Azami Leaves My Country Today

Azami Leaves My Country Today by FoxThePoet

she leaves my country today
uncounts the miles,
returns the geography of states
abandons the familiarity of our silly accents
for one more common to her architecture
any feigned allegiances to politics
are left to shrivel in the sunlight
she no longer cares for the posturing
the details of who harmed who
which rhetorician stands more right
untrod roads must now make their own footprints
she will not pass over you, friends,
your dreams must evaporate into whatever bore them
unvisited campsites reclaim their virginities
untouched, uncaressed, unbroken
cities shed naked, stripped down to bare bones to embrace her
must now envy those she'd seen
ask how she shimmered over their sidewalks
reclined in their open parks
slept in their bedrooms
held lovers in their shadows

my countrymen begin to hear the epics
enumerated by those who had met her
watched how she glistened with exuberance
glimmered with an unsoiled joy
not seen in generations

they all come whimpering to my bedroom windows
tap reluctantly on the glass
plead an hundred existential crises
confess that in her absence
they fear nothing new will be born
I roll over, emerge from once-shared bedsheets
currently under excavation for her fingerprints
halt the archaeological expedition recostructing
how she must have inhabited this region in her golden age

assure them in calm, quiet tones
that my poems of remembered moments,
reflections on the weight of her tenancy
naked pleas for repatriation
will emerge from fingertips and speaking lips
they will be new to fill her vacancy
assuage the grief as best possible
I will use them to keep us warm
they will hold us in her absence
I will whisper them down barren highways
the hollow city streets
into unseen bedrooms,
on the mountaintops
through the empty fields
send them north to coax her home
in vain on our behalves
tell them to "go, rest now, all will be remedied"

but I am lying
poems merely comfort the dying
the abandoned,
the widowers

for those of us left behind
this isn't the end of the world
but I can't tell the difference

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

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.

Azami on The History Channel? Video about the hobo lifestyle

Filmmaker Tom McGuigan met my ex-girlfriend (and everyone's favorite honorary Arizonan), Azami, at the National Hobo Convention in Britt, Iowa. McGuigan's been working on a film project documenting the hobo and train-hopping culture, which is alive and well in America and Canada. His short film trailer can be found here at American Rail Riders. The footage in the beginning minute was taken by Azami on her trek with other hobos following the National Poetry Slam and the National Hobo Convention last August on her way back to Arizona. The rest of the video splices her film taken on the road and the rails and video shot by McGuigan at the National Hobo Convention. I saw much of Azami's hitchhiking and train hopping footage after she got back and it is pretty cool Hopefully McGuigan can get his film picked up by The History Channel or a film studio willing to turn it into a full-fledged documentary. Everyone who knows Azami knows she defines herself as both a burner (Burning Man participant/artist) and a hobo. What is a hobo?

"A hobo is a traveling worker. Tramps travel but don't work and a bum does neither."

-- American Rail Roaders

Where did the word "hobo" come from?

I've not found a convincing explanation. Some say it derives from the term "hoe-boy," meaning farm hand, or "homo bonus," meaning "good man." Others speculate that men shouted "Ho, Boy!" to each other on the road. One particularly literate wayfarer insisted the term came from the French "haut beau." Whatever its origin, the word "hobo" became widespread in American vernacular during yet another major depression from 1893 to 1897. I sometimes joke that a hobo is a tramp on steroids. Hoboes were by and large more organized, militant, independent, and political than their predecessors. The widespread use of the word "bum" after World War II signals the end of this colorful subculture of transient labor.

-- Todd DePastino author of "Citizen Hobo: How a Century of Homelessness Shaped America"

A hobo is a different class of homeless wanderer than a tramp or a bum, but there is a stratification based on intention and work ethic:

Tramps and hobos are commonly lumped together, but in their own sight they are sharply differentiated. A hobo or bo is simply a migratory laborer; he may take some longish holidays, but soon or late he returns to work. A tramp never works if it can be avoided; he simply travels. Lower than either is the bum, who neither works nor travels, save when impelled to motion by the police.

--H. L. Mencke "The American Language: 4th ed."

Well, there were endless squabbles about the differences between hoboes, tramps, and bums. One famous quip had it that the hobo works and wanders, the tramp drinks and wanders, and the bum just drinks. More accurately the tramp, the hobo, and the bum represent three historical stages of American homelessness, with the tramp coming first, in the 1870s, and the bum later, in the 1940s and 1950s. So chronologically between the two was the hobo. Hoboes mark the coming of age of America's tramp army. The end of the depression in 1878 did not mean the end of tramping. Like our homeless population today, the tramp army was resistant to upswings in the business cycle. By the 1890s, after twenty years on the road, tramping had matured to the point where it now possessed its own unique institutions, culture, and even politics—taken together, what later came to be called "hobohemia." ... ... I sometimes joke that a hobo is a tramp on steroids. Hoboes were by and large more organized, militant, independent, and political than their predecessors. The widespread use of the word "bum" after World War II signals the end of this colorful subculture of transient labor.

-- Todd DePastino author of "Citizen Hobo: How a Century of Homelessness Shaped America"

In short, a hobo is the "homeless person" who nowadays travels, hitchhikes and/or hops trains and during the down time, sells art, makes jewelry, offers to do landscaping or farm work, busks, i.e., works for the freedom to travel in ways reminiscent of the Beats. They're not the spangers on the street corner nor the drunk in the gutter. In essence, a hobo is a quintessential American (or Canadian in this case): free-thinking, hardworking, independent and egalitarian. Most importantly, the hobo lifestyle is a choice. And Azami herself is "organized, militant, independent, and political" (plus artistic and a little stubborn). In any case, I'm glad and proud to have loved and been loved by my hobo. I always found her lifestyle fascinating and I'm glad she's now making it available to the world.

Slam Tutorial: Confront Your Own Cultural Heritage, Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

like the Texans' Lone Star

or the Arizonans' sunburst and copper star.

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

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

"Southern Angst"
By Greg Nix

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

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

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

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

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

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

them.
them.
always us 'n' them.
still to this day

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

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

this is the expectation

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

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

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

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

he never saluted that flag
unknowing what it really meant
how deeply it cut across the grain
my father impressed upon me
or how sick and tired i am of
attempting to explain to others
what mixed feelings i have toward
the Confederate Flag
realizing how others judge me by the
blood soaked into that fabric
turning it from a sentiment once noble
into a symbol of all that
ain't
Southern

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

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

but i do

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

ASU, my alma mater, snubs Obama?

Way to go, ASU, now I'm even disappointed I graduated from your campus.

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	M - Th 11p / 10c
Arizona State Snubs Obama
thedailyshow.com
Daily Show Full Episodes Economic Crisis Political Humor

Staring at the Milky Way with One Eye Closed

Staring at the Milky Way with One Eye Closed
26 Sept. 2006-15 May 2007

Staring at the Milky Way with one eye closed
details in the clouds of shapes elude pinpointing
the brightest ones egotistically outshine their humble siblings
burning their age-old sociology over distance and time
only now reaching my half-blind awareness

if I lay still for an hour
the whole sky rotates enough for me to feel
the morning hours away
but for now, the night holds sway
that dark Earth below holds its secrets
coyotes yelp in their hide-and-seeks between the lights
marking the miles between irrelevant cities

I haven’t seen shooting stars in months
and the eager sky readily supplies signal flares on the periphery
as if they lamented my absence too
but in the tender brilliance of falling stars
sending goodbyes to satellites
stereoscopic disability flattens everything into two dimensions

denied depth, the hazy constellations stand near enough
to reach out and reorder as if i spilled them on velvet
i reached up with both hands
and gazed at each one through my fingers
and pretended i was god,
and I remember feeling this childlike before ...

although the days tick by in perfect chronological sequence
the specks above tonight measure the same distance apart as always
and the constellations remain impervious
to our rearrangements, reinterpretations and renamings

you see, I learned all their names once
at the same time I was structuring the proper order of the alphabet

my father, raised in a family too poor to afford telescopes,
would relate the stories of each one as we lay on the roof
cheaper than television
we shared the stars

he explained how geometric shape of hunter, virgin and beast
came to rise from earthly mothers
into Greek mythology
and into the heavenly bodies
we still use to find our way home

what stories he had heard at the same age I was
and remembered until he had a son
and which ones he manufactured at the moment
to keep my childish attention skyward
I’m still uncertain because I lost him years ago

but taken from this soil
and raised into the cosmos for a night
I sailed on the satellite of his voice into the exosphere
as he surreptitiously showed me
how all science fiction writers came to dream their space opera epics
see, their fathers instilled in them
the dream of sailing between
the Dark Side
and the Light

but the distance between stars is not measured in parsecs
but in the imagination of a boy thinking his father is godlike
because if you tilt your head ... just so
and remember that even angels
paint connect-the-dots pictures
the clump to the right in the shape of an arrow
with the semi-circle that arcs out from the side
really does look like a hunter
if you believe the man who tells you it does
and when he asks
if you can see it
for the first time in your young life
the way you see the world actually matters to someone
because it means he's doing the right thing

"Yes, dad, I see the hunter,
it chases through the clouds and gases
hiding in the shadows and staying downwind of his prey
you can tell by the way the Milky Way
is drifting to the Southwest tonight"

and in the stars I had my father
he told me the stories of the placement
and calculated the precise mathematics:
"These two stars will always be the distance between two fingers."
"That constellation is always the breadth of one palm,
if you stretch out your thumb to touch that star first."

the measurements in the heavens never change
because they give us a path home
despite the distance we grow from it
I wish I had known that then,
because I would have told that boy
to place his father somewhere in the heavens
so that he would forever know
the number of steps it takes to find him

but this rotating world
hides the stars behind the sun for half a day
and in the daylight
my father found a place to hide from me
so now I can't even find him in the night

I still have the stars and the stories
but the man who taught them to me
disappeared into them both
so never ask me again why I don't believe in God
look to the stars,
find him,
sketch out what points define his shape
and point him out to a boy still on a rooftop
tell him you can see god
in the geometry of random placement
because to me, today
those shape are just specks
I know anyone can rename the constellations
the measurements above never change
but we don't learn from their loyalty
how to live

so if you find a man who looks like me
with twenty more revolutions on his face
lying on a rooftop, measuring the distance between stars with his fingers
tell him to stop counting
because the mathematics of the constellations never change
no matter how many satellites we send up to double-check
it's the people down below who grow apart
and most never find a way back home

but sometimes there are boys
who remember they way fathers could be godlike
when they were too young to know any better
and on some nights like these,
when that boy, now this poet
gazes skyward with one eye open
he imagines that his father is alongside him
and for a while,
before his vision gets hazy
a certain mass of glowing dots
really does look like a hunter
heading back across the heavens
to teach everything he knows
about hunting stars
to his son

Could our votes for Obama in Arizona actually count?

Obama neck and neck with McCain in Arizona
By Anne Ryman
The Arizona Republic
Sen. John McCain's once-comfortable lead in Arizona has all but evaporated, according to a new poll that has the underdog Republican presidential candidate struggling in his own backyard.
With less than a week until Election Day, McCain is leading his Democratic rival, Illinois Sen. Barack Obama, by 2 points, 46 to 44, down from a 7-point lead a month ago and a double-digit lead this summer, according to a poll from Arizona State University.
Factor in the 3-percentage point margin of error, and a race that was once a nearly sure thing for McCain is now a toss-up, pollsters say.