
pops a pill to ease herself
pulls close my muscles
and wants the better parts of me
to fill her
but when the competition is eighty proof
I see no reason to trespass on her intoxication
I want to love her
but her stories change too fast to trust

she stretches her limbs
rubs below my belt
to awaken what she thinks she wants
and opens her anime eyes to my otaku desires
but I’ve seen the way this ends
and no one in Neo-Tokyo lives to tell the tale
I am more than her cartoon perfect playmate
I’ve seen her pull the football out from her Charlie Browns
only she’s left unsatisfied and oblivious
while they go off to find
little red-haired girls to love

she treats her pussy like a daytrip destination
instead of somewhere one wants to live
pay a mortgage,
build a white-picket fence
and eventually retire
we’ve all gotten postcards
from those who’ve been there before
and the mystery has become a cheap tourist trap
we only visit for the novelty
of saying we’ve been there, done that

she spreads her legs
to spill honey
but she’s only catching flies
so I zip mine up
and sleep on the couch
by myself at least I’m with someone who loves me
for what I dream of
not what I dangle between my lonely thighs

she only loves me when the bars close
only calls after 2 a.m.
and I can tell her time zone
by checking the clock
each message begins with slurs
about missing me with extra “s”s
and how much she hates me for not calling back by three
but how much she loves me, but hates me, but loves me
whatever my name is tonight

she curses my lovers
points at their photos and says they’ll never love me again
but that’s not why I keep them
they loved me once
and that’s all I have in the end
she hates my wall-hanging lovers
because she hasn’t been one of them

she doesn’t remember
the night I let go of these rules
slipped part of me into her
and watched her writhe with joy
as her hips shook uncontrollably over and over and over
she asked me the next morning if we fucked
they way you’d ask someone
if they’d read a news story
or seen a movie
or cleaned the rain gutters last year
if she can’t remember
why remind her

I’ve fucked for fun
and for curiosity
but not to be forgotten
I don’t need any more stamps in my passport
and I’ve visited countries like hers before

she only loves me when the bars close
but I don’t serve what she’s drinking
I only save her a barstool
pour water and soda until she’s so drunk on her own vintage
that she doesn’t know what time it is
drifts off to sleep in my arms
only then is she finally honest enough
for me to trust her
only unconscious, still and silent
do I believe what she has to say
only then
when she can’t contradict me a thousand ways
I whisper what she wants to hear

Mad Mahatma

I knew Gandhi back when he was a fighter
throwing fists in dark, low bars
with bikers and Brits alike
no one called him "the short guy"
without getting a knuckle across the jaw
he was fun in those days
a raging booze hound, his drink of choice
was a screwdriver, straight up
no waitress could pass by
without him grabbing a feel
ah - what a hell raiser
we called him the Mad Mahatma
he could run a pool table blindfolded,
while reciting the Bhagavah Gita
backwards
they said he was the toughest tiger
this side of the Ganges
and he was

i remember the time we got loaded
and drove halfway to Bombay
in a stolen car with a bottle of SoCo
and three six-packs of Natty Ice in the front seat
there was that brief car chase with the cops
in some nameless suburb
after we ran a stop light
sideswiped a rickshaw
and didn't stop to swap information
if it wasn't for his aim with a .38
into the left front tire of the lead cruiser
we might have served some time
instead of waking up hours later
in the shadow of an elephant herd
eyeing us with contempt
we ate well that night

ah, Mad Mahatma,
the man who mixed raw eggs with his
long island iced teas
claiming it cured hangovers
Mad Mahatma
who busted down a bookie's door
for no more than 37 rupees he was owed
Mad Mahatma
who got me drunk and tattooed
"reincarnate this"
across my ass
Mad Mahatma
where have you gone?
Mad Mahatma
where are you now?
Mad Mahatma
i'm tired of drinking alone

Cut out my heart and leave it in a gin and tonic on top of a Dave Matthews Band CD

This is beauty,
the way skin bounces off clouds
shouted to a thickened sky
of a heaven too tired to listen
and I feel a step closer to god
when i contemplate our creation

you know we were made in the image
of a drunk deity
who didn't know her/is right from her/is left
tried to shorten our days with death and plague
but we kept coming back
till s/he woke in a hangover
and realized what s/he'd done
was a little, um, crazy at the time
a little short on the why’s and how’s
of how we came to be
left us between two dead soldiers of Sam Adams light
on her/is best friend's neighbor's kitchen counter
'cause s/he was watching her/is figure
tries to hide her/is face in the bar
when we come staggering through,
asking to use the phone.
and begging the bartender to serve us the wine
of the vine that softened judas' loyalty
then asking the gravedigger to bury us
close enough to count raindrops
of the days till judgment
when pulled from the soil like treasure
we can recall our days before it all went downhill
and convince the final judge
that we're worth sparing
worth including in the finality
then sing a song
soft enough to make the towers crumbles,
tarnish those pearly gates
and force the whole mess
to come crashing down
when heaven falls
the boom will resound through history
in our heartbeats,
and the echoes will come 72 per minute
there,
put your hand on your sternum
can you feel the echo in your chest?
the end has already happened
now we're just words arching toward that final
"the end"
before the acknowledgements,
index,
and afterward from the publisher,
characters on a page.
and tonight,
I glimpse the reader's eyes

Round 4

Unfortunately, the tape failed before Round 4 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.

There is no video recording of Lauren Perry from Phoenix, Maya Asher from Tucson, Tristan Marshell from Mesa, Brian from Flagstaff, myself (Christopher Fox Graham) from Sedona, nor sorbet poet Tara Pollock or the victory poem by Team Sedona poet Sevan Aydinian.

Poet Kaila Haas

Kaila Haas,
a 2007 graduate of Sedona Red Rock High School and a current resident of the Village of Oak Creek.
Sorbet poet between rounds 3 and 4 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.


Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com

Neil Gearns

Neil Gearns, representing Team Mesa in Round 3 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.


Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com

Lindsay Miller

Tucson Slam Master Lindsay Miller representing Team Tucson in Round 3 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.


Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com

Megan Reynolds

Megan Reynolds representing Team Phoenix in Round 3 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.


Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com

Sevan Aydinian

Sevan Aydinian representing Team Sedona in Round 3 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.


Video courtesy of Sevan Aydinian

Maple Dewleaf

Maple Dewleaf representing Team Flagstaff in Round 3 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.



Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com

Terence Pratt redeux

Terence Pratt as the second sorbet poet after intermission and before Round 3 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.



Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com

Host Danielle Miller

The slam's host, Danielle Miller, reads a poem to kick off the second half of the slam after intermission. Miller is a local actress and poet.
Sorbet poet before round 3 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.



Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com