New York City poet Jahnilli Akbar features at Sedona Poetry Slam on Dec. 3

Sedona’s Studio Live hosts a poetry slam Saturday, Dec. 3, starting at 7:30 p.m. featuring New York City poet Jahnilli Akbar.

All poets are welcome to compete for the $75 grand prize.

The slam will the first of the 2011-12 season, expected to be more moving, more energetic and more intense because this year, poets will be competing for a slot in Sedona’s first National Poetry Slam Team.

After four years of collaborating with the Flagstaff and Phoenix metro area poetry slam scenes, the Sedona scene has developed the reputation and strength to muster its own team to send to the 2012 National Poetry Slam in Charlotte, N.C., in August. The eventual four-poet team will share the stage with 300 of the top poets in the United States, Canada and Europe, pouring out their words in a weeklong explosion of expression.

Sedona’s Studio Live hosts a poetry slam Saturday, Dec. 3,
starting at 7:30 p.m. featuring New York City poet Jahnilli Akbar.

Jahnilli Akbar

Jahnilli Akbar is a 22-year-old poet and activist, born in Chicago and raised in northern Mississippi. Currently he splits his time between Harlem and Brooklyn, N.Y.

Akbar’s poetry is best defined as an artistic mesh of alternative black, Semitic and queer life in America.

Akbar won the 2010 Rookie of the Year award at the Wade-Lewis Invitational, the second largest colligate slam in the country with more than 100 participants, held at the State University of New York at New Paltz.

Akbar is also the recipient of the 2011 Fresh Fruit Festival Queer Poet of the Year Award. He is a known face on the underground New York City art scene, as part of a movement called the Bushwick Renaissance, and as a member of Ground- Floor Collective, a leftist, African diaspora-based, predominately lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer group of artists. The Ground-Floor Collective, the Brecht Forum & Malcolm X Grassroots Movement curates the annual Black August art show, a fundraiser for political prisoners abroad.

Many stages, venues and spaces have hosted Akbar’s poetry, including Nuyorican Poets’ Café, Bowery Poetry Club, Louder Arts, NYC Intangible Poetry Slam, SUNY New Paltz and the Brooklyn Museum, all in New York, the Seattle Poetry Slam, Chicago’s Mental Graffiti Slam and Wordplay Chicago.

In early November, Akbar published his first book, “Chronicles of a Contemporary Alternative American Negro,” and headed out on tour.

To compete in the slam, poets need at least three original poems, each three minutes long or shorter. No props, costumes or musical accompaniment are permitted. All types of poetry are welcome.

Photo by Harley Deuce

The Dec. 3 slam will be hosted by Sedona poet Christopher Fox
Graham, who represented Northern Arizona on the Flagstaff
team at five National Poetry Slams between 2001 and 2010.

The Dec. 3 slam will be hosted by Sedona poet Christopher Fox Graham, who represented Northern Arizona on the Flagstaff team at five National Poetry Slams between 2001 and 2010.

Sedona National Poetry Slam Team

Competing poets earn points with each Sedona Poetry Slam performance between Dec. 3 and Saturday, May 5. Future slams will take place on Saturdays, Jan. 7, Feb. 18, March 10, April 7 and May 5. Every poet earns 1 point for performing or hosting and 1/2 point for calibrating. First place earns 3 additional points, second place earns 2 and third place earns 1.

Based on points, the top 12 poets in May are eligible to compete for the four slots on the Sedona Poetry Slam Team, which will represent the community and Studio Live at the 2012 National Poetry Slam in Charlotte, N.C.

What is Poetry Slam?

Founded in Chicago in 1984, poetry slam is a competitive artistic sport. Poetry slams are judged by five randomly chosen members of the audience who assign numerical value to individual poets’ contents and performances.

Poetry slam has become an international artistic sport, with more than 100 major poetry slams in the United States, Canada, Australia and Western Europe.

Tickets are $7 in advance and $12 the day of the event, available at Golden Word Books and Music, 3150 W. SR 89A, and online at studiolivesedona.com.

Studio Live is located at 215 Coffee Pot Drive, West Sedona.
For more information, call (928) 282-2688 or visit http://studiolivesedona.com.

poets mourn the loss of beautiful David Alan Blair

Blair performs "Behind the Garage" at TEDxDetroit

David Blair
Sept. 19, 1967 -- July 23, 2011

David Alan Blair “Blair”, age 43, born Sept. 19, 1967, passed away Saturday, July 23. David grew up in Newton, N.J., but came to call Detroit his adopted home. He is the son of Hildegard Blair and Herbert Blair.

Blair was an award-winning, multi-faceted artist: poet, singer-songwriter, writer, performer, musician, community activist and teacher. In the words of Metro Times journalist Melissa Giannini, “Blair focused his work on the hope that rises from the ashes of despair.”

A 2010 Callaloo Fellow and a National Poetry Slam Champion, his first book of poetry, Moonwalking, was recently released by Penmanship Books. Blair, as a solo artist, and with The Urban Folk Collective, self-released more than seven records in the last ten years. His most recent album, The Line, with his band The Boyfriends, was released in 2010 on Repeatable Silence Records.

Throughout his life, Blair performed at venues, large and small, across the nation and around the world. He was nominated for seven Detroit Music Awards, including a 2007 nod for Outstanding Acoustic Artist. He was named Real Detroit Weekly Readers Poll’s Best Solo Artist and The Metro Times Best Urban Folk Poet. In 2007, he won the Seattle-based BENT Writing Institute Mentor Award.

Blair performing "Little Richard Penniman Tells It Like It T-I-S" on the steps of the Motown Museum - Detroit Shot By Matt Wisotsky Edited By Jeff Cenkner

As well as being the recipient of numerous awards, he taught classes and lectured on poetry and music in Detroit Public Schools, The Ruth Ellis Center, Hannan House Senior Center, the YMCA of Detroit, and at various universities, colleges and high schools across the country.

Blair has friends and fans on almost every continent. He will be greatly missed by the loved ones he left all too early. He is preceded in death by his father, Herbert Blair. He is survived by his mother, Hildegard (Smith), siblings Herbert Blair (who resides in Pennsylvania), Tony Blair (New Jersey), Walter Blair (Florida), Joy Blair Swinson (New Hampshire) and many nieces, nephews, cousins, aunts and uncles.

And every raindrop falling from the sky

is like a tribute to the blue skies following behind,

And every raindrop falling to the sea

is like a testament to a new life that will come to be.

~Blair

(from the song “Every Raindrop”)

The David Blair Memorial Fund has been set up to help defray the costs of his memorial service. Donate here. Any funds raised beyond these immediate expenses will be used to create a fund in his honor for Detroit artists in need of healthcare. More information on David Blair’s memorial can be found at www.dblair.org.

Blair performs "My name is Karl" at Seattle Poetry Slam

I met Blair in Detroit when I, Josh Fleming, david f. escobedo, and Keith Bruecker were on the Save the Male Tour in 2001. He was awesome host, a sweetheart, and an all-around good man. To me, Detroit has always felt like a warm city due to Blair and his crew.

I returned his hospitality a few years later when Blair and his band, Blair and the Boyfriends, came through Flagstaff and Sedona in 2009, performing at FlagSlam at The Mad Italian. I can still remember him across the table with me and his band eating pizza at The Hideaway in Sedona. He had a great laugh and such positivity in the air around him.


Blair performs "Detroit"

Do him one last honor and watch him perform one his poems.

He will be missed.

Fa Una Canzone
Fa una canzone senza note nere
se mai bramasti la mia grazia havere.
Falla d'un tuonó ch'invita al dormire,
dolcemente, dolcemente facendo la finire.

(Sing me a Song

Write a song with no black notes

if you ever wanted my favor.

Write it so that it will bring me to sleep,

make it end sweetly, sweetly.)

Recording: Seven Years of Solitude

Seven Years of Solitude by FoxThePoet

Seven Years of Solitude
First published Thursday, Dec. 31, 2009, 9 a.m.

Seven years of solitude
one-night stands
and last names lost to the wind
I wrote them in chronological order
carved their names in the sand
rewrote our mythologies
into my own fictions
to win 10s from strangers who preferred verses
rather than the cut and dry facts of thrusting hips
and white lies to strip cotton from our skins
before clothing ourselves in dawn-lit shame
of till-we-meet-agains

I found her literally in my own back yard
spreading dandelions along her path
on highways and backcountry roads
from the tundra to Sonora
fallen into disuse by travelers —
save Kerouac scholars

she called herself a hobo,
always homeward bound
but yet to find a doorstep to call her own
she came to kiss the red from the rocks
paint her lips with this Martian dust
swirl pirouettes in the vortices
verify that stars here match home
and chase down crash-landed aliens
looking for a one-way trip home to Perseus

she broke me open like an egg
scrambled my contents with her garlic smile
smothered in maple leaf syrup
and salted to taste

she coaxed herself inside
to better hear the word
by smiths more crafted than me
pressed skin to skin
and melted my insides into cheddar
smothered the sheets
in her unrepentant smiles

she is joy
unpasteurized, caffeine-free, antioxidant-rich
joy
if it could drip from its source
sculpt itself into flesh and skin and bones
camber its soft exterior into curves
tender to trepid fingertips
hesitant to brush capsulated ebullience
lest it evanesce into vapor
like the morning fog
she zipped herself up behind a smile
radiant as auroras
to stay warm in the Yukon

we knew from the first kiss
the impending expiration date
I could only hold her so long
before wanderlust reignited her blood
pumped visions of highway sunsets into her aorta
pulled her sticky sunrise from my bed
I held tightly to dreams
that I would foresee us waking unshared unemptied
in the decades to come
but behind shuttered eyes
one loses the path of footsteps
roads meander as they must
not as we desire
and mountains have yet to yield to men

we were doomed to end
from the first morning we shared

each time we pressed hips and lips

I tried to capture the details
with scientific precision
to reconstruct the crime scene of her illegal emigration
from the homeland I built

she could have packed and parted a thousand times
without a second thought
or smile in a stranger's rearview
after her outstretched thumb purchased passage
yet I found her bedecked in my socks
or shirts or shorts and boxers after a time

I would have shed my skin to keep her warm
if it would have delayed her departure
a few hours more

she left me thrice:
to smell the stories wafting on Diné desert
see tors resistant to harassing winds —
play in a park where symbols of peace
were even written on the stones —
pioneer the plateau seared asunder
by patient waters that still run wild
too oblivious to laugh at our cages
knowing that they too will one day fall
Ozymandias could not conquer the sands
Hoover cannot break the canyon's will
though the crest once offered us a view
down to the moonlit sea
all endeavors come to an end
despite the glory
of their lofty dedications

each time, the gravity of our weight
pulled orbits back to the same ellipse
we shared atmospheres
and now with her light years across the plain
it's harder to breathe the air
before I knew her grace

in the winter nights
with the rest of the house bursting with life
lovers pressing tender touches
uncaring of audiences
friends rehashing old wounds reopened
musicians repeating tunes remembered by fingertips alone
I long for her pride
I languish for the smell of her with days trapped in hair
I yearn for the exhilaration of her tender brilliance
dropping falling stars into my exosphere
to scar the surface
leaving us again in the naked ecstasy
when the world faded away
leaving us alone with our uninhibited vices

the nights seem colder
and my limbs never warm enough to sleep through the night
awake with dreams unremembered
each one leaves a passport of her absence
the way she alone could seem to fill the bed with her laughter
as I left her in the mornings

our last day
remains wickedly vivid
how I longed to break my fingers and toes
to render my hands unable to labor
feet unable to leave her
knowing that as the door closed
when I next returned
she'd not greet me with outstretched arms
and leopardic leaps to pin me beneath her passions

I couldn’t have loved her better
goodbye was always on our lips
but when the last one came
it broke me down the middle

in the center of my city
tourists who came for millennial stones unbroken
saw us cleave together our last moments
and for the first time, she shed tears
broke open her dam
to cleave the street beneath us in two
in a way only the canyons know
the red rocks above trembled in dread
conjuring that winds and creeks had taken their toll
but she, unleashed, could finally break them into red sand
washing them like blood into the seas

there, at a crossroads I could recreate from memory
she said I would not cross the road with her
I was unable to follow
could not take her trek homeward bound
because I had never been
she carried my heart across the asphalt lanes
tied up in her pack
beneath snacks for the road
betwixt books and rolled socks
she carried it in secret
which I knew as she walked away from me
along a stretch of road
that seemed to widen for miles
until I lost her behind what could have been her next ride
or mere passersby
stained with her goodbyes
I watched until she was vapor and wind
red hat and pack
and then a mirage
as if she never was
but the hollow in my chest
beat her empty echoes with thumps in rhythm to her wandering footsteps
I send out platoons of foxes to find her
seek her out even in cities unknown to their habits
hoping their spying slyness
can catch her eye

now I seek out hitchhikers
the way addicts itch for a fix
I want to ask if they've seen her
if I can glean some knowledge of her whereabouts
and if they haven't yet
if they would pass on a message in my absence:

when the first winter breeze
blows in from the north
I will strip naked wherever I am
in the midst of Times Square,
the hollow of empty woods
or in my own living room
let her cold kisses caress all my sharp curves
feel her twirl around all my edges
inhale her joy so deeply
the atmosphere in my lungs turn to ice
all my pores will rise into goosebumps
to return her ten-thousand kisses
send all my silent words northward to find her
along whatever road she finds herself
wrap the embrace of breath around her
so she feels my arms again
even if just once more
even if just in dreams
even if she never knows

Recording: Somewhere Between Midnights and the Dawn

Somewhere Between Midnights and the Dawn by FoxThePoet

Somewhere Between Midnights and the Dawn
First published Thursday, Jan. 28, 2010, 1:55 a.m.

Somewhere between midnights and the dawn,
in the shadows of dreams
old lovers slink into the caverns of my mind
for one-way trips through memories
reminding skin of its old acrobatics
through daylight repetitions
they come as if to see a dying friend
say final words, then bid adieu
and slip out before sunrise

after their emigrations
but before daybreak shutters open my eyes
I find you there, pressing palms to palms
as if you had always remained alongside watching
like an unnoticed scarf
keeping warm my throat to speak words
only you and I know in secret
from then until dawn
I find you have taken all the heroines' places
usurped the leads' roles
as if they were your prequels
just understudies filling seats
while waiting for the star player who was stuck in traffic

there, behind corneas, in the cathedral concavity
we rise upon the stage to play parts
in the fictions that dreams explore
your embrace is no longer forgotten
but repeated karmically as I slouch toward a nirvana
that will wake me at dawn
to the world of ice and steel and lies
with you, I would rather repeat my sins indefinitely
curse off enlightenment for a Bodhisattva
stay entranced for years horizontal and convalescent
ignoring flesh for ether
in a place where our bodies still match puzzle-perfectly
where the world is beholden to dreamers' whims
and your departure is remembered only as theory
I would stay unconscious beneath covers
until starvation or paramedics would extricate me
but the day is a persistent kidnapper
pulling me too soon from the visions of you

with our distance,
you are a disembodied voice
sound waves from a pocket toy
that rings to declare your impending,
leaving me afterward with the longing
to disassemble your components
into 1s and 0s,
transmit you through fiber optics and stationary satellites
and reform you in my living room,

but when the midnights come
and I climb beneath satin sheets
only brevity and steady breathing hinder your return
there, where all the best parts of me
try to remember all the parts of you,
you return unbroken, renewed
to bring me back to you,
the embodiment of joy
who once wore a girl's skin
and shared my arms

when all the world is only imaginary
I yearn for the moments I still have there
ache to make the dreams last longer each time
to keep your absence from its profound loneliness
when dawn wakes me to your vacancy
but the night offers another chance
even if only in my own fictions
to bring you back where you belong

"Enraptured" by Randy Warren

Enraptured
By Randy Warren

It seems for most my life,
we’ve been waiting for the day.
The day everything changes,
and all the bad things go away.

We had Harmonic Convergence.
Millennium came and went.
We watched for love’s emergence,
but those dates, made not a dent.

And now with 2012 a-looming,
all of us are now assuming
that we soon will go a-zooming
to our final fate.

But I for one am truly hoping
that we all can stop our moping
and begin our fruitful groping
for another date:

The Rapture.

For those of you who aren’t aware,
the Rapture is that last day where
the dead will rise up from their graves
and all good Christians will be saved!

Their bodies will evaporate,
their mortals souls will elevate.
The trumpets sound,
and all around ... there’ll be no Christians to be found.

And what becomes of all the rest?
Those poor souls who just “did their best”,
and spent their Sundays sleeping in,
and actually enjoyed their sin?

Well, first we’ll form the cleaning crews
collecting jewelry, clothes and shoes,
and other things, too much to mention,
the Christians dropped in their ascension.

And then there’ll be a global pause,
a massive dropping of the jaws,
as all us sinners comprehend
that what for some has been the end
for us is only the beginning
of a Golden Age of Sinning!

A cheer will sound around the Earth,
to herald humankind’s rebirth!

We’ll walk buck-naked down the street!
Have intercourse with those we meet!
We’ll do hard drugs in public spaces,
sloppy grins upon our faces!

We’ll never go to work again!
If China wants to win, it can!
Economy, esch-monomy,
we’ll now have our autonomy!

A new world springs up overnight
where we’ll just have no need to fight.
We’ll finally have our world peace
once everybody gets a piece!

A fun and happy global nation
with no need for masturbation.
Though that action will continue,
but for show, in public venues!

Folks will feel good all the time!
They’ll give up on the social climb.
With no one left to judge our actions,
life will be pure satisfaction!

Money will just be green paper.
Credit cards become pan scrapers.

Ecstasy will be the norm,
As we expand to our true form!

... and yes, one day, far down the line
there will from heaven come a chime
as Christ himself descends upon us
to lay his massive trip upon us.

Hopefully we’ll make him see
that all throughout eternity
all of God’s creatures, great and small
just want to smile, and have a ball!

And even though we only prayed
on accidents while getting laid,
or trying to help our sports team win,
perhaps He’ll see that all our sin
was just us trying to be God too,
and act like God appeared to do

by being all things, dark and light.
Keeping the peace...helping the fight.
Robbing one man to pay another.
Hating Mom...and loving Mother.

We’ll ask Christ, can we take the blame,
when his own Dad made up the game?
And set up rules in contradiction
to our human predilections?

How could we expect to win
when God made us to lust for sin?

Perhaps then Christ will see our side
and come to Earth where He’ll reside
and live amongst us as an equal
and help us write the bible’s sequel!

“The Bible Two – The Fun Begins!!!”
Where it’s all good, and no one sins,

and everything is all okay,
and everybody gets their way,
and every day is Saturday.
and everybody, straight or gay

just laughs and sings and plays all day,
and never once
bothers to pray.

Because it’s all just really good,
and everyone feels like they should
and Paradise is here and now
and no one ever wonders how.

So yes, I’m waiting for the day
when Rapture takes them all away.
Until then, I’ll just watch the sky
and listen for the trumpet’s cry

And hope that when that day does dawn,
and we can finally get it on,
that one commandment we employ:
“Thou shalt always, be in Joy”

Copyright 2010 © Randy Warren

According to his bio, Randy Warren is an ascended master of the material illusion. He has come to Earth to assist in smoothing the transition into the new age. While here, he enjoys many forms of expression, including poetry. Feel free to contact him and offer him money for his myriad talents.

"T.S. Eliot's Lost Hip Hop Poem" by Jeremy Richards

T.S. Eliot's Lost Hip Hop Poem
By Jeremy Richards

Let us roll then, you and I,
the evening stretched out against the sky
like a punk ass I laid out with my phat rhymes.

The eternal footman is no one to fuck with.
Alas, he shall bring the ruckus.

You think that you can step
to this, and Lo, I hear your steps like Lazarus
echoing through my soul.

Bring the bass.

Straight out of Missouri,
Harvard University in your face.
I've got ladies in waiting all over
the place, singing each to each;
do I dare eat a peach?

You are damn right I’ll each a peach.
Who shall stop me, with my Prufrock hip hop
non-stop, clippity clop, clippity clop
I hear the horses carrying the wassailers,
I'm ready to impale their ears with my rhymes
rolling off of my parched tongue
the way trousers roll off my ankles.

I get it done better than John Donne.
Pound for pound, like Ezra Pound,
no other literati around can confound
the post-Victorian quickness I bring
to the microphone, though I shall die alone.

But not before I rock the house.
Watch me douse you in my eternal flames
of a freaky-ass style, my crew has the flow
with European tangent, Kto vahsh otsiets saychoss--
the Russian for Who's your daddy now.

For I will tell you.
That I have scuttled across the floors of ancient clubs,
and yea, knowing that you may never return,
I will tell you this:
That I have been over to a friend's house
for dinner, and lo, the food was not any good.

The macaroni, soggy. The peas, mushy.
And the chicken tasted of wood,
like the wooden coffin I've created for myself;
if this is going to be that kind of party
I will stuff my desire in the mashed potatoes.
But I tell no lie, I will show you fear
in a handful of hip hop,

making your body rock, your soul shudder,
your utter disbelief when the old school,
the ancient school, returns
from dusty book covers and scorned lovers
to reign again on the open poetry mic.
Bring the pathos! Bring the pathos!
You wannabe MCs just can't stop...

...'till human voices wake us,
and we back the fuck up

into eternity.

Copyright © Jeremy Richards

Jeremy Richards is a writer, actor, and radio host living in Seattle. His work appears widely, including in “The Spoken Word Revolution Redux,” The Poetry Foundation, McSweeney's, The Morning News, Rattle, and on National Public Radio's “Morning Edition” and “All Things Considered.”

In tours and competitions, Richards was a two-time member of Seattle's National Poetry Slam team, a three-time winner of the Bumbershoot Poetry Slam and was invited to perform on HBO's Def Poetry.

His new collection, “An Inaccurate Theory of Everything,” was recently released from Destructible Heart Press.

Jeremy Richards' website
Jeremy Richards' Livejounral

"Unsolicited Advice to Adolescent Girls with Crooked Teeth and Pink Hair" by Jeanann Verlee

Unsolicited Advice to Adolescent Girls with Crooked Teeth and Pink Hair
By Jeanann Verlee

When your mother hits you, do not strike back.
When the boys call asking your cup size, say A, hang up.
When he says you gave him blue balls, say you’re welcome.
When a girl with thick black curls who smells like bubble gum stops you in a stairwell to ask if you’re a boy, explain that you keep your hair short so she won’t have anything to grab when you head-butt her.
Then head-butt her.
When a guidance counselor teases you for handed-down jeans, do not turn red.
When you have sex for the second time and there is no condom, do not convince yourself that screwing between layers of underwear will soak up the semen.
When your geometry teacher posts a banner reading: “Learn math or go home and learn how to be a Momma,” do not take your first feminist stand by leaving the classroom.
When the boy you have a crush on is sent to detention, go home.
When your mother hits you, do not strike back.
When the boy with the blue mohawk swallows your heart and opens his wrists, hide the knives, bleach the bathtub, pour out the vodka. Every time.
When the skinhead girls jump you in a bathroom stall, swing, curse, kick, do not turn red.
When a boy you think you love delivers the first black eye, use a screw driver, a beer bottle, your two good hands.
When your father locks the door, break the window.
When a college professor writes you poetry and whispers about your tight little ass, do not take it as a compliment, do not wait, call the Dean, call his wife.
When a boy with good manners and a thirst for Budweiser proposes, say no.
When your mother hits you, do not strike back.
When the boys tell you how good you smell, do not doubt them, do not turn red.
When your brother tells you he is gay, pretend you already know.
When the girl on the subway curses you because your T-shirt reads: “I fucked your boyfriend,” assure her that it is not true.
When your dog pees the rug, kiss her, apologize for being late.
When he refuses to stay the night because you live in Jersey City, do not move.
When he refuses to stay the night because you live in Harlem, do not move.
When he refuses to stay the night because your air conditioner is broken, leave him.
When he refuses to keep a toothbrush at your apartment, leave him.
When you find the toothbrush you keep at his apartment hidden in the closet, leave him.
Do not regret this.
Do not turn red.
When your mother hits you, do not strike back.

Copyright © Jeanann Verlee

I met Jeanann Verlee for the first time this year at the 2010 National Poetry Slam in St. Paul, Minn. I didn't speak with her much, but I saw her before this poem with the NYC-louderARTS Team in a black box theatre during the second bout on the first night. Most awesome poem.

Jeanann Verlee is an author, performance poet, editor, activist, and former punk rocker who collects tattoos and winks at boys. Her work has been published and is forthcoming in a variety of journals, including The New York Quarterly, FRiGG, PANK, decomP, Danse Macabre, and The Legendary, among others. Her poems have also been included in various anthologies such as “Not A Muse: The Inner Lives of Women” and “His Rib: Poems Stories and Essays by Her.” Verlee’s first full-length book of poems, Racing Hummingbirds (Write Bloody Publishing, 2010), earned the Independent Publisher Book Award Silver Medal in Poetry.

She has represented New York City three times at the National Poetry Slam under two of the most highly-regarded poetry performance series in the nation: Urbana Poetry Slam and The louderARTS Project. Verlee was the highest-scoring individual poet at the 2008 National Poetry Slam Finals, was the 2009 NYC-Urbana iWPS Champion, and represented NYC-louderARTS at the 2010 Women of the World Poetry Slam. She co-curates the Urbana Poetry Slam reading series at the Bowery Poetry Club and serves as writing and performance coach for this three-time NPS Championship venue. She has performed and facilitated workshops at schools, theatres, bookstores, dive bars and poetry venues across North America.

Educated in theatre performance and creative writing, Verlee was co-author and performing member of national touring company, The Vortex: Conflict, Power, and Choice!, has been commissioned by universities for a number of guerrilla theatre events spotlighting domestic violence under MSCD’s Theatre for Social Change, and was a charter member of New York City’s annual Spoken Word Almanac Project. A fan of letter-writing campaigns and constructing protest signs, Verlee is also an ardent animal rights and humanitarian activist who has organized and participated in numerous social actions.

Her first poem was drafted in pencil on the inside cover of a collection of Grimm’s Fairy Tales at the age of 7. She won her first writing contest for a short story at the age of 11 and in the same year became the youngest recipient of Parade Magazine’s Young American Ambassadors prize for an essay contest. Hoping to echo S.E. Hinton’s young author milestone, Verlee was determined to write a novel by the age of 16. With three drafts completed by the autumn of her 15th year, she almost reached her goal. Instead, however, found herself blindsided by the insurmountable distraction of tattooed boys, the perpetual chore of dying her mohawk pink, and a life-altering diagnosis of bipolar disorder. A hardcopy of the unfinished manuscript remains in a fireproof safe in her studio apartment.

She lives in New York City with her best pal (a rescue pup named Callisto) and a pair of origami lovebirds. She believes in you.

"Immigrants" an SB 1070 satire poem by Randy Warren

"Immgrants"
By Randy Warren
performed at the Sedona Poetry Slam in June

The other day, right here in Arizona,
I made a point for America.

I knocked on the door of the Gonzalez family.
(I had to wait until 6, because they all work)
When the door opened, I unfurled my proclamation.

It spoke of God, and Country, and Destiny,
and a bunch of other shit that sounds good,
and feels good to say.

I indicated to the Gonzalezes
the fresh American flag
I had just planted in their lawn.

A brand-new flag,
with 53 bright and shining stars.

Star 51 stood for Puerto Rico, of course.
Star 52, for the pending statehood of Halliburtistan.
And star 53, I explained to the Gonzalezes,
represented the very land on which we stood.
The recently annexed, half-acre state
of South Arizona.

Well, they immediately became angry,
(as their kind are prone to do),
but I was prepared.

I explained to them,
as patiently as I could,
that God works in ways mysterious to Man,
even to the white man. It’s true.

I explained how God’s plan
is invisible to us,
and like all things invisible
it can only be seen when it touches things,
moves things.

Like how Wonder Woman’s jet
can only be detected
when you see the birds dodge out of the way.

Well, the Gonzalezes were unfamiliar with Wonder Woman,
but I had made my point:

Because I was there to take their land,
it must mean that God sent me.
Otherwise...how did I get there?

I stumped’em with that one.

Right on cue the van pulled up
to take them all home to Mexico
where they could be with their families.

Well for some reason that set them off.
The father starts yelling,
saying we’d better get off his property.

His property.

It’s that sense of entitlement,
that really gets to me.

I explained to him,
in the most simple terms I could,
that this was not his property,
and that he and his family were squatting on government land.

He began to get violent,
(another weakness of his people),
and we were forced to Tase him.

This upset his wife and children,
who became agitated,
and we were forced to tase them.

They were zip-tied together and loaded onto the truck.

And yes it was messy,
and I always hope things will go so much smoother.

But you just can’t teach,
those who refuse to learn.

That’s why God invented the Taser.

I must say,
it boggles the mind,
that these people are so reluctant to go back home.

I mean, if Mexico is really so bad,
how come so many people vacation there?

I pray on that, I do,
and even God seems to have no answer.

Even God, has no answer.

As for the Gonzalezes, they are fine.

Though they were jailed for trespassing and resisting arrest,
we got them out on a work-release program.

And God, in his infinite love and wisdom,
has made the sweetest lemonade,
from this sour mess.

The Gonzalez family,
you will be happy to hear,
is now the official landscaping team,
of the great state,
of South Arizona.

As federal prisoners they get paid a few dollars each day,
which from a public-funds standpoint is recession-friendly.

And they get to feel the pride of a hard day’s work,
a pride that I hope they pass on to their children.

So once again, God’s will is manifest
with a minimum of violence.
Praise the Lord.

You know,
some nights I sit out on my patio,
and I watch the sun set over this great nation.

I think of how our european ancestors struggled
to leave their homelands,
and come to this new frontier,
in hopes of finding joy, and freedom, and prosperity.

How they left everything behind
with nothing but a dream.
The American Dream.

And when I think,

of all our people sacrificed
to come to this great land,
well, it just turns my stomach,
to think that we could lose it all
to some damned immigrants.

Thank you,
and praise God.

Copyright 2010 © Randy Warren

According to his bio, Randy Warren is an ascended master of the material illusion. He has come to Earth to assist in smoothing the transition into the new age. While here, he enjoys many forms of expression, including poetry. Feel free to contact him and offer him money for his myriad talents.

"A Simple Poem" by Emanuel Xavier

A Simple Poem
By Emanuel Xavier
from "Bullets & Butterflies: queer spoken word poetry"

I want you to continue writing
because I will not always be around

With lips that will never touch mine
read your poems out loud
so that the words are left engraved on the wall
make me feel your voice rush through me
like a breeze from Oyá

I want to hear about Puerto Rico
about sisters with names like La Bruja
about educating youth about AIDS
I want to hear about life in the Boogie Down Bronx
surviving on the Down Low
don't leave out stories about men
you have loved and still love

I want you to write poems that you will never read
press hard on the paper so that the ink runs deep
hold the pen tight so that you control the details
prove to me that I inspire you
reveal yourself between the lines
hear my praise with each flicker of the candle
Write a poem for me

Do not choose a fresh page from a brand new journal
use paper that has been crumbled and tossed
thrown out by a spineless father only to be recycled
Save a tree for future poets to write under

Rewrite me into someone more attractive
stronger than life has made me
make me tough and sexy, aggressive like a tiger
stain the pages with cum, lube, the arousal you find
at the sight of naked boys, draw me sketches
bring the words to life with images
make me a man with this poem

Read it in front of the audience
with hidden messages just for me
be real and tell me why
I am only worth a haiku

Your epics are meant for others
I already know,
use red ink to match the blood from these wounds
with brutal honesty
let me die with your last sentence

Then resurrect me with rhyme
read from your gut
let me hear the wisdom of mi abuelo in your voice
let me find my father in you
remind me of all the men that left me broken promises

In your eyes I want to see a poem
when you bring me to tears
with painful memories
buried beneath your thick skin

Between teeth gapped like divas,
I want to hear quotes from books
I never read

Make me believe you want to be a poet

Make my heart break,
tell me why you could never love me
with just a few words
leave me lost and insecure
feel the admiration of others
bask in their desire
forget that I am there

Pound your fists in the air with passion
go off about politics, poverty, machismo and hate
scream poems that don't give a fuck
about traditions, slamming or scores
save your whispers for those who make love to you

Write a poem for me that makes me want to puff a joint

A poem that loses control
unafraid to be vulnerable
for once just make me believe
it is all worth letting go
when the smoke clears
I will understand
the reason
I am just another face
in the crowd

I want you to continue writing
because I will not always be around

Copyright © Emanuel Xavier

Emanuel Xavier is an American poet, spoken word artist, author, editor, literary events curator, and actor born and raised in the Bushwick area of Brooklyn, N.Y. He is a significant voice to emerge from the Nuyorican poetry movement using political, sexual and religious themes throughout his work. His background is Puerto Rican and Ecuadorian.

He self-published his debut poetry collection, Pier Queen, in the fall of 1997 through his own independent publishing house, Pier Queen Productions.

Signature poems such as "Bushwick Bohemia," "Deliverance," "Every Latino," "Nueva York" and "Tradiciones" helped him gain notoriety in New York City's underground arts scene.

In 1998, with the support of Willi Ninja and spoken word poetry icon Bob Holman, Xavier founded the House of Xavier and created the annual Glam Slam competition. Held once a year, first at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe and then at Bowery Poetry Club, the poetry slam competition featured four open categories such as Best Erotic Poem in Sexy Underwear or Lingerie.

Winners of each category received a trophy and went on to compete for the Grand Prize title of Glam Slam Champion. The event aspired to bring together poetry slams and ball culture in a unique and vibrant contribution to the downtown arts scene.

In 2008, after a decade of staging the annual House of Xavier's Glam Slam spoken word poetry competition in NYC, he passed the torch over to Basque/Spanish performance poet, Ernesto Sarezale, who introduced the event to a London audience at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern in the United Kingdom.

The poetry collection "Americano," his first official publication, was released by Suspect Thoughts Press in 2002 and helped establish Xavier as a figure in the people of color literary arts movement with signature poems such as "Children of Magdalene", "Nearly God" and the title poem.

In 2005, Suspect Thoughts Press published "Bullets & Butterflies: queer spoken word poetry," a collection Xavier edited. The anthology featured the work of 13 openly queer spoken word artists and new work by the editor himself including: "Legendary", "Outside" and "A Simple Poem." He has been featured on television on Russell Simmons Presents Def Poetry on HBO, In The Life on PBS and hosted several editions of Out At The Center on Manhattan Neighborhood Network. He also appears in the Wolfgang Busch documentary "How Do I Look."

In 2005, he co-starred in his first acting role in the independent feature film, The Ski Trip. In 2008, he appeared in The Cult of Sincerity, which later aired on PBS. In 2008, an invitation-only online literary journal sponsored by U.N. Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization included him as a contributor to an international project. He was also invited to select finalists for Best Gay Erotica 2008.

In the fall of 2008, Floricanto Press published "Mariposas: A Modern Anthology of Queer Latino Poetry," a collection which he edited featuring the work of 17 fellow queer Latino poets. This would be one of the first books ever to gather the work of openly queer poets from the Latino community.

In 2009, his poem, "Urban Affection", was commissioned by a private collector of Walt Whitman memorabilia for the 190th birthday anniversary of Whitman.

In spring of 2009, Rebel Satori Press published a revised 10th anniversary edition of his semi-autobiographical novel, "Christ Like." The novel description is as follows: Mikey is a spirited but self-destructive survivor of sexual abuse, a gay Latino native New Yorker caught somewhere between Catholic guilt and club kid decadence looking to fit in as part of a family. Instead, Mikey delves into a demimonde of petty thieves, prostitutes, and pushers. Haunted by a father that Mikey has never met, a difficult childhood, recurring nightmares, the reality of death, and Christ, the story unfolds through the ’80’s and ’90’s following him on his journey through a fascinating world filled with Santeros, transsexuals and voguing queens.

Xavier has received the Marsha A. Gomez Cultural Heritage Award, a New York City Council Citation and is a 2008 World Pride Award recipient. In 2009, he was named one of the "25 Most Influential GLBT Latinos" by Mi Apogeo. He performs regularly throughout the United States as a spoken word artist and has also featured internationally in Buenos Aires, Argentina, Guayaquil, Ecuador, and Ghent, Belgium.

"Legendary- The Spoken Word Poetry of Emanuel Xavier", a spoken word/music collaboration with producer, El David, was released in the Winter of 2009/2010 featuring the bonus track, "Legendary (The E-Mix)." "Legendary (The Re-Mixes)" was released Spring 2010 by Hades Music on Masterbeats featuring remixes by Michael Hades, Tim Letteer, Lorant Duzgun, and El David.

If Jesus Were Gay & other poems was published by Rebel Satori Press in Spring 2010.

Emanuel Xavier's website

"Over and Over" by Michael R. Brown

"Over and Over"
By Michael R. Brown

An aging poet and teacher born in 1940,
who fought against Vietnam at home
and for civil rights in the cities,
have I increased my chances next life
of coming back as a holy man, a woman, a gazelle?

That is progress on this wheel—
although most of us are stuck in millennial rounds
as mud-carrying coolies, mastodon bait,
spinning mill spindle girls, charcoal makers,
fast food clerks notching paper crowns for spoiled kids.

Born in 1840 I took a day and a half to die at Shiloh,
parched, blind, baked in dry rough wool, basted in my blood.

In 1740, fevered on a foul ship in foreign waters,
driven by a cutting lash to climb high spars,
I lost my grip in a yaw and fell to the wooden deck,
smashing my skull like an egg.

In Bavaria in 1640 it took me two weeks to die from blood
poisoning when an oxcart crushed my leg
and animal shit entered my blood.

In 1540 a Cossack stomped me because he was drunk and I
was not.

In 1440 large black blood-filled globules burst the skin
of my underarms and groin.

In 1340 an Asian horseman took my head for scimitar practice.

In 1240 Christians trampled me in the road.

In 1140 a fever within a week of birth.

1040 at birth.

940 at birth.

840 at birth.

740 I can't remember.

640 I can't remember.

But you can't even remember that I lived.

I was a pitch blender in the Phoenician trade,
a blood stain under a pyramid block,
scattered bones in the earth of a Yangtze dam,
torn by sharks after a typhoon,
somebody's idea of dog food.

Once in a distant historical instant, I was lifted
on murmured prayers and adored, the precious future
of a group of cousins who valued their families as much as sunlight,
but that was only in a small out-of-the-way place
before what you call civilization.

Copyright © Michael R. Brown

I met Michael R. Brown when the Save The Male Tour visited Cambridge, Mass., for a feature at the Cantab Lounge. Our feature was on par, and the slam was average, but the open mic still ranks as one of the best open mics I have ever seen.

This poem was one that I remembered specifically and in 2008, as asked Brown for a copy to show my friend Nika Levikov because I couldn't find it in any of Brown's books. He e-mailed it to me.

I worked with him at the 2003 National Poetry Slam as bout manager to one of the bouts he hosted. Incidentally, that bout was where I met Delrica Andrews and "Granma Dave" Schein from the Baltimore National Poetry Slam Team, who are wholly awesome people.

Michael R. Brown has been called the "the Jerry Garcia of performance poetry" by WBUR/NPR, "ein Dichter und Weltenbummler" by Die Welt, and a "rascal-artist-angel-wonder .. .at the same time" by Paul Stokstad of "Poets at 8." Michael R. Brown has published his poetry, fiction, travel articles and columns in wide-ranging periodicals all over the world. His fourth book of poetry, "The Confidence Man," was published by Ragged Sky in 2006.

In May 2007, Brown and his partner Valerie Lawson moved to Robbinston in Down East Maine, the easternmost point in the USA, where they have been granted the editorial and publishing privileges for Off the Coast, a poetry journal founded by Arlene and George V. Van Deventer 14 years ago.

Brown has returned to teaching, now at Shead High School in Eastport. As a correspondent for the local paper, The Quoddy Tides, his beat is the Passamaquoddy reservation at Pleasant Point. He has also returned to the theater, acting in the Stage East production of It's a Wonderful Life and directing the Magnificent Liars Company in Mafia on Prozac.

Brown holds a Ph.D. in English and Education from the University of Michigan. His dissertation was a literary history of the poetry of the Harlem Renaissance directed by Robert Hayden. For 45 years he taught in high schools and universities from the South Side of Chicago to South Korea.

In 1999, he won the first Ronald J. Lettieri Award for Teaching Excellence at Mount Ida College. Brown was a finalist in the 1991 individual competition of the US National Poetry Slam.

In 1991 he held the first poetry slam in Stockholm, Sweden, and lectured on African American Literature at Stockholm University.

In 1992 he organized the US national slam, and he was on the Boston slam teams that won the US Championship in 1993 and finished third in 1995. In 1998 he won the 6th International Slam in Amsterdam. Brown won the open slam at the 2000 Provincetown Poetry Festival, and he was the hit of the 2001 Rockland Jazz and Blues Festival in New York. He has performed his poems from Jerusalem to Taipeh, Republic of China, and Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, to Key West, Fla. For 13 years he hosted the Boston poetry slam at the Cantab Lounge, Cambridge.

Brown was co-producer of The Culture of Peace, an international exhibit of art and poetry organized under the UN mandate for a decade of the Culture of Peace. This project has created an art and poetry exhibit and resulted in four exchanges of poets between Ireland and Massachusetts. He is general secretary of the Poetry Olympics, first held in Stockholm in 1998.

Brown's first published poem appeared in the first issue of Beyond Baroque (1969). Recently published poems have appeared in "Sensations, 100 Poets Against the War," and "Spoken Word Revolution Redux." Forthcoming will be poems in the Sacred Fools anthology "Legendary" and a biker anthology to be published by Archer Books in San Francisco. Brown conducts workshops in writing and performance. He has several times performed his poem "Chorus" as part of Beat Cafe, an original ballet choreographed by former Joffrey dancer Anthony Williams. He appeared in the documentary film SlamNation.

In the past five years he produced and directed shows by the Off-Broadway Poets and Dr. Brown's Traveling Poetry Show, an ensemble who perform their own poetry in theaters. His full-length play, The Duchess of York,was a finalist in the Cape Cod Playwrights' Competition.

"An Introduction," by Randy Warren

An Introduction
By Randy Warren
performed at the Sedona Poetry Slam in June

Well first to start it seems appropriate to let you know
that I was sent to help you all remember who you are.
I know to some of you I might begin to look familiar;
that’s because we all go back together very far.

The only difference that there is between us is
I can remember all this shit while your amnesia remains.
It’s not to say that I’m superior;
I simply made the choice to be the one
to help you out of your brains.

So right now, just sit back, and relax, and reflect,
and take a deep breath, let it out and do it again.
It’s me your old pal Randy, I just came back to help you all
and you can trust me ‘cause we’re all friends.

Now all you need to know about yourself, at least to start,
is that you all are basically alone in a dream.
And you can wake up any time you know,
it’s not that there’s some external factor,
some mind-control beam.

You just like it this way
with the balls all in play.
You like the sea of probabilities
with you as the “X”.

But let me tell you,
when you stop playing the victim
then you’re basically God,
and life is basically sex.

The first thing you gotta do,
is let go of being you.

You’re gonna be you anyway,
and this’ll give you more room to play.

‘Cause you’re basically a hologram,
a projection of I-Am-That-I-Am.

And when you let your human go,
then you will instantly start to
know, and grow, and flow, and show
yourself all that you need to know
so you can start to let it go
and feel good all the time, although
there will be times when you’ll say “no”
‘cause you’re addicted to the Show.
The up and down, the ebb and flow,
is all just food for your ego,
let it go, let it go, let it go,
let it go go go go

Go within and you will see that you create reality
by your perceptions and projections
you make it real.

And now the next step is for you to drop the act
and stop reacting to the stimulus
as if you’re a seal.

If there’s a God, then He’s an It, and It’s a They,
and They are Us,
no wonder we all think so much of ourselves.

The other side of that is we’re all really God,
we all forgot while we were occupied enjoying ourselves.

And now, it’s time for us
to drop all the bullshit and just be Awesome.

And I am here to see
the spinach in the teeth of your soul,
and help you floss’em.

So that’ll do it for now, my name is Randy,
like I said I came to help you all remember who you are.

If you have questions you can reach me via email,
or to contact me directly you can wish upon a star.

Before I leave I wanna leave you with something
that’ll help you feel better,
when you feel very bad.

A simple truth that I have tested time and time again,
it’s guaranteed to lift you up when you’re feeling sad.

(deep breath!)

If there’s a God then God is you and you are God
and there is no separation, just two names for the same.

So anything that happens,
must be what you want to happen,
otherwise how could it happen,
no one to blame.

So when you find yourself resisting the present,
lamenting and resenting what is lain at your door,
just take a moment to remember you are God
and as a god you have good taste,
you only choose what you adore.

And in this moment you have chosen
you are perfectly aligned with All That Is
all of the time, you know.

There is no other truth,
that is the way it is,
there is no other way,
there is no other truth to know.

So even in the shittiest of times
it doesn’t change the simple fact
that everything is always Perfection.

And if you see the world as shit,
it may occur to you
that maybe the problem’s
your shitty perception.

And if you want to live a life of joy and happiness
the first and only step
is just to let it all in.

And when you finally let the pain fall away,
all the joy will rush in,
and life will truly begin.
My name is Randy and I came here just to be the one
to tell you all the things that you all already know.

And now that I am here,
you just relax and have no fear,
it’s time to crack another beer
and enjoy the show!

Copyright 2010 © Randy Warren

According to his bio, Randy Warren is an ascended master of the material illusion. He has come to Earth to assist in smoothing the transition into the new age. While here, he enjoys many forms of expression, including poetry. Feel free to contact him and offer him money for his myriad talents.

Bill Hicks: A 30-30 rewrite poem, by Paulie Lipman

Bill Hicks: A 30-30 rewrite
by Paulie Lipman

Humorist Mark Twain said that
there is no humor in Heaven
Comedian Bill Hicks replied that Hell
will always have the best musicians

The only difference
between a comedian and a humorist
is that a comedian is more
damaged

Bill,
they
called you angry
You
were always in good company
Even Jesus
embraced rage's jagged blossom
as he evicted every thief squatting
in his father's house

Anger
is a gift
The cracked glass spark
that bursts in the chest of every great leader
doomed to the enlightenment that we
as humans, are capable of so much
more
but we run from every opportunity
to realize it
Love
is the fact that they never stop trying
to tell us

Laughter and Happiness
are two jilted lovers
at best

Bill
It's been 16 years
since Cancer's soft ravage
devoured your voice
Your mantle has grown dust
and your every heir apparent
knows only bitter,
cynical indifference mistaken for
righteous Anger
Love
for gullibility
I
counted myself among them
but there was no heart
to our hands
only dull, blustering thunder
inarticulate
and
too clumsy for incision
It tookyour sharp fingers
to slice through my sternum
and choke throttle my heart
back into lightning again
destructive
but illuminating
damaged
and hopeful

They call me
angry
I
am in good company

Copyright 2010 © Paulie Lipman

I have always enjoyed Paulie Lipman from Denver. He encapsulates the Denver scene, having been on six teams. I have slammed against him and seen him feature a few times.
His poem "Potential" brought me to tears at the National Poetry Slam this year in St. Paul, Minn. That goes far to say in that it is not a particularly emotionally heart-wrenching poem in an of itself, it was just a fucking good poem that touched me right then. That's good showmanship. Lipman is a great performer and a good-hearted poet, one whom I highly recommend seeing if he tours to your city.

Paulie Lipman has been at this spoken word thing for about six years. Lipman has been a part of six Denver National Slam Teams (including 2004's second-place team and 2006's National Poetry Slam champions)

Lipman has extensively toured the United States and a little Canada including many schools, from grade school to college and youth correctional facilities. He was recently published in the National Poetry Slam collection "High Desert Voices."

He also appears as the voice of Neal Cassady in the upcoming documentary “Neal Cassady: The Denver Years.” And, he can’t wait to meet you.

Pick up Paulie Lipman's new album, Inobservant at www.twistandshout.com

Read more: www.myspace.com/paulielipman

Mesa poet Lauren Perry headlines Sedona Summer Poetry Slam on Saturday, Aug. 28

The Sedona Summer Poetry Slam will explode at Studio Live at 7:30 p.m. Saturday, Aug. 28, 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 Lauren Perry, one of the Arizona’s best slam poets.

Perry is a wildcard poet, who hails from Elgin, Ill., but has made a nest in Phoenix. Performing on Mesa National Poetry Slam Team in 2006, 2009 and 2010, she is coming up from behind with tricks in her sleeve and sharp teeth in her smile. Not to be taken lightly, she’s been the Women of the World Poetry Slam representative twice, for Phoenix in 2009 and Mesa in 2010.

The lover and creator of ZombiErotica, this year was Perry’s crowning of Ms. Zombie Beauty Queen 2010 and she has been a returning favorite of the Phoenix Valentine’s erotic festivals.

She hopes to continue spreading the loving words that one does not have to play nice to leave a mark.

Unleashing a Tommy gun spray of fast-spoken bullets, “Monsters” is her first chapbook after releasing her debut CD “Running Backwards” in 2008 and “Horror Couture” in 2010. After eight years of rabbit feet and swearing like a sailor, Lauren Perry is brought to you be Lucky Vision in techno-color dreams.

All poets are welcome to compete in the slam.

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 five National Poetry Slams between 2001 and 2010. He has hosted and competed in poetry slams and open mics in Sedona since 2004.

Graham has performed in 40 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.

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 worldwide phenomena of poetry slam, visit www.poetryslam.com.

I won slam bingo at the 2010 National Poetry Slam finals

I won slam bingo with the Wile E. Coyote poem by St. Paul's Shane Holley, the second poet in the fourth round.

St. Paul wins 2010 National Poetry Slam, second year in a row

Host: Nazelah J. Jeffries is a talented and energetic performance poet, actress and vocalist based in Oakland, Calif. Born in Bamberg, S.C., nazelah had a love of performance from a very early age, taking her first dance lessons at the age of 4; at 5, she practiced for days in the mirror hoping to audition for the musical motion picture “Annie!”, only to be disappointed when the auditions never even came near her tiny town.

Nazelah discovered Poetry Slam in 1999 and began to compete, subsequently going to the National Poetry Slam Competition five times on various Bay Area teams. More recently, she and her husband, poet Dahled, produce the Oakland Poetry Slam & have coached Team Oakland to Nationals the last three years. Since 2000, she has been hosting many Bay Area spoken word events as well. She is a gifted emcee, and producers and performers alike are put at ease by her demeanor; she is currently working on two chapbooks, as well as a musical collaboration and a video project. Her love of hip-hop translates onto the stage.

- - - Round 1 - - -

Nuyorican: Jamal St. John, 27.4
Austin Neo Soul: Scott Frank, 25.9
Durham, N.C., four-poet group poem, 27.0
St. Paul: Six is Nine, 28.0

St. Paul leads 28.0 at the end of the first round
(2) Nuyorican, 27.4, -0.6
(3) Durham, 27.0, -1.0
(4) Austin Neo Soul, 25.9, -2.1

- - - Round 2 - - -

Durham, N.C., Dahsan, 26.2, 53.2
Nuyorican: Kenneth Arkind, 27.0, 54.4
St. Paul: Guante, 27.4, 55.4
Austin Neo Soul: duo, 25.9, 51.8

St. Paul leads 55.4 at the end of the second round
(2) Nuyorican, 54.4, -1.0
(3) Durham, 53.2, -2.2
(4) Austin Neo Soul, 51.8, -3.6

- - - Round 3 - - -

St. Paul: Sierra DeMulder, 27.0, 82.4
Durham, N.C., duo poem, 26.9, 80.1
Austin Neo Soul: Scott Frank, 26.3, 78.1
Nuyorican: Jarrod Singer, 27.1, 81.5

St. Paul leads 82.4 at the end of the third round
(2) Nuyorican, 81.5, -0.9
(3) Durham, 80.1, -2.3
(4) Austin Neo Soul, 78.1, -4.3

- - - Round 4 - - -

Austin Neo Soul: trio, 26.8, 104.9
St. Paul: Shane Hollen, 27.6, 110.0
Nuyorican: 27.1, 108.6
Durham, N.C., 27.7, 107.8

St. Paul wins with a 110.0
(2) Nuyorican, 108.6, -1.4
(3) Durham, 107.8, -2.2
(4) Austin Neo Soul, 104.9, -5.1

The championship team of Soap Boxing, St. Paul's Poetry Slam:
Khary J. (aka "6 is 9") is a playwright, teaching artist and poet who is glad to represent St Paul for the fourth time. He's proud of the poetry the Twin Cities is consistently producing, and hopes to remain a part of the scene in various ways in the future.

Kyle “Guante” Myhre has been Grand Slam champ of Saint Paul, Minneapolis and Madison, and was part of the 2009 National Poetry Slam champion Saint Paul team. As a rapper, he's a member of the Tru Ruts crew and has shared the stage with Talib Kweli, Sage Francis, Brother Ali, Zion I and many others. Guante is currently serving as arts coordinator of the Canvas, a Saint Paul teen arts center, and continues to lead workshops through the MN Spoken-Word Association. For more, see www.myspace.com/elguante or El Guante's blog.

Sierra DeMulder In addition to winning the 2009 National Poetry Slam with Saint Paul, Sierra DeMulder ranked 9th at the IWPS, 11th at WoWPS and coached Macalester College to Final Stage at CUPSI 2010. She was awarded Best Female Poet at CUPSI 2009 and in January 2010, her first full-length manuscript was published by Write Bloody Publishing.

Shane Hawley is a spoken word artist who dabbles in hip-hop and stand-up comedy. He is a four time member of the Minneapolis National Poetry Slam team, and a former Minneapolis Grand Slam champion. He has opened for national acts such as P.O.S, Dessa Darling, and Jeremy Messersmith. As a St. Paul native, he is eager to represent his city in his city at the 2010 National Poetry Slam.

Photos from MinnesotaMicrophone.com
Bios from www.Soap-Boxing.com

FlagSlam's bout tomorrow

Tomorrow, our bout is thus:

Seed 32, Mental Graffitti - Chicago, Ill., rank 2 105.7 points
Sead 34, Life Sentence Slam - Fairfield, Calif., rank 2, 104.2 points
Seed 49, FlagSlam - Flagstaff, Ariz., rank 3, 104.2 points
Seed 70, Ocotillo Slam - Tucson, Ariz., rank 4 100.1 points

National Poetry Slam rankings after two days

NATIONAL POETRY SLAM 2010

St. Paul, MN August 3-7

ROUND 1 RANKS
Team Rank Total Score
1 The Nuyorican Slam Team - New York City, NY 01 117.7
02 Boston - Cantab - Boston, MA 1 114.3
03 Soap Boxing - St. Paul, MN 1 114
04 Atlanta Art Amok - Atlanta, GA 1 113.8
05 San Francisco - San Francisco, CA 1 113.7
06 ABQSlams - Albuquerque, NM 1 112.1
07 SlamCharlotte - Charlotte, NC 1 111
08 Fort Worth Poetry Slam - Ft. Worth, TX 1 109.6
09 San Diego Slam Team - San Diego, CA 1 109.3
10 Loser Slam - Long Branch, NJ 1 109
11 SlamRichmond - Richmond, VA 1 108.8
12 Slam Nuba - Denver, CO 1 108.5
13 Slam New Orleans - New Orleans, LA 1 107.9
14 San Francisco - San Francisco, CA 1 107.4
15 Team Dallas - Dallas, TX 1 106.2
16 Java Monkey - Decatur, GA 1 104.4
17 Slam Free or Die - Manchester, NH 1 103.4
18 Bull City Slam - Durham, NC 1 102.3
19 Empire MindState - Pomona, CA 1 100.6
20 SlamRichmond - Richmond, VA 2 112.8
21 Intangible Slam - New York City, NY 2 112.8
21 Denver Mercury Slam - Denver, CO 2 112.8
23 Eclectic Truth - Baton Rouge, LA 2 111.7
24 Poets Anonymous - Delray Beach, FL 2 111.1
25 San Jose Poetry Slam - San Jose, CA 2 110.7
26 Vancouver Poetry Slam - Vancouver, BC 2 108.7
27 VIP - Houston, TX 2 107.9
28 Berkeley Poetry Slam - Berkeley, CA 2 107.7
29 Puro Slam - San Antonio, TX 2 107.6
30 Austin Poetry Slam - Austin, TX 2 107
31 Milwaukee Poetry Slam - Milwaukee, WI 2 106.8

32 Mental Graffitti - Chicago, IL 2 105.7
33 louderArts - New York City, NY 2 105.4
34 Life Sentence Slam - Fairfield, CA 2 104.2

35 Austin Neo Soul - Austin, TX 2 103
36 Brass Knuckles - Los Angeles, CA 2 102.7
37 Santa Cruz Poetry Slam - Santa Cruz, CA 2 99.1
38 Writing Wrongs - Columbus, OH 2 98.8
39 Dallas Poetry Grind - Irving, TX 3 111.1
39 Urbana - New York City, NY 3 111.1
41 Punch Out Poetry Slam - Minneapolis, MN 3 110
42 Madison Slam - Madison, WI 3 108.4
43 Second Tuesday Slam - Portland, ME 3 107.7
44 Neo/Byte This Slam - Detroit, MI 3 107.5
45 Seattle Poetry Slam - Seattle, WA 3 106.8
46 11th Hour Poetry Slam - Washington, DC 3 106.5
47 Houston Poetry Slam - Houston, TX 3 105.6
48 SlamMN! - Minneapolis, MN 3 105.3
49 FlagSlam - Flagstaff, AZ 3 104.2
50 Slam Nahuatl - Richmond, VA 3 102.8
51 Steel City Slam - Pittsburgh, PA 3 102.7
52 Mesa Slam Team - Mesa, AZ 3 101.9
53 Hampshire County Slam Collective - Amherst, MA 3 101.7
54 Green Mill Poetry Slam - Chicago, IL 3 101
55 Slamarillo Poetry Slam - Amarillo, TX 3 99.5
56 Salt City Slam - Salt Lake City, UT 3 98.6
57 Ozark Poetry Slam - Fayetteville, AR 3 96.7
58 Killeen Poetry Slam - Killeen, TX 4 110.6
59 Piedmont Poetry Slam - Winston Salem, NC 4 109.8
60 Punch Out Poetry Slam - Minneapolis, MN 4 107.9
61 Mill City Slam - Lowell, MA 4 107.5
62 HawaiiSlam - Honolulu, HI 4 106.7
63 Oakland Poetry Slam - Oakland, CA 4 106.5
64 Portland Poetry Slam - Portland, OR 4 106
65 Boise Poetry Slam - Boise, ID 4 105.1
66 Red Dirt Poetry Slam - Oklahoma City, OK 4 102.6
67 Writers Block - Columbus, OH 4 101.9
68 Silver City Slam - Silver city, NM 4 101.3
69 Piedmont Poetry Slam - Winston Salem, NC 4 100.5
70 Ocotillo Slam - Tucson, AZ 4 100.1
71 Spokane Poetry Slam - Spokane, WA 4 99.1
72 Toronto Poetry Slam - Toronto, ON 4 97.8
73 The Percolator Slam - El Paso, TX 4 97.1
74 WORDPULP Poetry Slam - Oklahoma, OK 4 96.5
75 Palatine Poetry Slam - Palatine, IL 4 78.8
76 Team Cleveland - Cleveland, OH 4 0


Bout 12 - ( Tues - Camp 9 PM ) - Houston's score was adjusted after the resolution of a protest.
Bout 16 - ( Wed - Wild Tymes 7 PM ) Team Cleveland's rank and score were adjusted after protest.