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| Photo by David Jolkovski/Larson Newspapers |
"Need to Burn"
by Christopher Fox Graham
Oct. 13, 2025
each one of us, a story to tell
some for the wordplay
some with tongue brushes
to landscape the canvas of your skull
these words are art
deprived of musical instrument
chiseled away from marble
cut out of canvas
a moment in a breath in time
you can put spoken word to paper,
but it doesn't live there
it lives in the space between
my lips and your ears
between the words on the page
and how you hear them in your mind
“fuck linear time,”
but read a poem backwards
and derive meaning from it
with answers more immediate
you can exercise your demons
overcome your trauma
forgive your sins
your hate
your pain
this stage brings healing if you want it
and many walk away recovered
but some of us are addicted
to others’ stories
to your story
so, we live in theirs
every poet on this mic
I don't want to heal
don't let this hurt softened
the damage undone
I come to feel
to relive those moments,
even the worst ones,
especially the worst ones:
the absent father
who taught me how not to be a man
the lost lovers
who left because of what I said
 |
“They Held Hands”
my 9/11 poem
is not about the politics
but that moment
in Flagstaff
when i sat at a bar
and watched people like me
leap from the windows
from the 92nd floor
they will never hear this poem
no matter how many times I perform it
they will never stop their fall
never gain wings
never touch the earth gently
they fall
over
and over
and over
and I can't stop them
no matter how many times I spit the poem
I read it
to go back there
to that day
to relive that horror
to be here
but then
every poem about a dead poet is the same eulogy
For Chris Lane,
Jack McCarthy,
Aaron Norris,
David Blair,
Jack Egan,
Will Bell,
Rochelle Brener,
Andrea Gibson,
Rage Almighty,
every time I say their names
they come back to me
I'm there with them
at the slams
the drunken walks home
the hotel room afterparties
the practices,
the workshopping,
the editing,
the shit-talking
the sharing stories of other poets
the memories
the moment that they died
reacting with a clenched heart
that can't bear to be broken again,
but always is
I can't bring them back
hear a new poem they would have written
with another year,
another month,
another day to write it.
I don't say their names to heal,
but to live the loss
again
and again
and again
it’s how I keep them alive
no poem can undo their sins or mine
no matter how furiously I scribble,
or what scores you give me
that's not how this works
“fuck linear time”
but we can't go back and
unsay, undo,
un-live these things
Some poets write for therapy
to forgive
to heal
to be unbroken
I don't
I need this to burn
I need this pain
it's what made me
it's why I'm here now
not across town
drinking whiskey or wine
blissfully healed and happy
I'm here to go back to those places
to relive those moments
to be back in that skin
that moment
that hurts
that cuts fresh down to the bone
bleeds out in syllable and simile
I'm more scar tissue than skin now
a bag of broken bones
mended by metaphors
duct tape
and poet spit
if you can make this, [points to head]
feel that [points to heart]
with this [lips]
that’s poetry
all the rest of this is pageantry and window dressing,
pretty packaging we discard for what's inside
that's why I do this
why slam is a drug I can’t quit
if someone could cure this
cleave slam and poetry from memory
I would refuse it
I would refuse it
so I want to ache on your words,
poets, wordsmiths, heartbreakers and life-livers
I want to be deep in those moments with you
live like you were you, then
feel what you felt, then
inside you is a hurricane
spinning around your best and worst moments,
waiting for the proper breath to exhale them
a tsunami of ache and longing
and broken moments that made you
some of us don't want salvation
some of don’t want to heal
some of us want to burn
you, poet,
are an atom bomb
with blowtorch lips
light up this room
and burn it down to the foundation
with blowtorch lips
light up this room
and burn it down to the foundation
leave this audience
in ashes
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| Photo by David Jolkovski/Larson Newspapers |
