Love Like A Scar, Part II

Love Like A Scar: Part II
or
She Bit Me In the Face
or
When She Says, "Don't Move, Trust Me," Don't Fucking Move

and now the poem:

she cut me above right eyebrow
scar shimmers still fresh red
she is always with me
below the surface

in decades hence
when the biographer asks, tape rolling,
who marred my brow,
I plan to lean back and with straight face
declare the flesh wound
a sniper bullet
from the Euro-American War of 2035
as I dashed from demolished home
to cinderblock shelter
carrying Mighty Mike McGee B-side bootlegs

or maybe Battle of Satin Hill shrapnel
during the Second American Civil War
dodging landmines on the eastern front near Kansas City
rescuing a microphone once used by Derrick Brown
molecules of his saliva clinging to the mesh
long after he is but two stars left of the North American moon

I saw draftee boys drop like flies
to restore the Republic
while I was on a mission to clone the lost poets
into Founding Fathers and Mothers
so they could draft a new Constitution
that could be read in 3:10
and yet bring a tear to the eye

the biographer will write down “madman”
because fiction will have overtaken me by then

the truth of this scar
is hard to explain
but humorous to declare:
“my girlfriend
bit me in the face”

it was no unrestrained passion
nor a tryst turned to domestic violence
but rather innocent:
she, perched above me
on a Saturday afternoon,
so eager to cuddle
she could not wait to hold me
she told me not to move
as she collapsed wrestling match-style

of course,
I moved

and tooth struck brow
tearing open skin

she cut me
leaving a mark of her inhabitance
proof she reached deeper than touch
left residue no shower could flush away

if lightning strikes me dead
between back door and laundry room —
or Babel reprises
and one Tuesday morning
we forget the sounds of English —
or poems worldwide
so intensely hold human passion they spontaneously ignite
explode all the words they’re unable to speak
burn notebooks and shoeboxes to cinders —
if memory just ... evaporates —
I’ll still have the scar
evidence for the Grand Jury
that I was guilty of loving her
my carefully constructed alibi evaporates in the face of habeas cicatrices

more than poems or photographs
the scar of her marks me
in mirrors,
in the reflection of car windows
the snap of portraits
the mark a centimeter wide
that could tear open like a zipper
on a beaten-up, used childhood toy
and spill out my stuffing

I am unable to amnesia her away
when Alzheimer’s settles in to play a hand of bridge
nurses and other patients will quietly ask
“Mr. Graham, how did you earn that scar?”
and I’ll repeat the details as best I know them
a thousand times,
each one again anew

no matter how misanthropic I may become
as these hands wrinkle in the coming decades
this mark whispers witness
that I was touched once —
let a lover past my front stoop
through my bedroom doorway
where she evaded resistant arms
wrapped her Canadian limbs
around my torso
and got so close
that she even tried to eat me
swallow me into her — right eyebrow first

even rendered mute by death
my corpse will speak to strangers
that she visited this skin
touched this household of dust and ash
saw the mask that I hid in
tried to open me like a can of soup
to spill out my brain and ego

she wanted nothing
but for me to hold fast and trust her
and I could not
this mark proves my doubts manifest
leaves me to forever contemplate
my near-impossibility to love someone else selflessly
the cut a battle wound
no less serious than seppuku across the belly
a shotgun blast to the ribcage
I failed in a split second
and the path of blood from bed to sink
still stains the tile grout
reiterating every morning to my toes
the eschatology of our love affair

these arms still reach out to empty air
still beg the dawn that her absence is conjectural
I haven’t washed my sheets since she left
in hopes that the smell of her in the bed
will bring her back like a bloodhound
searching the crime scene for the victims

I’ll go mad some morning
and take chisel to the tile
attempt to chip out each cell of hemoglobin
force them back into the wound
pick out all the solitary strands of her hair
embedded in the carpet
and glue them back together
use all the collected powers
of every clairvoyant and bullshit psychic in this city
to pull me back through time
return to that moment
and tell that son-of-bitch in the bed
that "when she says 'don’t move'
"you don’t fucking move
"you let her collapse into your arms like she meant to
"you hold her so tight, it hurts to exhale
"because you're pushing her heart millimeters away from yours
"you stop thinking about whether she might hurt you
"because even if she does,
"she's still here"

and as the future-me
begins to back away into the shadows
he fades away into nothing as they taught us
in all proper science-fictions,
the past-me and she
will swing arms wide into ocean waves
wash over and crash into each other
until the sheets are drenched in salt and seawater

this tiny cut
this scar to remember her by
will be last thing to fade
supernova-ing into the ash of angelsdisappearing in a twinkle like forgotten star
without even a single pair of lovers on summer grass
somewhere in the galaxy
to note its passing
and wonder, “what was that?”




It wasn't until after I had written this poem and went back to read it how the ending of this poem, while initially unintentionally, is heavily influenced thematically by Derrick Brown's "A Finger, Two Dots, Then Me," which is both one of mine and Azami's favorite poems.

(For "Love Like A Scar: Part I")

Canada Day in Sedona

Canadian-born Sedona residents celebrated Canada Day — the anniversary of the country’s founding in 1867 — at Posse Grounds Park on Thursday, July 1. The group included, from left, Joanne Marco, Tony Marco and Jacquie Randall, all from Hamilton, Ontario; Sedona Police Department Cmdr. Ron Wheeler, from Winnipeg, Manitoba; Harold Gorny, from Toronto; and Azami Ishihara, from Kingston, Ontario.

Azami at the grill.

The group gathers to eat and reminisce about Canada.

Zach Brutsche and Azami show off the Canada Day temporary tattoos she brought back from Alberta.

I got a temporary tattoo above my real tattoo.

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.

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 poet Shane Koyczan performs poetry at 2010 Olympics

Photo by Christine McAvoy

Being in head-over-heels love with a Canadian girl, Azami, made me unusually attuned to the Canadian-ness surrounding me, i.e., I've noticed more Canadian license plates in Sedona in the last month than the last six years.

It also seems fitting the 2010 Winter Olympics are being held in Vancouver, British Columbia, only months after I fell in love with her. Serendipity.

So imagine how cool it was to see that the Opening Ceremonies featured Vancouver slam poet Shane Koyczan, who I met at the 2001 National Poetry Slam in Seattle. Koyczan also won the individual poetry slam championship Providence, R.I., in 2000. And Azami has met him as well. So here we are, sharing a common love of poetry and first-hand knowledge of a particular poet performing in her country in my art form. Vicariously sharing our "passions," as it were - Canada and poetry - with the world.

I have written about Shane Koyczan's brilliance before in my blog "Grandma's Got it Going On (Rise and Shine)", "Haiku videos" and "Beethovan."

The poem Shane Koyczan performed at the 2010 Winter Olympics Opening Ceremonies on Feb. 12:

Photo by Michelle Mayne

"We Are More" (audio)
by Shane Koyczan
When defining Canada
you might list some statistics
you might mention our tallest building
or biggest lake
you might shake a tree in the fall
and call a red leaf Canada
you might rattle off some celebrities
might mention Buffy Sainte-Marie
might even mention the fact that we’ve got a few
Barenaked Ladies
or that we made these crazy things
like zippers
electric cars
and washing machines
when defining Canada
it seems the world’s anthem has been
” been there done that”
and maybe that’s where we used to be at
it’s true
we’ve done and we’ve been
we’ve seen
all the great themes get swallowed up by the machine
and turned into theme parks
but when defining Canada
don’t forget to mention that we have set sparks

we are not just fishing stories
about the one that got away
we do more than sit around and say “eh?”
and yes

we are the home of the Rocket and the Great One
who inspired little number nines
and little number ninety-nines
but we’re more than just hockey and fishing lines
off of the rocky coast of the Maritimes
and some say what defines us
is something as simple as please and thank you
and as for you’re welcome
well we say that too
but we are more
than genteel or civilized
we are an idea in the process
of being realized
we are young
we are cultures strung together
then woven into a tapestry
and the design
is what makes us more
than the sum total of our history
we are an experiment going right for a change
with influences that range from a to zed
and yes we say zed instead of zee
we are the colours of Chinatown and the coffee of Little Italy
we dream so big that there are those
who would call our ambition an industry
because we are more than sticky maple syrup and clean snow
we do more than grow wheat and brew beer
we are vineyards of good year after good year
we reforest what we clear
because we believe in generations beyond our own
knowing now that so many of us
have grown past what used to be
we can stand here today

filled with all the hope people have
when they say things like “someday”

someday we’ll be great
someday we’ll be this
or that
someday we’ll be at a point
when someday was yesterday
and all of our aspirations will pay the way
for those who on that day
look towards tomorrow
and still they say someday

we will reach the goals we set
and we will get interest on our inspiration
because we are more than a nation of whale watchers and lumberjacks
more than backpacks and hiking trails
we are hammers and nails building bridges
towards those who are willing to walk across
we are the lost-and-found for all those who might find themselves at a loss
we are not the see-through gloss or glamour
of those who clamour for the failings of others
we are fathers brothers sisters and mothers
uncles and nephews aunts and nieces
we are cousins
we are found missing puzzle pieces
we are families with room at the table for newcomers
we are more than summers and winters
more than on and off seasons
we are the reasons people have for wanting to stay
because we are more than what we say or do
we live to get past what we go through

and learn who we are
we are students
students who study the studiousness of studying
so we know what as well as why
we don’t have all the answers
but we try
and the effort is what makes us more
we don’t all know what it is in life we’re looking for
so keep exploring
go far and wide
or go inside but go deep
go deep
as if James Cameron was filming a sequel to The Abyss
and suddenly there was this location scout
trying to figure some way out
to get inside you
because you’ve been through hell and high water
and you went deep
keep exploring
because we are more
than a laundry list of things to do and places to see
we are more than hills to ski
or countryside ponds to skate
we are the abandoned hesitation of all those who can’t wait
we are first-rate greasy-spoon diners and healthy-living cafes
a country that is all the ways you choose to live
a land that can give you variety
because we are choices
we are millions upon millions of voices shouting
” keep exploring… we are more”
we are the surprise the world has in store for you
it’s true

Canada is the “what” in “what’s new?”
so don’t say “been there done that”
unless you’ve sat on the sidewalk
while chalk artists draw still lifes
on the concrete of a kid in the street
beatboxing to Neil Young for fun
don’t say you’ve been there done that
unless you’ve been here doing it
let this country be your first-aid kit
for all the times you get sick of the same old same old
let us be the story told to your friends
and when that story ends
leave chapters for the next time you’ll come back
next time pack for all the things
you didn’t pack for the first time
but don’t let your luggage define your travels
each life unravels differently
and experiences are what make up
the colours of our tapestry
we are the true north
strong and free
and what’s more
is that we didn’t just say it
we made it be.

Seven Years of Solitude

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

Kyuubi no Kitsune

Kyuubi no Kitsune
(Nine-Tailed Fox)
12.3.09

She tells me of Kitsune
a nine-tailed trickster
in the shape of a fox
who slips into gentlemen’s homes
from Hokkaido to the Ryukyus
tells them tales
brings magic stories to their doorsteps
she holds them tightly in the night
until love binds them

the Greeks, too, had their nine
daughters each graced with a gift
to dispel on poets and playwrights
inspire the great works
and leave the men besmirched with laurels

as she loves the most secret parts of me
I wonder what mythology we’re living

I see nines in everything nowadays
the edges of maple leaves
the measure of minutes on the alarm clock
until I have to leave her
Saturday and Sunday have seemingly doubled in length
leaving me two more days to love her arms
in the morning dawn light
the tips of her foxtails slip out from beneath the sheets
fading into ether by the I find my glasses to catch them
and all the artistries
flow through my fingers when her warmth wraps around me
and demands that I create

this is some Grecian Zen monastic koan
to bleed my mind dry of superfluous thought
focus my attentions to the nexus of my world
leave my mind free to wander
sans distraction
sans intention
poetry tabula rasa

I'm too tough for Canada - and never allowed to visit

Another thing I discovered on my vacation after trying to enter into Sasakatchewan to shoot a few photos. According to the Immigration Office in Ottawa, Canada, I am forbidden from ever entering that country. I have a nice little letter saying the same.

If I ever try to enter or are found in country, I'll be promptly arrested, jailed and subsequently deported. The immigration official I spoke to at the border checkpoint had a cute accent, though.
"I just want to let you know, Mr. Graham, that we are turning you back at this time and you're forbidden from ever entering Canada, eh."

On the plus side, it was the most polite country to ever kick me out of it.