FlagSlam 2010 National Poetry Slam teaam

FlagSlam 2010, Christopher Fox Graham, Brian Towne,
Frank O'Brien and Ryan Brown.

How I became the fourth poet on FlagSlam's nationals team

So here's how it went down: The original FlagSlam team was Ryan Brown, Brian Towne, RahMah Mercy, Johnny P. and alternate Chris Harbster.

Harbster drops. Team still OK.

Johnny P. drops, but Frank O'Brien, who only recently moved to Seattle, took his slot. Team still OK.

I volunteer to work NPS as a venue manager, so I'm set to travel to St. Paul, Minn.

Brian and Ryan fly to St. Paul, Frank takes the Greyhound. I get to the Phoenix airport.

RahMah bails. Team is now a poet short with no backup. They can compete, but receive an automatic disqualification. I competed at FlagSlams in Flagstaff and earned points toward the Grand Slam, but not enough to compete. But I am the only FlagSlam poet in St. Paul with any points not on the team.

So I have a conundrum: Do I come to rescue of my home team in their hour of need by filling the slot, and hope to do as well as them despite have not practiced for NPS? The three poets have come all this way but would effectively be dead in the water with 2 DQs no matter how strong they are.

Or do I keep my word to NPS volunteer coordinator Jenn Parks and serve as the venue coordinator, thereby serving the whole Poetry Slam Inc. community?

I asked for a lot of advice, but after speaking with Steve Marsh, PSI's executive director, I received a green light to join FlagSlam - he said PSI would rather lose a venue manager than lose a team. A venue manager is a lot easier to replace than a team, he said.

I was really excited to be a volunteer this year. I had a lot of fun as a bout manager at NPS 2003 in Chicago and I would have enjoyed working the venues all four nights. If there was another poet who was eligible, I would have preferred them to fill the slot. But as it stands, it's either me or the other three members of the team came to St. Paul essentially to perform an open mic.

Thus, I am the fourth member of Team FlagSlam. We have a shot at semi-finals now because Brian, Ryan and Frank are all strong solo poets.

Wednesday, 7 p.m.
Bout 16 - Wild Tymes

ABQSlams
(Albuquerque, NM)
FlagSlam
(Flagstaff, AZ)
San Jose Poetry Slam
(San Jose, CA)
Team Clevel

Thursday, 9 p.m.
Bout 35 - Wild Tymes

FlagSlam
(Flagstaff, AZ)
Life Sentence Slam
(Fairfield, CA)
Mental Graffitti
(Chicago, IL)
Tucson Ocotillo Slam
(Tucson, AZ)

I'll be National Poetry Slam 2010 venue manager at POP!

For the National Poetry Slam, I will be the venue manager at Pop!, a restaurant bar two blocks from the hotel. I'll get to see 24 different teams in 6 bouts, including both Canadian teams, Toronto and Vancouver.

For one of the semifinal bouts, I will be the venue manager at the McNally Smith Auditorium.

Tuesday

Bout 2 - POP!
Lionlike MindState
(Chino, CA)
Salt City Slam
(Salt Lake City, UT)
Toronto Poetry Slam
(Toronto, ON)
Writing Wrongs
(Columbus, OH)

Tuesday

Bout 8 - POP!
Brass Knuckles
(Los Angeles, CA)
Hampshire County Slam
(Amherst, MA)
Slam New Orleans
(New Orleans, LA)
Spokane Poetry Slam
(Spokane, WA)

Wednesday

Bout 14 - POP!
Mental Graffitti
(Chicago, IL)
San Diego Slam Team
(San Diego, CA)
Silver City Slam
(Silver city, NM)
Slam Nahuatl
(Richmond, VA)

Wednesday

Bout 20 - POP!
Green Mill Poetry Slam
(Chicago, IL)
Salt City Slam
(Salt Lake City, UT)
Slamarillo Poetry Slam
(Amarillo, TX)
Vancouver Poetry Slam
(Vancouver, BC)

Thursday

Bout 26 - POP!
Boise Poetry Slam
(Boise, ID)
Houston Poetry Slam
(Houston, TX)
Madison Slam
(Madison, WI)
Nuyorican Slam Team
(New York City, NY)

Thursday

Bout 33 - POP!
Fort Worth Poetry Slam
(Ft. Worth, TX)
Neo/Byte This Slam
(Detroit, MI)
San Diego Slam Team
(San Diego, CA)
WORDPULP Poetry Slam
(Oklahoma, OK)

Friday

Semifinals: McNally Smith Auditorium

I'm a volunteer at the National Poetry Slam 2010

Just received word that I will be a volunteer venue manager at the National Poetry Slam in St. Paul, MN, next week. Four days of work at one venue to make sure the bouts run smoothly.

Rock on!

See you all at NPS!

See the Big Easy

This is from part of a poem about Hurricane Katrina I found recently and decided to finish.

See the Big Easy

The journalist in me
wants to see the Big Easy
it’s not every day that a city
gets wiped off the map

there are stories that need telling
how two men survived on a rooftop
eating pigeons
when the canned food ran out
until a neighbor they had never known
carried them away
or the family of six that let secrets spill
for the first time in years
when they faced the end
and saw bodies floating by
the mystery of the man
with six shots in the torso
and two in skull
— his killer had to reload —
but what happened to change me
from homeowner to corpse?
there are stories that need telling
and my hands are aching
to tell them a world blinded
by the sheer numbers

Baltimore, what would you do?
Seattle, how would you behave?
St. Louis, how would you collect your dead?
Los Angeles, would your rage subside
for the sanctity of touch?

Atlantis sank
Pompeii turned to ash
conflagration mythologized Troy
reduced Rome to Nero’s fiddlesticks
ended London’s Renaissance
doomed Windy City bovines
erased Dresden’s heart
eviscerated Coventry, Darmstadt, Pforzheim, Brunswick, Stalingrad, Hamburg, Tokyo, Osaka, Kobe, Hiroshima and Nagasaki
but the vanity of men
rebuilt them into new glories

each one will die in the old ways
or new, undreamed catastrophes
or ironically appropriate calamities
imagined only by trite screenwriters
yet those with the wherewithal
to hold on by fingernails
will merely collapse in the absence of men
fossilizing our bones in their bellies
before Fenrir swallows the sun
the vault of heaven falls
and grass covers all

I want to see how the end may come
interpret the foreshadowing doom,
behold the ego of man
smote by Mother Nature’s gloved fist
to remind us of our insignificance,
lest we forget
stand in the French Quarter
feel the wafting sin evaporate from the gutters
and understand right retribution
only witnessed before in Sodom and Gomorrah
I want to see the death of one great city
barely hiccupping back to life
before I, too, succumb to my personal tragedy
let me hear the jazz funeral tunes
echo over the eaves of abandoned tombs
when there are no saints left to go marching in

Love Me Like a Cowboy

Love me like a cowboy
without cell phones or central heating
we’ll ride horses down city highways
pass Lexuses and BMWs
waiting for the lights to change
I’ll hoster my six shooter
except for trick shots
and love you dawn till dusk
then love you more
the Old West is a sunrise away
if we ride toward the sunset
we’ll ride the next day
in chaps and 10-gallon hats
on dapple greys or duns

imagine us shooting up the local tavern
making love in high-priced restaurants
and city subways
as if we were only watched by prairie dogs
hunts the suburbs for lost gold mines
and make camp in the middle of the expressway
I’ll ride shotgun while you
use a long rifle on lawyers
to thin out the herd

imagine us always having
a setting sun toward which to ride
a rolling prairie to call home
a pair of horses to carry us
from Deadwood to heaven to Virginia City
and a West forever wild

Ryan Brown wins the June 12 Sedona Poetry Slam

Results from the Sedona Poetry Slam

Saturday, June 12, 2010, Studio Live, Sedona, Arizona, 7:30 p.m.

Calibration poet and host Christopher Fox Graham of Sedona, "She Begs For Poetry"

Round 1
Random Draw

Liana O'Boyle, of Sedona, 23.1, after 2.5 time penalty, 20.6 (3:50)
Brit Shostak, of Mesa, 26.3 (2:50)
Tristan Marshall, of Mesa, 27.2, after 0.5 time penalty, 26.7 (3:13)
Champion Max Boehm-Reifenkugel, of Sedona, 24.8 (2:47)
Rowie Shebala, of Gallup, N.M., 23.9 (2:01)
Bill Campana, of Mesa, 26.8 (3:04)
Shi'ike, of Cottonwood, 27.9 (3:08)
Tufik Shayeb, of Mesa, 25.7 (2:45)
Mickey Randleman, of Tucson, 26.5 (2:41)
Lauren Perry, of Mesa, 26.4 (3:00)
Ryan Brown, of Flagstaff, 26.9 (2:55)
Evan Dissinger, of Flagstaff, 26.7 (2:23)
Mikel Weisser, of Kingman, 23.4 (1:03)
Doc Luben, of Tucson, 26.3 (3:09)
Randy Warren, of Sedona, 27.5 (2:51)

---intermission---

Between rounds, the audience will be entertained with a feature performance by the Klute, one of the country’s best slam poets and an Arizona artistic treasure.

The Klute, aka Bernard Schober, competed at the National Poetry Slam six times, for the Mesa Slam Team in 2002, 2003, 2005 and 2006, and the Phoenix Slam Slam Team in 2008 and 2009. He has led two of those teams to the NPS semi-final stage, ranking him among the best of the best nationwide. He was also the Mesa Grand Slam champion in 2005 and 2010.

In an era when most artists and poets shy away from confronting politics, the Klute stands apart.

He has earned a reputation for in-your-face political commentary and over-the-top humor targeting Neo-Conservative politicians, crass laissez-faire commercialism and Goth subculture.

Originally from south Florida, The Klute writes almost exclusively in free verse, making his poetry conversational and relevant to even those who see poetry as something to avoid.

Standing more than 6 feet tall and always bedecked in a black trench coat, the Klute is hard to miss. When poetry escapes his lips at full blast, he’s hard not to hear.

The Klute has released three poetry chapbooks, "Escape Velocity," "Look at What America Has Done to Me" and "My American Journey," which prompted a cease and desist order from the attorneys of former Secretary of State Colin Powell.

“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,” according to Phoenix 944 Magazine. “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.”

Round 2
Reverse Order

Randy Warren, 24.5, after 1.5 time penalty, 23.0 (3:39), 50.5
Doc Luben, 24.7 (2:57), 51.0
Mikel Weisser, 23.0 (2:24), 46.4
Evan Dissinger, 25.2 (3:09), 51.9
Ryan Brown, 28.2 (3:05), 55.1
Lauren Perry, 26.7 (3:09), 53.1
Mickey Randleman, 26.4 (2:52), 52.9
Tufik Shayeb, 25.2 (2:49), 50.9
Shi'ike, 24.2, after 4.0 time penalty, 20.2, (4:29), 48.1
Bill Campana, 24.2 (2:49), 51.0
Rowie Shebala, 25.8 (2:55), 49.7
Champion Max Boehm-Reifenkugel, 26.9 (1:54), 51.7
Tristan Marshall, 27.2, (2:48), 51.5
Brit Shostak, 25.4 (2:22), 51.7
Liana O'Boyle, of Sedona, 25.0, after 1.0 time penalty, 24.0 (3:25), 44.6

Round 3
High to Low

Sorbet poet: Kayt Perlman

Ryan Brown, 27.9 (2:26), 83.0
Lauren Perry, 25.6 (2:56), 78.7
Mickey Randleman, 26.2 (2:47), 79.1
Evan Dissinger left the slam early
Champion Max Boehm-Reifenkugel, 26.7 (1:38), 78.4
Brit Shostak, 26.0 (2:23), 77.7
Tristan Marshall, 23.9 (3:01), 75.4
Doc Luben, 25.2 (2:55), 76.2
Bill Campana, 23.4 (3:09), 74.4
Tufik Shayeb, 23.1 (2:21), 74.0
Randy Warren, 26.5, (4:07), 77.0
Rowie Shebala, 23.3, after 0.5 time penalty, 22.8 (3:14), 72.5
Shi'ike, 26.6 (2:40), 74.7
Mikel Weisser, 22.7 (1:16), 69.1
Liana O'Boyle, 23.4, after 1.0 time penalty, 22.4 (3:25), 67.0

Final scores
1st: Ryan Brown, 83.0, $100

2nd: Mickey Randleman, 79.1

3rd: Lauren Perry, 78.7

Champion Max Boehm-Reifenkugel, 78.4
Brit Shostak, 77.7
Randy Warren, 77.0
Doc Luben, 76.2
Tristan Marshall, 75.4
Shi'ike, 74.7
Bill Campana, 74.4
Tufik Shayeb, 74.0
Rowie Shebala, 72.5
Mikel Weisser, 69.1
Liana O'Boyle, 67.0
Evan Dissinger, 51.9* (only competed in 2 rounds)

Slam staff

Scorekeeper and Timekeeper: Jessica Laurel Reese
Host: Christopher Fox Graham
Organizers:
April Holman Payne, Jenn Reddington, Studio Live
Christopher Fox Graham, Sedona 510 Poetry

The Loch Ness Monster vs Trolls: In Haiku

These were a series of haikus I used in a head-to-head death match against Tucson's Teresa Driver in October. Just found them.

I was assigned the Loch Ness Monster, she was assigned trolls. Enjoy.

Loch Ness Monster Haiku #1
Bring it on, you trolls
come to the shore and face
my Flippers of Doom


Loch Ness Monster Haiku #2
Monster of Loch Ness
rises from the deep to feed
tourists run screaming


Loch Ness Monster Haiku #3
They say I'm hiding
I'm just biding my time
2012 is near


Loch Ness Monster Haiku #4
Trolls carry spears, swords
and have to hunt in packs.
Bite, swallow, then nap.


Loch Ness Monster Haiku #5
At Moria mines,
even Hobbits fought the troll
but all flee from me


Loch Ness Monster Haiku #6
Dungeons & Dragons
has many troll editions.
But I need just one.


Loch Ness Monster Haiku #7
Fear trolls at nighttime.
In daylight, walk free. At sea,
you always fear me.


Loch Ness Monster Haiku #8
If troll comes for you
he must sneak in. If I come --
you can't hide. You're doomed.


Loch Ness Monster Haiku #9
The troll-free Bible
names both Leviathan and
Jonah's whale. Tremble!


Loch Ness Monster Haiku #10
"Jaws" "The Abyss" and
"It Came From the Black Lagoon"
Name a troll movie.


Loch Ness Monster Haiku #11
Captain Jack Sparrow
Spent three films running from me
What film do trolls have?


Loch Ness Monster Haiku #12
The Leviathan
even made Yahweh tremble.
Bible is troll-free

Oil Dealers and Deepwater, Part I

Part I – Oil Dealers*

drive the needle deeper
we need this to fuel us
drive it deeper
till it hits
suck it out like Mother Nature
was givin’ a blowjob
it hurts, yeah, but hurts more
when we don’t have none



used to have our own,
but never enough
I found some pure stuff
bought it cheap
right next door
who knew the neighbor was a dealer?
had to go under the water
not so easy and finding it in the dirt
but don’t matter none
once it goes in
you don’t think about where it came from



got it pure and cheap
got it from B.P.
always trust a Limey, I say
they talk like us and don’t do no wrong



drive the needle deeper
we need this to fuel us
drive it deeper
till it hits
suck it out like Mother Nature
was givin’ a blowjob
it hurts, yeah, but hurts more
when we don’t have none



we don’t trust the Saudi dealer anymore
he’s got too many issues
beats his wife for speaking out
little brothers always bitchin’
’bout how we smack ’em around
Saudi thinks we like him
but we won’t even know his name
if he didn’t have any



his crew don’t trust us none
last time we went there
one o’ them ragheads
left us with a bloody lip
knocked over a few towers in our neighborhood
but we done fucked him up good



we only go to the Saudi for this junk
when we’re desperate
— and when we’re armed, rollin’ with our boys
got to show ’em who’s boss
if you want a fair deal



had some homegrown
but it’s gone bunk
always need more
if we’re going to make it ride
and if it runs out
we still got the Saudi
he’s eager to deal
if he don’t sell to the Chinaman first
but if he do
we’ll just go back with bigger guns
bleed him dry till he’s done
maybe go visit the Chinaman
sure, he packs heat
and rides with his boys
but I think we can take him
We’re ’Mericans,
and we don’t take no shit
John Wayne wasn’t no pussy
we're bad motherfuck'rs



drive the needle deeper
we need this to fuel us
drive it deeper
till it hits
suck it out like Mother Nature
was givin’ a blowjob
it hurts, yeah, but hurts more
when we don’t have none



spill a little, no big deal
always more where this came from
if you lose control
let it flow, let it burn
give Mother Nature a facial
it hurts, yeah, but hurts more
when we don’t have none

*All BP satire logos from www.logomyway.com

Oil Dealers and Deepwater, Part II

Part II – Étouffée

the last thing he remembered
was her étouffée
the way shrimp and chicken
could fall apart in his mouth
the texture of onion,
the soft burn of the bell pepper,
the crunch of celery
for a moment
after the alarm sounded
after the shock of fear subsided in his spine
he was there again
in her Baton Rouge kitchen
surrounded by the smell of her labors

he had seen a blowout on another rig
everyone jumped to their posts
did their jobs
and when all was said and done
wounds were treated
scars healed
insurance wrote off the damage
and they thanked heaven no one got killed

for a moment
he flashed back to that rig
hoped it would repeat
and as the rumble rose
his eyes dimmed
the world fell away from focus
and he could taste her étouffée in his throat

the moment was too quick to prepare
he saw the faces of the men around him
he had seen them all today on the rig
they were 11 roughnecks who would go home
when the job was over
they were strangers before the rig
and they would be afterward
they were forgettable
and always wanted to be
for a roughneck,
to have one’s name known
means you’ve fucked up
you screwed the boss’s daughter
you carelessly killed a man
or you died on a rig

they were 11 men
whose names would be remembered:
Jason Anderson
Aaron Dale Burkeen
Donald Clark
Stephen Curtis
Gordon Jones
Roy Wyatt Kemp
Karl Klepping
Blair Manuel
Dewey Revette
Shane Roshto
Adam Weise
no longer forgettable

when it came
the rip roar of steel and crude
swallowed in a sun
the last thing he remembered
was her étouffée
the last thought
was the smell of Cajun cooking
the feel of her arms around him
as the bowels of the earth
those billions of animals
compressed into oil
buried for millions of years
saw the sky again
released the rage of imprisonment
ignited into fire
rose into the sky
carried his disintegrated memories
with them
rising like steam
from a cooking pan
of her étouffée

Christopher Fox Graham interviews Arizona Gov. Jan Brewer

Today, I met with and interviewed Arizona Gov. Jan Brewer at Los Abrigados Resort & Spa in Sedona.

Topics included border issues, Senate Bill 1070, and Arizona's financial crisis.

See the story in the Wednesday, July 7, issue of the Sedona Red Rock News.

Celebrate Canada Day at Posse Grounds in Sedona on Thursday, July 1

Celebrate Canadian culture and heritage with a potluck and barbecue at Posse Grounds Park on Canada Day, Thursday, July 1, from 5 to 8 p.m.

All Canadian-born Americans, Canadian expatriates, Canadian tourists, and friends and family in the Verde Valley are invited to participate. Everyone is welcome.

This is an outdoor family event with horseshoes, games and fun for everyone.

People are encouraged to bring things to share, including sports equipment, musical instruments, or a family pack of Timbits. Poutine is always welcome as well.

Due to Sedona’s liquor ordinance, this is an alcohol-free event, so don’t bring any 2-4s of Labatt. However, pop will be provided.

There will be a costume contest with prizes for the best-dressed Canadian clichés. Make sure to dig through your closet for your favorite hockey jerseys, lumberjack plaid, Canadian tuxedos and toques.

The organizers can’t wait to see everyone “oot” there, “eh?”

For more information, call Azami Ishihara at 517-1400.

Sedona Summer Poetry Slam this Saturday, June 12 at Studio Live

A reminder about the Sedona Summer Poetry Slam, starting at 7:30 p.m., this Saturday, June 12, at Studio Live. Hosted by me, featuring The Klute, a hilarious political poet from Mesa. Tickets are cheaper this time around, only $5 if you order online at www.studiolivesedona.com It's Sedona in June. You know there's nothing better than enjoying some poetry to take your mind off the heat. Details: http://www.studiolivesedona.com/venue/calendar.html?event_id=238 Direct link for tickets: http://www.studiolivesedona.com/our-store/product-41.html

I Dream Too Much

I dream too much
hold slumber too late into the day
imagine too sincerely
that my dayvisions and night dreams
are more real than the tactile touch of skin on surface
in them, she moves with purpose
presses lips to soul
and swallows me in language
dreams, then, have meaning
and, I eagerly swallow them all

I find reason on weekdays
to labor to exhaustion
sleep as an infantryman in a foxhole
beneath the bombardment of career
so that when weekends bring their liberations
I can’t bear to rise until day is half done
on those days I can rewake and renap a dozen times
revisit her in new theatres
prior to the weight of the sunlight
pulling me from her, heavy in the gravity

before the last rise
when wherewithal is still foreign to my consciousness
I speak to her all the things I wish to say
if she were here
she hushes my lips with fingertips
strips off our clothes
and presses skin to skin to hold me
until we both open
two halves of a wound healing together

we breathe twice as deep
and hearts find each other
cleave arteries and veins into freshly spun spaghetti
and become Siamese twins of beating muscle
born from different mothers

I would hold there for days
if breezes and the spinning world
wouldn’t earthquake away

if catastrophe evicts me from flesh too soon
may some tornado lift me in Oz-brand ferocity
back to her open arms
and octopus rib cage,
pull me in close
bite spleen into lemon spleen
liver into apricot liver
pull hearts through aortas like handkerchief magic tricks
and swirl us into one shade of Play-doh
pliable for the ethereal children
who will next shape our formlessness

Get tickets now for Sedona's poetry slam on June 12

Top Arizona slam poet
headlines Sedona Summer Poetry Slam
on Saturday, June 12

The Sedona Summer Poetry Slam will explode at Studio Live at 7:30 p.m. Saturday, June 12, presenting three rounds of poetic competition as poets battle for pride and $100.

Between rounds, the audience will be entertained with a feature performance by the Klute, one of the country’s best slam poets and an Arizona artistic treasure.

The Klute, aka Bernard Schober, competed at the National Poetry Slam six times, for the Mesa Slam Team in 2002, 2003, 2005 and 2006, and the Phoenix Slam Slam Team in 2008 and 2009. He has led two of those teams to the NPS semi-final stage, ranking him among the best of the best nationwide. He was also the Mesa Grand Slam champion in 2005 and 2010.

In an era when most artists and poets shy away from confronting politics, the Klute stands apart.

He has earned a reputation for in-your-face political commentary and over-the-top humor targeting Neo-Conservative politicians, crass laissez-faire commercialism and Goth subculture.

Originally from south Florida, The Klute writes almost exclusively in free verse, making his poetry conversational and relevant to even those who see poetry as something to avoid.

Standing more than 6 feet tall and always bedecked in a black trench coat, the Klute is hard to miss. When poetry escapes his lips at full blast, he’s hard not to hear.

The Klute has released three poetry chapbooks, "Escape Velocity," "Look at What America Has Done to Me" and "My American Journey," which prompted a cease and desist order from the attorneys of former Secretary of State Colin Powell.

“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,” according to Phoenix 944 Magazine. “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.”

Expected to compete are Sedona Red Rock High School alumni Champion Max Boehm-Reifenkugel and Liana O’Boyle, several members of the FlagSlam Poetry Team, Kingman slam poet Mikel Weisser, Mesa Slam Team members Lauren Perry, Bill Campana, Tristan Marshall and Brit Shostak, Sedona poet Randy Warren.
and Tucson poets David "Doc" Luben and Mickey Randleman.

All poets are welcome to compete.

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. He has hosted and competed in poetry slams and open mics in Sedona since 2004.

Graham has performed in 38 states, Toronto, Dublin, Ireland, and London, and wrote the now infamous “Peach” poem.

Founded in Chicago by construction worker and poet Marc “So What?” Smith in 1984, poetry slam is a competitive artistic sport. Poetry slam has become an international artistic sport, with more than 100 major poetry slams in the United States, Canada, Australia and Western Europe. Featuring almost 80 four-poet teams, the 21st annual National Poetry Slam takes place in Minneapolis, Minn., in August.

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

Tickets are $5 online or $10 at the door.

Home of the Sedona Performers Guild nonprofit, Studio Live is located at 215 Coffee Pot Drive, West Sedona. For more information, visit www.studiolivesedona.com.

See video from previous poetry slams at www.YouTube.com/FoxThePoet.

For more information about the 2010 National Poetry Slam, visit www.poetryslam.com.

Spider in My Bathtub Poem

uncamouflaged at the basin of the bathtub
a spider deprived of two legs waits
it clamors along the curve
unable to climb more than an inch above the plain
no clawed foot can find purchase in the porcelain
the spider has circled he edge seven times
still searching for a changing circumference

I imagine it stumbled in the open window
explored the sill hunting moth or mosquito
then lost its grip in the wood
tumbled airborne then slid to a stop
and now finds itself in an unfamiliar prison

deciding its destiny,
I could flush it down the tub drain,
crush it with shoe or paper
cast it aside with the refuse
pick it up and swirl it down into the toilet
a hundred types of sadistic torments
or ignore its plight, but my roommate is terrified of spiders
instead, I a grab a cerulean cup
hold it upside down and chase the spider in the cage
it skirts around the tub, oblivious to my shadow,
fleeing from tapping fingers
the blue maw closes over
and the spider flees out the crevasse a dozen times
until I catch it on the flat wall
flip wrist and toss the spider to the bottom

trading white porcelain for blue plastic,
the spider appears more distraught,
as if it had fallen on worse times
a smaller cell with less hope
I tip it into the light
examine the details of the injuries
second leg left,
third leg right,
both severed at the hilt
where they lie buried
with what foe they rest
I can only conjecture
did it lose one in a climactic battle with a rival
sacrifice one to escape a songbird hunter
lose them both in the tragedy of a fallen branch
break one in the strain to escape from the tub
is one still clinging to the window sill
unable to hold its master safe from gravity

we march to the front door
and in the porchlight,
take one last look at each other
before I invert the cup above the vines
and it tumbles out,
again falling airborne
rolls off leaf and disappears into darkness

have I doomed some future beetle
sentenced a moth to die
in the jaws of a handicapped predator
or fed some larger spider hunting weakened prey
supplied a buffet to ants who’ll find it starving in the morning
where was its tomb to be before I found it
what destiny have I altered by glancing in the tub
while wondering what poem to write tonight

Darth Cheney Haiku

How did Dick Cheney
fire Rumsfeld? "You have failed
me for the last time"

Lost Lighter Haiku

You should quit smoking

to save hours not looking
for your lost lighters

She Begs for Poetry

from 3,000 miles away
she begs for poetry
— words swallowed deep in heavy stanzas
articulating how her absent arms
strip me bare despite cotton and self-delusion
— puns toying on lips of pop culture references
she doesn’t grasp without footnotes
— confessions flaying flesh from my bones
so she can see the man beneath this stone exterior
has a heartbeat instead of a CPU

she begs for poetry
but those written for previous lovers sound unfaithful
infidelity captured in verse
with other couples, a wayward glance ignites a riot
because the surface is what matters
with other couples, a night enveloped in strangers hips
instigates marital estrangement
because loins encapsulate intentions
for us, looks and skins are immaterial matters
it’s the words that carry weight,
the emancipation of verse from darkness
pulling verbs and nouns from thin air
to best articulate the rhythm of hearts caught in the moment
our wedding bands come in rhyming couplets

in pauses I can close my eyes and chart the road
GoogleEarth highway curves from my Arizona doorstep
over the interstates
past county gas stations
under Western skies
leap borders in migratory bird fashion
to find her hobo fingers grasping a payphone receiver
at the Civic Center in Prince George, British Columbia
where she hangs onto every syllable like scripture
remembers how the psalms of slam bring salvation

she is a pilgrim remembering home before the crusade
yearning for comforts of a familiar tongue
before the next day calls her to confront the infidels
whatever she believes them to be:
the civilized world armed beneath its new colonial flags
of corporate logos and AK-47s in the hands of children,
laissez-faire consumerism oblivious to strip mines and contaminated rivers,
or the suburban dream of white picket fences and police state insecurities,
— she plants trees to save the Earth one shovelful at a time
build a new world she wants to live in
painting the skies in banners of poetry
and I am an arrogant boy inflating his ego in this silly metaphor
when the truth is
she misses the home we’ve built here
she yearns to sleep in, beneath satin sheets
long after I have left for work
she aches for the shelter of my broken limbs
learning to trust in human touch
after so many years pushing it away
she craves to again tear me down to build me up
remanufacture me into a Lee Majors worth admiring
— and I’m certain I’ll have to explain who he is

she begs for poetry
anything my fingers have scribbled will do,
but I search for the poems I wrote to remember her
when I thought she left my chapters
before she returned for the sequel
with newly enhanced superpowers and a rebooted backstory

these words aren’t wholly mine,
they fluttered in anticipation of her arrival
so she’d know me as kindred
without having to try so hard
because I still mistake women’s advances
for an awkwardness to fill time
and stumble over my own intentions
without a screenplay to dictate the scenes
from “hello” to “please stay the night”

she begs for poetry
and I offer what I’m able
stretch my arms across this continent
fold our points together the way starships do
read poems that bring her back into my bed
when I would recite them before lights out
and we’d scoop stars by the shared spoonful
I give her the poems I have at my fingertips
until she returns to touch them with her own
I would cut open my brow again
and spill out poetry like a head wound
if it brought her home any faster
but patience is a virtue, they say
absence makes the heart grow fonder
all good things come to those who wait
and clichés pacify aching lovers
who quote them rather than go on killing sprees

she begs for poetry through my lips
I beg for her and the poems born on hers

I miss the nuances of your back

I miss the nuances of your back
the curve of your spine in the dark
the eruption of breasts beneath thumbs
as hands trace the oceans of your ribs
drowning in the waves of warmth
as the rest of me sinks so deep
into your acrobatic hips
we could be Siamese twins
dancing in the moist heat
poured from mutual reverence
illuminating bed sheets as double stars
swallowed in nebulae of satin

in the absence of time,
your curves have been lost to my cartographers
each soft contour has became legendary
bends and dips deified into mythology
architecting tenets of my modern-day religion
parables passed through generations of cells,
from fingertips to bone marrow
newborn anatomy awaits your Second Coming
as it was told in the ancient days of your inhabitance

to the cellular shamans born after your departure
each concave inch of you now holds a god's name
the convex rises give birth to heroes
who ride through my waking dreams
bringing you back to me at mythical elevations

now, I understand why the faithful become fanatics

the daily moments of passing touches
fade in the shadow of the tactile nights:

when I explored your hips' rhythms
to match them in perfect pitch
and score symphonies to climax

or tasting your femininity
— as you climbed the wall, illiterate of consonants —
with a tongue that would have cut itself free of anchor
evicted its muscle and packed tastebuds in a suitcase,
making my teeth ex-neighbors
and mortgaged lodging between your thighs
rather than articulate another poem
on the currents of my stale lungs,
coming to your country as an immigrant
holding fast to the dreams born in the old country
and greeting your pudenda like Ellis Island

or pressing chest to your shoulder blades
when we regressed into our quadrupeded ancestors
shedding off the fabrications of status and names
before languages and civilizations muddled intentions
as pure as this
there, I was trying to beat my heart through rib cage
with every thrust, while in reverse
your heart attempted the same through yours
each eager only to touch aorta to aorta like a handshake,
molt off this used flesh and bone,
leave behind the smoking remains of our lust,
undock from our flesh chasses
splayed open in the bed like spent lobster shells
limbs still entwined around each other
resigning contented smiles engraved for future archaeologists

I couldn't be closer to you then
unless all of me
followed the part of me
already inside
I wanted to swallow each part of you like dessert
starting at all your perimeters
ingest you into my belly and reassemble you
so you could consume me from the inside out
and leave all the parts of me tasted
by a tongue that still leaves me breathless

this is the part of the poem
where expectations are to call you a goddess
but you're not, just a tangle of skin and sinew
calendar dates knotted around a name;
our anecdotes and memories
are forever irrelevant unless structuring new narratives
based on them
instead we could meet again as strangers
play new parts with fictionalized ancestries
like theatre actors changing scripts
we could choose to speak new languages
or feign unintelligible dialects
pretend familial rivalries
like Montague and Capulet

all the irrelevant pageantry lose importance
because your smile, preempting your kiss,
showers your warmth to all my cold places
the eagerness of my tongue disrobed from language
buried in your folds
rhythmically racing to keep damp
your well of pleasure so you lose touch with the world
outside this room
and forgetting all the unimportant histories
made by others' personal politicians
banishes their immaterial machinations
from our self-imposed isolationism

in the dim glow of our skins
beneath tungsten incandescence
electrons transcend their mortal coils
ascend into photons
refract off the contours of your smile
race at lightspeed into my retinas
bringing with them the quintessence
of your joy manifested by all my muscles' labors
toiling to cultivate and fructify a few moments more
until the climax uncaps prophesies
and we sink into the shelter of spent limbs
and broken tensions awash in oblivious serenity

in the denouement
the recalculating mathematical measurements
of touch and pressure and pleasure
the whens and hows resume conjectural status
and become theoretical constructs we can experiment later
and in the dark
when the tender brilliance of falling stars illuminates
exterior observers rooted into soil beyond the windows
your smile reincapsulates my intentions
into a bottle kept in my neocortex
I can open whether you're slumbering alongside
or gallivanting in foreign provinces
inhale deep the imagery
and relive your articulating smile
and all the endeavors endured
to rebirth it on your lips

Coda

amidst this flesh that strangers name
indwells the purpose to bring forth
the upturned curl and parted lips
that soothes the fire in my chest
and brings you back to my embrace,
no passing time nor distant road
can supplant the memory
that rebirths our touches hence
and leaves my heartbeat warm and full
as if worlds 'round would fade to dust