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.

Monday, August 31, 2009

Punk Rock Chick Dream Haiku

A pink-haired punk chick
finds me on the dance floor, says:
"You're mine." Forever.
Haiku Death Match at Sedona's GumptionFest IV on Saturday, Sept. 5.

Journalist's Wet Dream Haiku

Journalist's Wet Dream Haiku
The rhythmic thumping
Wet ink dampens sheets. She screams:
"Don't stop the presses!"

Haiku Death Match at Sedona's GumptionFest IV on Saturday, Sept. 5.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

Overnight Stay Haiku

Photo by redpolish
She removes her dress
lets it fall like a passport
departs me by dawn

Haiku Death Match at Sedona's GumptionFest IV on Saturday, Sept. 5.

In Spite of Me Haiku

Photo by Janina
I want a lover
who yearns for my arms and lips
despite who I am

Haiku Death Match at Sedona's GumptionFest IV on Saturday, Sept. 5.

Sarah Palin Haiku

McCain picks Palin.
See photo before name.
Really think: Tina Fey?

"Palin," heritage:
Inuit. Verb. Translation:
batshit fucking crazy

Seriously, John?
Palin? Has it been so long
since a landslide loss?

Sarah Palin was
not John McCain's pick, but God's gift
to Tina Fey

McCain picks Palin.
not since Bush/Cheney have we
made such bad choices

Arizona sends
both McCain and Goldwater,
to teach how to fail

The best thing about
Palin ... was Tina Fey on
Saturday Night Live

Bristol's abstinent?
Hindsight is 20/20
now that you're pregnant

Then McCain. Arizona's next
will be 2080

Haiku Death Match at Sedona's GumptionFest IV on Saturday, Sept. 5.

Love Letter Haiku

In your sentences,
in the commas of your prose,
I taste your warm skin
Haiku Death Match at Sedona's GumptionFest IV on Saturday, Sept. 5.

Type, Type, Send

Type, Type, Send

We speak a language of thumbs
communicated into translators of T9
like UN ambassadors
transliterating the codes of our home countries
into global policy
each carrying more weight than
the digital characters they encapsulate

type, type, send
type, type, send

a new message in the inbox
read at 55 miles per hour
or between classes
or minutes before deadline

the poets of this language
are the ones who choose to punctuate
the oft-overlooked colloquialisms
into the proper grammatical structure

proper spelling still matters somewhere
AIM has the niche of brevity
with its lowbrow dialect
of “LOL”, “ROTFL” and “OMFG” —
bearing your digital STDs,
keep your emoticons from infecting our thumbs

the debate is as old as English
when Norman French filled manors with "beef" and "veal"
while fallen Cynings tended the cattle and sheep outside
the high class thumb the seven keys for “t-h-r-o-u-g-h”
while the uninspired ignorant masses settle for “t-h-r-u”

if the late Dr. Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. — or MLK —
spoke today
the phrase, broadcasted into the phones of the crowd
would be that we are judged
by the content of our communications
type, type, send
type, type, send

our thumbs define us
much to the jealousy of our other eight digits
the exasperated index
the vainglorious bird
the self-important ring
and the naïve, wayward pinkie
that secretly plots and schemes
in hopes that an errant firecracker
or angry car door
will leave it as the sole articulator
the last tool to accuse in courtrooms
or scratch behind one’s ears

but none of the non-opposables
even united like a superhero foursome
can counter the voice of the thumb
they merely hold our phones like beds
while the outcast digit
the extremity intentionally uninvited to parties
articulates in an erotic tryst with keys
like lovers beneath dark sheets
sending our hopes and dreams to phones elsewhere

they, jealous and embittered
lean tightly against the battery
like guests next door in a seedy hotel
wondering what passions
can be seen on the other side
celibates envious that others can love so freely
forever uncertain how T9
rises from foreplay to climax to afterglow
between spent thumbs and their beloved keys

Saturday, August 29, 2009

Unrequited Love Haiku

Unrequited love
would be bearable
if answered with a bullet

Haiku Death Match at Sedona's GumptionFest IV on Saturday, Sept. 5.

Elect Luke Skywalker in 12 ABY

A long time ago
A galaxy far away
Luke was like Barack

Haiku Death Match at Sedona's GumptionFest IV on Saturday, Sept. 5.

Battlestar Galatica is More Than a Metaphor Haiku

Some days I'm Cylon
other days I feel like the
last civilized man

Haiku Death Match at Sedona's GumptionFest IV on Saturday, Sept. 5.

Slam Tutorial: Confront Your Own Cultural Heritage, Part 2

It's not easy confronting one's history, especially if it has a dark history, like Southern Whites confronting racism.

Greg Nix, my former roommate is proud to be a Georgian (though he was technically born in Albuquerque) and proud of the Southern flag, but he was taught to see it as a political symbol of State's Rights and independence, not racism. Also coming from the "Southern redneck" tradition of Jason Carney, Nix's poem is more a commentary on the non-Southern racist view of the Southern non-racist heritage. It addresses the non-Southerner view of Southern whites as split into two factions: the "enlightened egalitarian" white person - the common stereotype that we non-Southerners attribute to more-or-less racial equality in the South - and the "ignorant redneck" who seemingly hates gays, minorities, always votes Republican and would rather return to Jim Crow segregation if not outright slavery.

Of course, growing up in the 1980s, I will always equate the Confederate flag with "The Dukes of Hazzard" (let's ignore that abortion of a remake in 2005.) I had several toy General Lee cars as a child.

The unnamed roommate (not me, by the way) in Nix's poem misunderstands the political implications of the Confederate flag perhaps out of racism or simply thinking the flag is cool or rebellious.

Most of the (invariably white) people I've met who display the Confederate flag on their vehicle display the flag for provincialism not out of ideology:

like the Texans' Lone Star

or the Arizonans' sunburst and copper star.

I don't know Delawareans who do the same, for obvious reasons.

Both non-Southern and Southern blacks might have different interpretations of the Confederate flag, but as Nix points out, these are not due to the political use of the flag during and after the Civil War but due to the cultural and racial use of it. If the Texas flag had been used instead or another symbol had been used, we might have a far different feeling on the banner.

"Southern Angst"
By Greg Nix

he hung the flag in our stairwell
because, "its cool - you're a Southerner"
I'd heard that line from him so many times
just wanting to plant into his soul
what that means to me
memories of school days when us Boy Scouts would
salute the flag and pledge allegiance to Georgia
studying our state history
lost in marvelment at the sacrifices our Forefathers made in
"The War"

weekends spent at Stone Mountain recalling with pride
Stonewall Jackson, General E. Lee, Nathan Bradford and our esteemable
President Jeff Davis

looking back with wonder at the way our great great granddaddys
went off and fought for us, on behalf of us
in defense of home and hearth because
rich noble men floated in the air such words as
State's Rights. Self-Determination. Freedom.
but it all changed following Defeat and Occupation

a band of disgruntled officers mounted up beneath
the battle colors
rode off to begin our glorious history
whites hats, nooses, crosses burning in the night
the flag my forefathers fought under
fighting for no other reason then why young men always fight

i was raised to honor that flag in memory of
others who died not for slavery
but in defense of their homes
my ancestor's homes
the homes where my great great great grandmama's
passed forth the next generation in morning cries and tears.
until one day my father explained it better to me
clearing away the cobwebs of yesterday's glorious triumphs

"we never had the battle colors on the state flag
when i was growing up, son,
they put it there when Brown beat the Board of Ed
it was a reminder to 'them.'"

always us 'n' them.
still to this day

my father taught me that being
means to honor your parents,
love God in devotion
always bear yourself with respect.

i wasn't raised to hate
and yet, being a Southerner i must inherently be
racist, homophobic, and misogynist

this is the expectation

why don't i just go ahead and pop another Pabst
blast the Skynyrd a lil' louder?
fry me up some chicken and
let's go burn us a cross!
praise jay'sus too!

and here that poor damn fool goes hangin' that flag in my home
nevermind that i once believed it stood for something noble
stood as symbol for ideals or homes or in honor of my ancestors
nevermind that that flag stood as stone edifice to the
members of my state
hung and torched, mobbed for being a different color
killed because some asshole officers couldn't take defeat
couldn't accept that their way of life
was changed
because sometimes it must just be easier to hate
than to learn to love

i told my roommate
"lets put it out front!
wave it proud for all the neighbors to see!

we'll stand together and say, 'its
History, not Hate.' its
'Rebellion against Unlawful Authority.' 'its
about Freedom.'"

he never saluted that flag
unknowing what it really meant
how deeply it cut across the grain
my father impressed upon me
or how sick and tired i am of
attempting to explain to others
what mixed feelings i have toward
the Confederate Flag
realizing how others judge me by the
blood soaked into that fabric
turning it from a sentiment once noble
into a symbol of all that

and that flag doesn't stand for me
doesn't answer a single question anymore
i won't stand to have it in my presence
won't stand to see the battered and tarnished image
it has become
at the hands of assholes like my old roommate

who think hate is funny
call it hysterical and wonder why i grind my teeth
uncaring of what lies beneath the colors

but i do

i'm Southern
i took it down
i threw it out
he didn't understand.

Slam Tutorial: Confront Your Own Cultural Heritage, Part 1

It's not easy confronting one's history, especially if it has a dark history, like Southern Whites confronting racism.

Jason Carney, who I first met on when I was on tour in Dallas in 2002, has a poem that carries particular resonance for me. In "Southern Heritage," Carney addresses racism from the perspective a white Southerner. As a non-Southerner I was guilty along with many others of splitting white Southerners into two factions: the "enlightened egalitarian" white person - the common stereotype that we non-Southerners attribute to more-or-less racial equality in the South - and the "ignorant redneck" who seemingly hates gays, minorities, always votes Republican and would rather return to Jim Crow segregation if not outright slavery.

Of course, I learned in my later teens that racial issues in the South were far more gray.

This knowledge, however, did not alleviate my own fear of my family's potential history: my grandmother and mother are both from Atlanta, thus, my young mind used to theorize, they must be racist, thus, am I?

I wanted to ignore this "unfortunate" aspect of my history growing up lest I begin to think of myself as someone from a racist bloodline, based perhaps incorrectly on my grandfather's word choices, which I now attribute more to cultural and generational nuances than racist attitudes (in my early 20s I came to the realization that my grandfather's attraction to beautiful women 40 to 50 years younger than him was 100% colorblind, which put me at ease with him in the years before his death).

However, in September 2008, I asked my grandmother about her feelings and history following a speech I wrote for a seminar analyzing Abraham Lincoln's Gettysburg Address as a poem. At the time, it wasn't a question of race but rather politics I was asking for. I learned that my great-grandfather was something of a civil rights leader in his own way, though he probably wouldn't have thought so. Aside from chastising people who used racial epithets in his home, he helped black plumbers get their plumbing licenses, which I found rather cool at the time. I would assume that his choice wasn't one necessarily of self-righteous social equality but more of simple efficient rationality that seems to be the hallmark of my Redfield bloodline: "These guys can do the work, but they can't get licenses because of how they look? That's just stupid. I will help them."

My friend Lee Sullivan told me recently that that was an even more important step toward social equality that I had first suspected.

In the end, I think this sort of Redfield rational thought rather than overt idealism is what helped bring down Jim Crow and end other social inequalities: "This is how it is? This is inefficient and does not get work accomplished. It must change. If no one else does it, I will."

There's a poem in all this, but I haven't found the angle as yet.

"Southern Heritage"
By Jason Carney
Knowledge cures ignorance; if you're in the know, be fucking contagious.
This is for my Mamaw and my daughter, Olivia, the beginning and end of who I am.

My southern heritage lies in the smell of June.
It was my Mamaw.
She was half Choctaw, half snuff, half crazed by the spirit of the wind given her accent.

She called it "a touch" . . . she could . . . see things.

She'd catch a firefly with her tongue.

Rub the swollen fluorescence of their bellies to my forehead, a good vision on my birthday.

And she always told me I would grow to be a man who would always know life by the way it felt.

Alone I walked in the wandering reflection of dreams.
I should stand strong and tall as Papaw cause he was a man who knew life by the way it felt.

And his heart was in my eyes, his soul was in my breath.

My southern heritage lies in their simplicity; poverty and faith, baseball games on an old AM radio and the closeness of my family sharing a Sunday supper.

My southern heritage was Sundays.

Baptist Revivals . . . deacons passing the altar plates, deep voices from the choir urging me to go tell it on the mountain because Jesus Christ is Lord.

And I do love that old hymn . . . but I cant think about those fond memories of childhood anymore without seeing them through the pessimism of these eyes which are of a man, and I have to ask myself what kind of truth those old white baptists found on them mountain tops.

Why couldn't they hear the voices dangling from the branches of the elms when death could have been peeled away into the forgotten generation after generation woven into our skin, into our bones?
All because they were silent.
Practiced at turning their heads.

Their heritage lies in the shades of my skin, it's twisted and scarred, worn by their words "colored", "negro" . . . and "nigger."

So why don't we go find the truth on the mountain that says my southern heritage came clothed in white sheets and allows a rebel flag to hang this very day over the capitol of Mississippi?

My southern heritage spent centuries of time where people are silent . . . and practiced at turning their heads.

So we're the threads of rope that pulled James Byrd to his death along the back roads of Jasper, Texas.
Less than two hundred miles from where I live, ignorance reigns.

My southern heritage spans centuries of time, where people are silent and practiced at turning their heads.

It boils under my skin when my eyes don't have heart, when my soul is not in my breath, see . . . if I'm gonna grow to be that man who knows life by how it feels then these lessons gotta be mine to see the truth of and find the responsibility to teach my little girl.

Cause I don't want her southern heritage to lie in the shades of the skin. She's half Thai . . . half Irish, Choctaw, and snuff.

And I'm gonna catch fireflies with my tongue, rub the swollen fluorescence of their bellies to her forehead, a good vision on her birthday, where she will travel amongst the dead, and learn the lessons of their lives, spill the dust of stars and planets, exist in the deepest reaches of the mind.
She will tell the truth on that mountaintop, she will not succumb to the wounds of her bones.
She will not be silent.
And she will not ever be practiced at turning her head.

Jason Carney is a former skinhead who now uses poetry to continue to reform himself and heal others.

As a young man, Carney was sent to a juvenile detention center after several violent incidents involving gay bashing and racial intolerance. While in the detention center, Carney was roomed with a young gay male who was HIV-positive. A friendship formed from what could have been a volatile situation. The experience changed the way Carney saw people that were different from him. After Carney was released, he tried to look up his new friend only to find that he had lost his battle with the disease.

Carney has made it his life work to heal and help eliminate intolerance.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Poets in the Sept 11 Slam: The Klute

Klute, The (noun): A rare breed of Southern Arizona slam poet, originally raised in Southern Florida (however, he's not a native Floridian - rumors trace his origin back to Illinois). Abhors use of rhyme schemes in poetry, writes almost exclusively in free verse.
Frequent targets: the goth subculture, neoconservatism (especially Dick Cheney), and crass-commericalism. Member of the 2002, 2003, 2005, and 2006 Mesa National Slam teams (Mesa's 2005 slam champion), and 2008's Phoenix Slam Team.
Slammaster of the Mesa Poetry Slam. Has released three chapbooks of his work: 2002's "Escape Velocity", 2005's "Look at What America Has Done to Me", and 2008's "My American Journey". Ask him nicely and he might send you a copy. Primary habitat considered to be raves (especially desert parties), goth clubs, and dimly lit dive bars. Prefers vodka, rum, and absinthe when drinking. Is considered friendly, but when cornered, lashes out with a fury not seen since last Thursday. He's totally smitten with his girlfriend, Teresa - so don't ask him to dance. Feel free to buy him a drink, but remember, he's not putting out. No matter how much you beg.

People are talking about The Klute!

AZSlim, Espresso Pundit poster: Don't argue with The Klute. His hyperventilating and pure hypocrisy shown in these (and many other) posts makes reasoning with a two-year old who didn't get the popsicle he wanted seem tame by comparison.

Phoenix 944 Magazine says: Despite the heat, [The Klute] wears a black trench coat almost everywhere he goes and if the setting permits, he’ll blast through enough slanderous commentary to make Andrew Dice Clay blush. [He] admits he started slam poetry out of arrogance. He saw a performance and figured he could do better, after which he also admits he failed miserably. Today, his addiction for getting in front of the microphone and spitting out everything from a Dick Cheney haiku to a long-winded prose on race car driving to the late Hunter S. Thompson is as strong as his love for vodka and absinthe. If anyone’s seen “The Klute” in action, they’d know it. If they haven’t, they must.

Jerome duBois, The Tears of Things: You have one of the blackest hearts I've ever had the misfortune to glimpse.
Sign up for the Sedona Poetry Slam on Friday, Sept. 11, by e-mail to

Twins Haiku

I want to have twins
but not the way you might think
and ... not as daughters

Haiku Death Match at Sedona's GumptionFest IV on Saturday, Sept. 5.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Sedona Poetry Slam offers $100 prize

Sedona Poetry Slam offers $100 prize
Poets battle for your love and my cash

Sedona’s Studio Live hosts a high-energy poetry slam Friday, Sept. 11, starting at 7:30 p.m. Tickets are $10. All poets are welcome to compete.

After three rounds, random judges in the audience will judge the best poet, who will win $100 and three minutes of glory.

Slammers will need three original poems, each lasting no longer than three minutes. No props, costumes nor musical accompaniment are permitted. The poets will be judged Olympics-style by five members of the audience selected at random at the beginning of the slam. The top poet at the end of the night wins $100.

Poets who want to compete should purchase a ticket in case the roster is filled before they arrive.

The slam will be hosted by Sedona poet Christopher Fox Graham, who represented Northern Arizona on the Flagstaff team at four National Poetry Slams between 2001 and 2006.

For more information or to register, e-mail to Graham at or call 928-517-1400.

Video from previous poetry slams are available at

Studio Live is located at 215 Coffee Pot Drive, Sedona. For more information, visit

Tickets are $10, available at Studio Live or Golden Word Books, 3150 W. Hwy. 89A.

Price: $10
Date: Friday, September 11, 2009
Time: 7:30pm - 10:30pm
Location: Sedona’s Studio Live
Street: 215 Coffee Pot Drive, Sedona, AZ
Phone: 9282820549

Princess Leia Was My First Love Haiku

It's been twenty-six years
since Carrie Fisher taught geeks
like me how to love

Haiku Death Match at Sedona's GumptionFest IV on Saturday, Sept. 5.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

GumptionFest's Haiku Death Match

GumptionFest's Most Excellent Happytime Haiku Death Match & Senryū Battle ("Haiku Death Match" for short) has stepped up a notch.

My pride is the Haiku Death Match banner. It's six-foot vertical banner. I had the idea for the Japanese Rising Sun and employed Christian Jerman to sketch out the lettering.

I painted the thing and I think it looks really cool, considering I am not a visual artist unless it's through PhotoShop.

I plan to keep the banner long after GumptionFest and perhaps host more Haiku Death Matches in the future if the GumptionFest one goes off well.

At this point, the only thing I need to find are a pair of red and not-red matching bandanas and something for me to wear. I have a decent red shirt, hot as hell, or a faux Japanese girl's nightshirt ... don't ask.

Last week, I built the Haiku Death Match Staff of Judgment. Essentially a six-foot tall tuning fork looking thing from pvc pipe and duct tape. I wanted it to be clearly visible from a distance.

It also has 22 bands of red and not-red along the main staff, five for the letters in "haiku" and 17 for the syllables.

The staff is also collapsible so after GumptionFest 4, I can store it easily in my closet.

All made for less than $20.

I made the red and not-red judging flags from duct tape and shishkabobs.

I spoke at the Poetry Salon last week trying to drum up interest among some of Sedona's more page-orientated poets to come out to GumptionFest and read at the Haiku Death Match. I would love to see a few page poets facing off with a few slam poets in the final rounds.

Chuck Norris Haiku

Pick a hero, or Texas Ranger, and writer your haiku about his or her badassitude. All apologies to Chuck Norris ....

Gibraltar Haiku
Spain and Morocco
don't touch anymore. Why not?
Chuck Norris said stop

Guitar Hero Haiku
When Chuck Norris
plays "Guitar Hero," somehow
it gets a body count

Why the World Won't End in 2012 Haiku
The world won't end
in the year 2012
because of Chuck Norris

Murder Investigation Haiku
If the cause of death
is listed as "roundhouse kick"
suspect Chuck Norris

This is Chuck Norris' Sparta Haiku
If Chuck Norris was Spartan,
the film "300"
would have been called "1"

United Nations Haiku
When Chuck Norris
visits the United Nations
he's his own country

Franklin D. Roosevelt Haiku
we have nothing to fear
but fear itself
and the fists of Chuck Norris

Chuck Norris' Bathroom Haiku
For toilet paper
Chuck Norris uses stacks
of rusty cheese graters

Bob Marley Haiku
Chuck Norris shot the sheriff,
and then he roundhouse
kicked the deputy

Chuck Norris Mathematics Haiku
irrational numbers
become rational
when they see Chuck Norris

Rome Haiku
Rome would have been built
in a day if Chuck Norris
was the contractor

Chuck Norris in the Bible Haiku
In the beginning,
God said "Let there be light"
Chuck Norris said, "Say please"

Medusa Haiku
Chuck Norris was scared once,
the time he saw Chuck Norris
in a mirror

The following are not my ideas, they are Chuck Norris found haiku gleaned from, and other Chuck Norris-themed pages. I merely adjusted the word counts to 17 syllables.

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #1
If you have five bucks
and Chuck Norris has five bucks,
He has more than you

Chuck Norris Haiku #2
Chuck Norris's keyboard
has no control button.
'Cause he's in control

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #3
Every time Chuck Norris
listens to a song,
iTunes pays him a dollar.

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #4
No human being
can sneeze with their eyes closed
except one: Chuck Norris

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #5
Lays Potato Chips
reads "No One Can Eat Just One"
(except Chuck Norris)

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #6
Everything as far as the eye can see
is "MySpace"
to Chuck Norris

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #7
Only One Element in the Universe Haiku

Chuck Norris' periodic table
has one element:

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #8
He is so efficient
that Chuck Norris can kill
two stones with one bird

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #9
When the Boogeyman
goes to sleep, he checks his closet
for Chuck Norris

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #10
Chuck Norris
stares books down
until he gets the information he wants

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #11
is just a list of creatures
Chuck Norris has let live

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #12
Outer space
is afraid to be on the same planet
with Chuck Norris

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #13
Chuck Norris never sleeps
He merely waits
for the right moment
to strike

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #14
Chuck Norris sued NBC.
he already trademarked
Law and Order [left and right fist]

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #15
Where's Waldo?
He's in hiding because Chuck Norris
came looking for him.

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #16
No one can count to infinity, they say.
But Chuck Norris has.

Chuck Norris Haiku #17
Behind the beard of
Chuck Norris, there is no chin.
Just another fist

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #18
Chuck Norris
doesn't exercise with pushups.
He pushes the Earth down.

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #19
Chuck Norris can run so fast
that he can punch himself
before he left.

Chuck Norris Found Haiku # 20
Chuck Norris’s hand
is the only hand that can
beat a Royal Flush

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #21
You can't lead a horse
to water and make it drink.
But Chuck Norris can

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #22
Chuck Norris has no
need for a watch.
Chuck Norris tells time what it is

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #23
When he gets pissed off
Chuck Norris can even slam
a revolving door

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #24
In the cold,
Chuck Norris does not get frostbitten.
Chuck Norris bites frost.

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #25
Soviet Union quit
after watching
a DeltaForce marathon.

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #26
America is
no democracy. it is
a Chucktatorship.

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #27
Chuck Norris' action figure
has slept with more women
than most men

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #28
Chuck Norris can set ants on fire
with a magnifying glass
At night

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #29
Seen Superman pajamas?
Superman wears
Chuck Norris pajamas

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #30
There is no life on Mars
but there once was
before Chuck Norris got there

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #31
Chuck Norris
once kicked a horse in the chin
we call its offspring giraffes

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #32
When Chuck Norris inhales,
he isn't breathing
he's holding air hostage

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #33
Chuck Norris Can't Wear Condoms Haiku

He can't wear condoms
because there is no protection
from Chuck Norris

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #34
Chuck Norris does not hunt
hunters sometimes fail
Chuck Norris goes killing

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #35
If Chuck Norris was a country
his chief exports would be
fists and pain

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #36
Chuck Norris donates
blood to the red cross, but he
never gives his own

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #37
Paper beats rock beats
scissors beats paper, but all
yield to Chuck Norris

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #38
There are three sides
to the Force: the light side, the dark side,
and Chuck Norris

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #39
Chuck Norris never
misspells a word. Webster just
changes the spelling

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #40
When Chuck Norris has
surgery, the doctors get
the anesthesia

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #41
Chuck Norris could put Humpty Dumpty
back together again,
but why?

Chuck Norris Found Haiku #42
The answer to the universe
isn't forty-two,
it is chuck norris

Friday, August 21, 2009

Disintegration Haiku

Today is your lucky day.

Darth Vader said,

"No disintegrations"

Haiku Death Match at Sedona's GumptionFest IV on Saturday, Sept. 5.

Counting syllables in haiku is tough? No more

A British computer programmer, Russell McVeigh has solved all the problems for haikusters, a Syllable Counter that counts as you type.

Once you're close to 17 syllables, count them with your accent as it's not 100% accurate to Western American dialect, as in this:

Chuck Norris Haiku # 20
Chuck Norris’ hand
is the only hand that can
beat a Royal Flush

Which only counted 15 syllables, because the British pronunciation is one syllable "rɔɪəl" while Americans break it into "rɔɪ ' əl."

It also didn't count Chuck Norris' as four syllables, just three. Probably because it was scared of Chuck Norris.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

George Carlin Zen Haiku

George Carlin's Zen Haiku or
The Seven Dirty Words You Can't Say in Haiku
(perform while sitting in the lotus position)

Shit, Piss, Fuck, Cunt,
Cocksucker, Motherfucker, and Tits.
George Carlin. Ohm.

Haiku Death Match at Sedona's GumptionFest IV on Saturday, Sept. 5.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Nuke the Fridge Haiku

Indiana Jones

jumped the shark when Lucas and

Spielberg "nuked the fridge"

"nuke the fridge", verb phrase: Nuke the fridge is a colloquialism used to refer to the moment in a film series that is so incredible that it lessens the excitement of subsequent scenes that rely on more understated action or suspense, and it becomes apparent that a certain installment is not as good as a previous installments, due to ridiculous or low quality storylines, events or characters.
The term comes from the film Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, in which, near the start of the movie, Harrison Ford's character survives a nuclear detonation by climbing into a kitchen fridge, which is then blown hundreds of feet through the sky whilst the town disintegrates. He then emerges from the fridge with no apparent injury. Later in the movie, the audience is expected to fear for his safety in a normal fistfight.
Fans of the Indiana Jones series found the absurdity of this event in the film to be the best example of the lower quality of this installment in the series, and thus coined the phrase, "nuke the fridge".
The phrase is also a reference to the phrase "jump the shark", which has the same meaning, only applied to a television series instead of a film series.