Showing posts with label Parvalus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Parvalus. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Sarrah Countdown #6
Sarrah Countdown #5
This is the last rifle my grandfather made before he died. He assembled the parts and carved the wood. And Sarrah looks great holding it.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Sarrah countdown #3
Monday, October 27, 2008
Sarrah Countdown #2
A photo of Sarrah's feet. Perhaps the rarest photo in the universe.
Sarrah is leaving Sedona
Sarrah Wile, my two-time daughter (I was her legal guardian twice) is leaving Sedona to go to school in Asheville, North Carolina. Sarrah was just a girl when I met her, but she's become one of my closest friends in Sedona.
We've gone on vacations every summer for the last four years: to the National Poetry Slam in Albuquerque, N.M., in 2005; to San Francisco with Dylan Jung and Lou Moretti in 2006; to Montana in 2007; and to New York City, the Jersey Shore, Philadelphia, and Chicago with Danielle "Deeds" Gervasio and Alun Wile in 2008.
Until she leaves, I'll be posting my favorite photographs of her over the years.
In my grandmother's barn in Opheim, Montana.
Last Chance Gulch, in downtown Helena, Montana.
We've gone on vacations every summer for the last four years: to the National Poetry Slam in Albuquerque, N.M., in 2005; to San Francisco with Dylan Jung and Lou Moretti in 2006; to Montana in 2007; and to New York City, the Jersey Shore, Philadelphia, and Chicago with Danielle "Deeds" Gervasio and Alun Wile in 2008.
Until she leaves, I'll be posting my favorite photographs of her over the years.
At Mark's In & Out in Livingston, Montana.
Checking out downtown Idaho Falls, Idaho.
Playing checkers with stones and pinecones in downtown Helena, Montana.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Take the wheel and drive
Take the wheel and drive
to a city I’ve never heard of
in a country nameless in my geography
I want to be a forever-stranger
except in your arms
call me whatever you want
drive so fast the cities I’ve always known
disappear into the rearview
I’ll gladly forget them all
if you never want to see them again
Take the wheel and drive
ignore the highway signs
the exit signs
keep driving till the world we know
starts fading fast
take me to another place
where only you and I know our language
a land with a new horizon
Take the wheel and drive
so fast the sun rises in the west
and the world starts over
with all new players
I’ve seen this country
and there ain’t nothing new
just the same towns as 10 miles back
with new names but the same old characters
we’ve seen the stages here
and grown tired of the play
take the wheel and drive
let’s find a new country
without borders or barriers
that still uses stars for compass points
though we don’t recognize the constellations
we want a two-lane path
with no lights as far as the eyes can see
get the keys,
fill the tank,
take the wheel and drive
let’s find where last road ends
to a city I’ve never heard of
in a country nameless in my geography
I want to be a forever-stranger
except in your arms
call me whatever you want
drive so fast the cities I’ve always known
disappear into the rearview
I’ll gladly forget them all
if you never want to see them again
Take the wheel and drive
ignore the highway signs
the exit signs
keep driving till the world we know
starts fading fast
take me to another place
where only you and I know our language
a land with a new horizon
Take the wheel and drive
so fast the sun rises in the west
and the world starts over
with all new players
I’ve seen this country
and there ain’t nothing new
just the same towns as 10 miles back
with new names but the same old characters
we’ve seen the stages here
and grown tired of the play
take the wheel and drive
let’s find a new country
without borders or barriers
that still uses stars for compass points
though we don’t recognize the constellations
we want a two-lane path
with no lights as far as the eyes can see
get the keys,
fill the tank,
take the wheel and drive
let’s find where last road ends
Monday, January 28, 2008
The cost of dynamite
The cost of dynamite
magic lurks in her shrouded shoulders
that only her few lovers have tasted
although scores claim her lips hold her enchantments
I've been touched by neither,
though her temptations keep me up at night
in the half-conscious imaginings
of our skin dances
her limbs have teased her proximity
and her anticipatory warmth
enlivens our thighs
caged horses feel this way
when they see open fields beyond the fences
but words like these
hungrily dripping ink on untouched pages
are best hidden on the unread bookshelves
lest they betray the thousand sins
we would visit on each other
should the skies ever see them
and to Dante,
who cataloged all our predecessors,
Virgil neglected to reveal the 10th level of Dis
reserved solely for the lustful un-inhibitions
destined to be enumerated in epic detail
by some future poet,
about the nights when she and I
unlock the inevitable collision of hips and skins
evangelical preachers will base sermons on our rhythms
to terrify parishioners toward good behavior
expect presidential campaigns to stump legislation
to combat the passions we would release
and slam poets to spit verses
in pale comparison to the erotic hip-hop hips
of our beat-box breathing
sinners have their new saints
and Screwtape has new letters
to write to Our Father Below
when our moment comes,
expect the fire department
and the local police
to secure the scene
while Hugh Hefner and Larry Flynt
thumb wrestle to the death
to secure the rights
prognosticators and prophets will claim
they saw the end coming in our coming
in poetry critics will cite this poem
claiming it a talentless rehash
of all slam poem to have come before
while my reply is simply
that those who must rely on these words
have yet to hear the earthquakes
when she lets loose her inhibitions
to her anticipations
and takes me along for the ride
rocking her hips to the stories
held between her shoulders
dreamers, you have heard us
in all your aimless wanderings
wondering how you could've lived your lives
before you knew of the chemistry
between skins locked
in the exasperated expression
of all that is holy
we are dying, but in our echo
the pageantries of our passions
will spill forth into the divine archetypes
to rebuild a new civilization as yet unimagined
that was just the title,
this is the poem:
in the lonely nights like these,
I wait for a lover I've never kissed
imagining that all these years of waiting for a meaningful lover
aren't in vain
my fear is to look back in old age
knowing that when the time was right
I'd let her slip away into the history and memory
too fearful of giving into the game we played:
always aiming for a checkmate
and afraid to lose I’ll play too harsh
she'll step back from the board
leaving my pieces in forever-stalemate with the absence,
seeking someone less serious and self-absorbed
if one of us can’t win the teasing test
of how far we can push the bounds
then these days and calculations
aren't worth the weight of numbers we measure
and lofty words aside,
I want to drift to sleep alongside her
in awake unashamedly unalone,
the way all great poets seem to do
but I'm too old to write about longing anymore
my poems of unrequited lovers
could kill passersby if dropped from high stories
yearning has its limits
and the ones that should plague my pages
would be best concluded with
“she's come again”
my words and would be better spilled
recounting ways to enumerate nuances
so that thousands could learn them
but so that they wouldn't forget the value of lonely moments
and if some student should find them in years hence
know that longing pains only focus so far
in the prophetic knowledge
that there is a light beaconing the end
I’d rather spend my days penning trivial sonnets at her side
then scribbling the epic of the ages in a studio apartment
made for one
illiteracy is inevitable and in time
all our silly words will become old,
understandable only in classes where academics
teach the ancient tongues of Aristotle and Chaucer
no poem retains its immediacy
when the poet is ash
but descendents can carry the fire
in their blood through the ages
long after the poem is obsolete
and its author is a grad school essay question
in her embrace its locks on
as if to a sinking ship’s life raft,
pen and paper yards away
the greatest poems of my fingers
will dance in her skin
and those that may find their way
through the sheets
to the floor
to the pages
they’ll merely echo those moments
when we erased our knowledge
of spelling and consonants
instead relying on vowels and the language of skins
to speak for us
these verses would I rather have annotate my days
in the press of her breath
and our secret words
would publish the best of me
while all the rest
can take the place when the moment suits
and the critics push aside their trivial jealousies
of not being born poetic
to pencil in a few pages
of their doctoral thesis
for them but me insert bits of profanity
a wayward curse
a gratuitous “fuck”
so they don't choose this piece
for its nonoffensive cleanliness
a well-placed “ass” can ruin a safe poem from publication
pun intended
these poems aren't for them anyway
they're just the thoughts of a boy
close enough to touch her
yet far enough away
to measure her distance from him
in multiples of the length of her shadow
and the geography of heartbeats and unspoken words
erects mountains between us
and the cost of dynamite
is bleeding my pockets dry
magic lurks in her shrouded shoulders
that only her few lovers have tasted
although scores claim her lips hold her enchantments
I've been touched by neither,
though her temptations keep me up at night
in the half-conscious imaginings
of our skin dances
her limbs have teased her proximity
and her anticipatory warmth
enlivens our thighs
caged horses feel this way
when they see open fields beyond the fences
but words like these
hungrily dripping ink on untouched pages
are best hidden on the unread bookshelves
lest they betray the thousand sins
we would visit on each other
should the skies ever see them
and to Dante,
who cataloged all our predecessors,
Virgil neglected to reveal the 10th level of Dis
reserved solely for the lustful un-inhibitions
destined to be enumerated in epic detail
by some future poet,
about the nights when she and I
unlock the inevitable collision of hips and skins
evangelical preachers will base sermons on our rhythms
to terrify parishioners toward good behavior
expect presidential campaigns to stump legislation
to combat the passions we would release
and slam poets to spit verses
in pale comparison to the erotic hip-hop hips
of our beat-box breathing
sinners have their new saints
and Screwtape has new letters
to write to Our Father Below
when our moment comes,
expect the fire department
and the local police
to secure the scene
while Hugh Hefner and Larry Flynt
thumb wrestle to the death
to secure the rights
prognosticators and prophets will claim
they saw the end coming in our coming
in poetry critics will cite this poem
claiming it a talentless rehash
of all slam poem to have come before
while my reply is simply
that those who must rely on these words
have yet to hear the earthquakes
when she lets loose her inhibitions
to her anticipations
and takes me along for the ride
rocking her hips to the stories
held between her shoulders
dreamers, you have heard us
in all your aimless wanderings
wondering how you could've lived your lives
before you knew of the chemistry
between skins locked
in the exasperated expression
of all that is holy
we are dying, but in our echo
the pageantries of our passions
will spill forth into the divine archetypes
to rebuild a new civilization as yet unimagined
that was just the title,
this is the poem:
in the lonely nights like these,
I wait for a lover I've never kissed
imagining that all these years of waiting for a meaningful lover
aren't in vain
my fear is to look back in old age
knowing that when the time was right
I'd let her slip away into the history and memory
too fearful of giving into the game we played:
always aiming for a checkmate
and afraid to lose I’ll play too harsh
she'll step back from the board
leaving my pieces in forever-stalemate with the absence,
seeking someone less serious and self-absorbed
if one of us can’t win the teasing test
of how far we can push the bounds
then these days and calculations
aren't worth the weight of numbers we measure
and lofty words aside,
I want to drift to sleep alongside her
in awake unashamedly unalone,
the way all great poets seem to do
but I'm too old to write about longing anymore
my poems of unrequited lovers
could kill passersby if dropped from high stories
yearning has its limits
and the ones that should plague my pages
would be best concluded with
“she's come again”
my words and would be better spilled
recounting ways to enumerate nuances
so that thousands could learn them
but so that they wouldn't forget the value of lonely moments
and if some student should find them in years hence
know that longing pains only focus so far
in the prophetic knowledge
that there is a light beaconing the end
I’d rather spend my days penning trivial sonnets at her side
then scribbling the epic of the ages in a studio apartment
made for one
illiteracy is inevitable and in time
all our silly words will become old,
understandable only in classes where academics
teach the ancient tongues of Aristotle and Chaucer
no poem retains its immediacy
when the poet is ash
but descendents can carry the fire
in their blood through the ages
long after the poem is obsolete
and its author is a grad school essay question
in her embrace its locks on
as if to a sinking ship’s life raft,
pen and paper yards away
the greatest poems of my fingers
will dance in her skin
and those that may find their way
through the sheets
to the floor
to the pages
they’ll merely echo those moments
when we erased our knowledge
of spelling and consonants
instead relying on vowels and the language of skins
to speak for us
these verses would I rather have annotate my days
in the press of her breath
and our secret words
would publish the best of me
while all the rest
can take the place when the moment suits
and the critics push aside their trivial jealousies
of not being born poetic
to pencil in a few pages
of their doctoral thesis
for them but me insert bits of profanity
a wayward curse
a gratuitous “fuck”
so they don't choose this piece
for its nonoffensive cleanliness
a well-placed “ass” can ruin a safe poem from publication
pun intended
these poems aren't for them anyway
they're just the thoughts of a boy
close enough to touch her
yet far enough away
to measure her distance from him
in multiples of the length of her shadow
and the geography of heartbeats and unspoken words
erects mountains between us
and the cost of dynamite
is bleeding my pockets dry
Sunday, July 8, 2007
To The Girl Riding Shotgun
For Montana and Sarrah Wile
across this home country of rednecks and ranchers
the pages of my ancestry
turn backward to days
running barefoot over vetch and stones
when i stood much shorter
gracing the sweetgrass with elbows and shoulders
instead of the strained fingertips of today
memories flood back when i least expect them
lessons learned, loves lost,
childhood games and their innocence
before i translated the rules
and learned how to break them
the silhouettes of familiar landscapes
eagerly welcome me back as if they're the tourists
revisiting a boy they knew in their youth
these green wheat fields of farmer tans
these western hats signaling oncoming howdys
these selfless smiles from strangers
this countryside
this is home
a boy i knew once lives here
we shared the same name
wished on the same stars
jumped the same cricks together
and left the other behind
when we cut the cord
leaving him in the Rockies
while i wandered the deserts
we see each other still in dreams
and play tag with fawns, calves and cubs
that have yet to learn
our parents play predator and prey
he still plays on the hillsides i long for,
beneath fir trees overlooking the valley that once held me fast
along the yellowstone artery carving a canyon
our ancestors will see from orbit
his house is over the ridge,
somewhere
down this dusty stretch of gravel,
somewhere
in the shadow of flax and sweetpeas,
somewhere
i know the outline of the farm like a thumbprint
can pick it blindfolded from all the others
simply by the sound of the breeze
but the roads still seems unfamiliar
though the map clearly says it's here
and to the girl riding shotgun
all this land is as new
as it seems to me mostly
as i wait for the memories in bottles
to find me lost in this sea of rolling hills
beneath blue moons rising red in the blood of harvest
sometimes we're both awash anew in these fields
National Geographic anthropologists on assignment
deciphering a dialect with a common vocabulary
in others
she is only a passported traveler while i am timeless
standing swallowed by the sunset of red fields
touching my family's livelihood in the grain
reaching roots down deep into the land
that we love as a mother
bud lights, rodeos and hank williams
rise up from the soil
in the aftermath of a solid spring shower
as honky-tonk two-steps,
broad-rimmed stetsons
and a vigorous fiddle
shake free the alfalfa baled back home
and for a moment in the dim lights
old men remember being cowboys
while cowgirls look for old wives they will become
to understand montana
you must travel it by road
knowing that distances are measured in days, not hours
every stop is a must-see
because haybales are the only signs of human habitation
no matter what town you visit,
there's always a drink waiting at The Mint,
where the bartenders call you "hon,"
even if they know your name
lost locals identify themselves
by family name first
in the smallest towns
to which your bloodlines tie you
in montana,
family comes before the man
here, where death and life are cyclical
we learn young to converse honestly
because each visit
may be the last
until the hereafter
words are ties that bind
that boy i once knew
i see now grown up
behind the wheel of every beat-up Ford
that passes us
the girl riding shotgun learns
that the difference between
redneck and revolutionary
lies in the chance taken
by my parents
before i could even spell "poet"
that boy sees me, too
behind the wheel of every out-of-state plate
knowing that this boy looking for home,
somewhere
is on the interstate,
somewhere
dreaming of catching up,
somewhere
where the beer is cold
the jukebox plays only johnny cash
and on the drive back down country roads
the breezes bring back memories
on the parachutes of roadside dandelions
across this home country of rednecks and ranchers
the pages of my ancestry
turn backward to days
running barefoot over vetch and stones
when i stood much shorter
gracing the sweetgrass with elbows and shoulders
instead of the strained fingertips of today
memories flood back when i least expect them
lessons learned, loves lost,
childhood games and their innocence
before i translated the rules
and learned how to break them
the silhouettes of familiar landscapes
eagerly welcome me back as if they're the tourists
revisiting a boy they knew in their youth
these green wheat fields of farmer tans
these western hats signaling oncoming howdys
these selfless smiles from strangers
this countryside
this is home
a boy i knew once lives here
we shared the same name
wished on the same stars
jumped the same cricks together
and left the other behind
when we cut the cord
leaving him in the Rockies
while i wandered the deserts
we see each other still in dreams
and play tag with fawns, calves and cubs
that have yet to learn
our parents play predator and prey
he still plays on the hillsides i long for,
beneath fir trees overlooking the valley that once held me fast
along the yellowstone artery carving a canyon
our ancestors will see from orbit
his house is over the ridge,
somewhere
down this dusty stretch of gravel,
somewhere
in the shadow of flax and sweetpeas,
somewhere
i know the outline of the farm like a thumbprint
can pick it blindfolded from all the others
simply by the sound of the breeze
but the roads still seems unfamiliar
though the map clearly says it's here
and to the girl riding shotgun
all this land is as new
as it seems to me mostly
as i wait for the memories in bottles
to find me lost in this sea of rolling hills
beneath blue moons rising red in the blood of harvest
sometimes we're both awash anew in these fields
National Geographic anthropologists on assignment
deciphering a dialect with a common vocabulary
in others
she is only a passported traveler while i am timeless
standing swallowed by the sunset of red fields
touching my family's livelihood in the grain
reaching roots down deep into the land
that we love as a mother
bud lights, rodeos and hank williams
rise up from the soil
in the aftermath of a solid spring shower
as honky-tonk two-steps,
broad-rimmed stetsons
and a vigorous fiddle
shake free the alfalfa baled back home
and for a moment in the dim lights
old men remember being cowboys
while cowgirls look for old wives they will become
to understand montana
you must travel it by road
knowing that distances are measured in days, not hours
every stop is a must-see
because haybales are the only signs of human habitation
no matter what town you visit,
there's always a drink waiting at The Mint,
where the bartenders call you "hon,"
even if they know your name
lost locals identify themselves
by family name first
in the smallest towns
to which your bloodlines tie you
in montana,
family comes before the man
here, where death and life are cyclical
we learn young to converse honestly
because each visit
may be the last
until the hereafter
words are ties that bind
that boy i once knew
i see now grown up
behind the wheel of every beat-up Ford
that passes us
the girl riding shotgun learns
that the difference between
redneck and revolutionary
lies in the chance taken
by my parents
before i could even spell "poet"
that boy sees me, too
behind the wheel of every out-of-state plate
knowing that this boy looking for home,
somewhere
is on the interstate,
somewhere
dreaming of catching up,
somewhere
where the beer is cold
the jukebox plays only johnny cash
and on the drive back down country roads
the breezes bring back memories
on the parachutes of roadside dandelions
Sunday, April 1, 2007
A Moment in Albuquerque
For R.A.
thump, thump
thump, thump
two hearts
one body
thump, thump
thump, thump
familiar landscapes drop away
in the rearview
summer moments falling behind
into the anxious embrace of the autumn
missed moons and winter choices
keep or cut loose
thump, thump
thump, thump
tires kiss asphalt
the way he kissed her
intentional and unavoidable
between the lines
between the sheets
the inevitable path onward
heads to skin to gas tank
skin to breath to pistons
breath to hips to axle
hips to rhythm to tires
rhythm to climax to road
and the headlights illuminate
the silent afterglow
thump, thump
thump, thump
the geography of bodies and maps
tell stories of our history
lovers' names tied inexorably to cities,
hometowns and vacation destinations
cities we've fled from or fled to
cities we met lovers or lost them
cities we've yet to see
or want to never see again
for her, Albuquerque carries a memory
most men can't comprehend
though the mathematics of the choice
we can calculate and counter
two bodies and a moment
equals three heartbeats in two skin
and a choice to subtract one in Albuquerque
thump, thump
thump, thump
November seems unseasonably cold
maybe it's the 80 mph highway wind
against the chassis
the silent air between them
as the miles tick by
thump, thump
thump, thump
what small talk should we have?
whatever slips of lips
seems woefully insignificant
if it evades the subject inside you
weather, road, womb, reaching fingers
desperate to comfort
so we say nothing
watch the passing headlights
chase the taillights ahead
from 89A to 17 to 40
thump, thump
Flagstaff
thump, thump
Holbrook
thump, thump
"Welcome to New Mexico"
one of you won't be leaving
thump, thump
Gallup
thump, thump
Albuquerque
thump, thump
we made the choice before we left
thump, thump
three becoming two
thump, thump
two heartbeats, one body
thump, thump
moment
thump, thump
choice
thump, thump
consequence
thump
thump
an equation
a city
a memory
and the ambivalent road
thump, thump
thump, thump
two hearts
one body
thump, thump
thump, thump
familiar landscapes drop away
in the rearview
summer moments falling behind
into the anxious embrace of the autumn
missed moons and winter choices
keep or cut loose
thump, thump
thump, thump
tires kiss asphalt
the way he kissed her
intentional and unavoidable
between the lines
between the sheets
the inevitable path onward
heads to skin to gas tank
skin to breath to pistons
breath to hips to axle
hips to rhythm to tires
rhythm to climax to road
and the headlights illuminate
the silent afterglow
thump, thump
thump, thump
the geography of bodies and maps
tell stories of our history
lovers' names tied inexorably to cities,
hometowns and vacation destinations
cities we've fled from or fled to
cities we met lovers or lost them
cities we've yet to see
or want to never see again
for her, Albuquerque carries a memory
most men can't comprehend
though the mathematics of the choice
we can calculate and counter
two bodies and a moment
equals three heartbeats in two skin
and a choice to subtract one in Albuquerque
thump, thump
thump, thump
November seems unseasonably cold
maybe it's the 80 mph highway wind
against the chassis
the silent air between them
as the miles tick by
thump, thump
thump, thump
what small talk should we have?
whatever slips of lips
seems woefully insignificant
if it evades the subject inside you
weather, road, womb, reaching fingers
desperate to comfort
so we say nothing
watch the passing headlights
chase the taillights ahead
from 89A to 17 to 40
thump, thump
Flagstaff
thump, thump
Holbrook
thump, thump
"Welcome to New Mexico"
one of you won't be leaving
thump, thump
Gallup
thump, thump
Albuquerque
thump, thump
we made the choice before we left
thump, thump
three becoming two
thump, thump
two heartbeats, one body
thump, thump
moment
thump, thump
choice
thump, thump
consequence
thump
thump
an equation
a city
a memory
and the ambivalent road
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
What I Believe
What I Believe:
A 500-word essay for Rebecca Allen
A 500-word essay for Rebecca Allen
Every person is an artist
Beneath the layers of skin,
genetically imbedded in our evolution
is the need to create
all living things have one intention: to survive
they breed, kill competitors, protect offspring
knowing that even if the individual must die
the species survives
and with it, some remnant of the survivor
the quest for fame or immortality is no different
we want to survive
and knowing the body cannot, our art can
tied more completely to us
because over it, unlike genetics,
we have complete creative control
and if we can't be immortal
and only bear so many children
that drive to create and survive must release into art
or we'll go mad with yearning
the aesthetic too
is buried within us
that which is beautiful
we never want to leave:
lovers, landscapes, ecstasy, words and music
no one feels this as foreign
we want to feel the electricity and satisfaction of creation
that's why we invented god
because the sensation of making everything as we see fit
must feel transcendent
every person wants to be
Michelangelo, Mozart, Shakespeare,
Baryshnikov, da Vinci, Spielberg,
Tom Hanks, Pavarotti, Bill Gates,
Bob Dylan and a pregnant mother
all at once
but our mortal curse
is that we can not be
we all have stories
different experiences we can relate through speech and art
we differ from all other species
in that we can communicate across time
to those yet unborn
and those long dead
can tell us of life back then
a conversation is art
sounds creating visual images
depicting wit and irony
which we can laugh at
or a tragedy that can cause tears
we want to see, touch, taste and live it all
in every body, place, time, age and culture
but since we can't,
we want to be told
and live vicariously through the art
every human life is a epic tale of
war, loss and victory,
love and strife
we are all warrior poets
destined for royal thrones
in whatever realm we create
be it the page, the battlefield, the bedroom, or our daily insanities
those who aren't artists
aren't looking hard enough
and those who aren't skilled
aren't practicing enough
natural gifts and intuition go a long way
but the brilliance of the great artists
can be taught
if the student is unhindered, fearless, patient and dedicated
know that all things human
institutions, traditions, and technology
were made by overgrown children
that anyone can learn
and we change it all if want
the key is to gain collective agreement
the goal is getting others to see our logic
either rationally or emotionally
but the medium is art, language or otherwise
art is as important as air, water, food, shelter, warmth
we want to love and be loved in return
by family, lover and tribe
for what we create and provide
art makes us immortal
as if we don't live and die in vain
the only people who aren't artists
are already dead or as yet unborn
Beneath the layers of skin,
genetically imbedded in our evolution
is the need to create
all living things have one intention: to survive
they breed, kill competitors, protect offspring
knowing that even if the individual must die
the species survives
and with it, some remnant of the survivor
the quest for fame or immortality is no different
we want to survive
and knowing the body cannot, our art can
tied more completely to us
because over it, unlike genetics,
we have complete creative control
and if we can't be immortal
and only bear so many children
that drive to create and survive must release into art
or we'll go mad with yearning
the aesthetic too
is buried within us
that which is beautiful
we never want to leave:
lovers, landscapes, ecstasy, words and music
no one feels this as foreign
we want to feel the electricity and satisfaction of creation
that's why we invented god
because the sensation of making everything as we see fit
must feel transcendent
every person wants to be
Michelangelo, Mozart, Shakespeare,
Baryshnikov, da Vinci, Spielberg,
Tom Hanks, Pavarotti, Bill Gates,
Bob Dylan and a pregnant mother
all at once
but our mortal curse
is that we can not be
we all have stories
different experiences we can relate through speech and art
we differ from all other species
in that we can communicate across time
to those yet unborn
and those long dead
can tell us of life back then
a conversation is art
sounds creating visual images
depicting wit and irony
which we can laugh at
or a tragedy that can cause tears
we want to see, touch, taste and live it all
in every body, place, time, age and culture
but since we can't,
we want to be told
and live vicariously through the art
every human life is a epic tale of
war, loss and victory,
love and strife
we are all warrior poets
destined for royal thrones
in whatever realm we create
be it the page, the battlefield, the bedroom, or our daily insanities
those who aren't artists
aren't looking hard enough
and those who aren't skilled
aren't practicing enough
natural gifts and intuition go a long way
but the brilliance of the great artists
can be taught
if the student is unhindered, fearless, patient and dedicated
know that all things human
institutions, traditions, and technology
were made by overgrown children
that anyone can learn
and we change it all if want
the key is to gain collective agreement
the goal is getting others to see our logic
either rationally or emotionally
but the medium is art, language or otherwise
art is as important as air, water, food, shelter, warmth
we want to love and be loved in return
by family, lover and tribe
for what we create and provide
art makes us immortal
as if we don't live and die in vain
the only people who aren't artists
are already dead or as yet unborn
Monday, January 15, 2007
Summer Weekends
11.28.2006-1.1.5.2007
For Rebecca Allen
summer weekends
should sweetly stick lovers in the anxious embrace
they have held for days
and when the constraints
of minute hand and second hand take reprieve
the resulting cataclysm of hips and tongues
should shake the foundations
and wake the neighbors
but today, I wake alone
she loves me more
but loves him now
-- in this western desert town,
we take what we can get
because the dreams are better
then the lonely surrender
nd nothing is worth moving to the eastern cities
I'll take momentary happinesses
to stand close to her warmth
press my nose to her blueblood figure
and inhale that which may be mine
if the mathematics of time
and the chess of bodies puts her close to me
a wisp of imagination
outweighs all the metaphors for surrender
I wish I could share an honest moment with him
speak without the inferences of it in his suspicions
tell him like a prophet
but he has a poet's envy
but such things are not meant to last
because her belly burns for more:
a lush pen-in-hand interp of her punk rock passions
and non-segued speech with a loose-cannon tongue
she'll find her way home
when the vacation loses its summer glimmer
"hold fast, hold fast, hold fast
to the dreams of her"
the manta repeats cyclically
she's not that far
in this town has a thing for reincarnation
it's all B.S., I say,
but the desperation holds onto anything it can reach
and I'm at that place now
the groundskeepers always have kind words
and escaping from the longsleeved, buckled jackets
gives me something to do
shame's a silly thing
disappearing once you stop believing in it,
and instead enjoying playing cards with Santa Claus
a chocoholic bunny
and a winged dentist
with a penchant for baby teeth
hold fast, hold fast, hold fast,
time's a measurable variable,
solve, then counter,
and equations subtracts the superfluous lovers
deletes the brevity of summer
but the consistency of yearly fluctuations
leaving the simplicity of the answer:
there's no need for trigonometry when algebra will do
he's got no tricks up his sleeve
the warranty will soon expire
and toys only last so long
lovers and bone and breath,
flesh and whispers
to satisfy their boredom
with interactivity
I have faith in blind hope
and the mathematics of men
that Kasparov would admire
and our neighbors are buying earmuffs in anticipation
For Rebecca Allen
summer weekends
should sweetly stick lovers in the anxious embrace
they have held for days
and when the constraints
of minute hand and second hand take reprieve
the resulting cataclysm of hips and tongues
should shake the foundations
and wake the neighbors
but today, I wake alone
she loves me more
but loves him now
-- in this western desert town,
we take what we can get
because the dreams are better
then the lonely surrender
nd nothing is worth moving to the eastern cities
I'll take momentary happinesses
to stand close to her warmth
press my nose to her blueblood figure
and inhale that which may be mine
if the mathematics of time
and the chess of bodies puts her close to me
a wisp of imagination
outweighs all the metaphors for surrender
I wish I could share an honest moment with him
speak without the inferences of it in his suspicions
tell him like a prophet
but he has a poet's envy
but such things are not meant to last
because her belly burns for more:
a lush pen-in-hand interp of her punk rock passions
and non-segued speech with a loose-cannon tongue
she'll find her way home
when the vacation loses its summer glimmer
"hold fast, hold fast, hold fast
to the dreams of her"
the manta repeats cyclically
she's not that far
in this town has a thing for reincarnation
it's all B.S., I say,
but the desperation holds onto anything it can reach
and I'm at that place now
the groundskeepers always have kind words
and escaping from the longsleeved, buckled jackets
gives me something to do
shame's a silly thing
disappearing once you stop believing in it,
and instead enjoying playing cards with Santa Claus
a chocoholic bunny
and a winged dentist
with a penchant for baby teeth
hold fast, hold fast, hold fast,
time's a measurable variable,
solve, then counter,
and equations subtracts the superfluous lovers
deletes the brevity of summer
but the consistency of yearly fluctuations
leaving the simplicity of the answer:
there's no need for trigonometry when algebra will do
he's got no tricks up his sleeve
the warranty will soon expire
and toys only last so long
lovers and bone and breath,
flesh and whispers
to satisfy their boredom
with interactivity
I have faith in blind hope
and the mathematics of men
that Kasparov would admire
and our neighbors are buying earmuffs in anticipation
Monday, September 11, 2006
Sacrifices by Rebecca Allen
Sacrifices
By Rebecca Allen
I believe that everything happens for a reason. And because of this belief I can honestly say that I
appreciate and understand that for me to be who I am now, my dad had to be a drug dealer. Before and after I was born my dad was an Angel Dust (PCP) dealer. He left my mother and I when I was ten days old. But growing up I was as naive to the situation as one could possibly be. I thought that my dad was the captain of the world and I was his first mate. I claimed ignorance until a childhood friend in the fifth grade revealed to me what my dad kept from me for years.
At this point in my life, I was just starting to become aware of what drugs were and wasn’t sure what the appropriate course of action was. So I kept quiet, like my dad had been doing for all of those years. I waited. After having my eyes forced wide open, I started to pay closer attention. Closer attention to why people did what they did and how outside forces affected them. I realized that instead of my dad continuing to sell drugs, he had become an alcoholic.
Being a drug addict and being an alcoholic are two completely different states of addiction in our
society’s mind. But my mind couldn’t accept that just because my dad could legally be addicted to alcohol that it was right by me. I know that I made harsh judgments at an early age and as a result of that I asked my dad to put down the beer can, but he wouldn’t. There is very little that I ever asked from my dad and because he refused me I haven’t talked to him in over two years.
I believe that everything happens for a reason, but above that I believe in the power of addiction. This experience was only the beginning of an entire world filled with addiction for me to find. Addiction has continued to pry open my eyes to the bare essentials of human desire. I didn’t understand that addiction is a poison that reaches all around the world and because I didn’t understand that then I sacrificed a relationship that can never be completely filled. We give addiction the opportunity to bring us up to the highest when nothing else can stifle that desire, but there is a long downward spiral waiting to blind us of everything else. I believe in the power of addiction because if we want something enough there is little that can keep us from it.
By Rebecca Allen
I believe that everything happens for a reason. And because of this belief I can honestly say that I
appreciate and understand that for me to be who I am now, my dad had to be a drug dealer. Before and after I was born my dad was an Angel Dust (PCP) dealer. He left my mother and I when I was ten days old. But growing up I was as naive to the situation as one could possibly be. I thought that my dad was the captain of the world and I was his first mate. I claimed ignorance until a childhood friend in the fifth grade revealed to me what my dad kept from me for years.
At this point in my life, I was just starting to become aware of what drugs were and wasn’t sure what the appropriate course of action was. So I kept quiet, like my dad had been doing for all of those years. I waited. After having my eyes forced wide open, I started to pay closer attention. Closer attention to why people did what they did and how outside forces affected them. I realized that instead of my dad continuing to sell drugs, he had become an alcoholic.
Being a drug addict and being an alcoholic are two completely different states of addiction in our
society’s mind. But my mind couldn’t accept that just because my dad could legally be addicted to alcohol that it was right by me. I know that I made harsh judgments at an early age and as a result of that I asked my dad to put down the beer can, but he wouldn’t. There is very little that I ever asked from my dad and because he refused me I haven’t talked to him in over two years.
I believe that everything happens for a reason, but above that I believe in the power of addiction. This experience was only the beginning of an entire world filled with addiction for me to find. Addiction has continued to pry open my eyes to the bare essentials of human desire. I didn’t understand that addiction is a poison that reaches all around the world and because I didn’t understand that then I sacrificed a relationship that can never be completely filled. We give addiction the opportunity to bring us up to the highest when nothing else can stifle that desire, but there is a long downward spiral waiting to blind us of everything else. I believe in the power of addiction because if we want something enough there is little that can keep us from it.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
making love should resemble the way clouds communicate
From Becca, for her poem,
here's a line for ya
"making love should resemble the way clouds communicate
changing with every minute you waste away from the
other
and no two encounters the same"
here's a line for ya
"making love should resemble the way clouds communicate
changing with every minute you waste away from the
other
and no two encounters the same"
Tuesday, April 5, 2005
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
Airborne
Airborne
for Daniela
as the girl’s voice
on the other end of the phone line
seduces me
like some remembered childhood dream
come to the forefront
by the smell of rain
the second hand on my watch moves
slower…,
slower…,
slower…,
stop –
until time halts the countdown to infinity
and listens to the raw power
in her small voice
that hits me
like 10,000 thunderstorms spinning themselves
into a single cyclone
to wipe out a hilltop trailer park in Kansas
she has a beauty in her smile
to launch a thousand ships
and an intensity in her tears
to sink the entire fleet on its way home
I can feel lightning beneath my skin
when her hands brush against me
and hurricane tsunamis
rip through my veins when she laughs
she is the Perfect Storm
condensed from air
into 120 pounds of a swimmer’s body
and she is every storm god
wrapped in 66 inches of a girl’s flesh
and because I know her
I love her
and I am terrified
because with her poetry,
her words,
her voice,
she could cascade the world into its final oblivion
or save it all
with just a whisper
and she will change us
because it’s just a matter of time
until she learns that nothing
can hold her down
except the weight of her own wings
until I can teach her to fly
and she breaks the bonds of earth
to touch the face of god
and I can only hope
that she’ll still want to hold my hand
when she finds that her words
will lift her higher than I ever could
even in dreams
because those of us who bare our souls
on a stage,
behind a mic,
on a page,
or on a canvas,
are artists,
but this girl,
who lives and breathes poetry like air,
she is art
and her only limitation is how high
she wants to fly
I can already hear her wings
beginning to beat
in perfect iambic pentameter
and the echoes reverberate
into flawless 17-syllable haikus
but she’s not the angel I believe her to be
and if she had a halo
she’d throw it from her head
faster than god could blink
because pedestals steal humanity
and she knows that she’s just a girl
whose words give her wings
lifting her higher and higher
and she’ll change the world
when she learns to control her storms and winds
and starts
to fly
Copyright 2005 © Christopher Fox Graham
for Daniela
as the girl’s voice
on the other end of the phone line
seduces me
like some remembered childhood dream
come to the forefront
by the smell of rain
the second hand on my watch moves
slower…,
slower…,
slower…,
stop –
until time halts the countdown to infinity
and listens to the raw power
in her small voice
that hits me
like 10,000 thunderstorms spinning themselves
into a single cyclone
to wipe out a hilltop trailer park in Kansas
she has a beauty in her smile
to launch a thousand ships
and an intensity in her tears
to sink the entire fleet on its way home
I can feel lightning beneath my skin
when her hands brush against me
and hurricane tsunamis
rip through my veins when she laughs
she is the Perfect Storm
condensed from air
into 120 pounds of a swimmer’s body
and she is every storm god
wrapped in 66 inches of a girl’s flesh
and because I know her
I love her
and I am terrified
because with her poetry,
her words,
her voice,
she could cascade the world into its final oblivion
or save it all
with just a whisper
and she will change us
because it’s just a matter of time
until she learns that nothing
can hold her down
except the weight of her own wings
until I can teach her to fly
and she breaks the bonds of earth
to touch the face of god
and I can only hope
that she’ll still want to hold my hand
when she finds that her words
will lift her higher than I ever could
even in dreams
because those of us who bare our souls
on a stage,
behind a mic,
on a page,
or on a canvas,
are artists,
but this girl,
who lives and breathes poetry like air,
she is art
and her only limitation is how high
she wants to fly
I can already hear her wings
beginning to beat
in perfect iambic pentameter
and the echoes reverberate
into flawless 17-syllable haikus
but she’s not the angel I believe her to be
and if she had a halo
she’d throw it from her head
faster than god could blink
because pedestals steal humanity
and she knows that she’s just a girl
whose words give her wings
lifting her higher and higher
and she’ll change the world
when she learns to control her storms and winds
and starts
to fly
Copyright 2005 © Christopher Fox Graham
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
When I Am Ancient
For the Sedona Semi-final Poetry Slam on March 26
when I am ancient
and these fingers curl so arthritically
they can no longer hold a pen
when my memory has bled Popsicle into the carpet
and sounds like origami paper
when I do not know my grandchildren
or recall drunk peppermint nights
sweating naked in dark youth
I promise you I will collect all the postcards
I sent to strangers about you
I’ve lost track of the number of postcards I’ve sent
so I’ve negotiated a truce:
Death will not collect me
until I am finished collecting them
they will bring you back
because memory does not live in sequence
but as a collection of moments we selectively remember
this boy will save the best of you
for the old man I will become
when I am ancient
I will shuffle from door to door,
and reincarnate you:
here, your painted toenails dance while you sip iced mocha
here, you say, "let's grow big bushy tails and become foxes"
here, your kiss sucks skin from my bones
here, you call me silly
here, your salsa hips seduce me again
here, I stop lying to you
forever
here, I write another poem that fails to capture your beauty
here, is the fear of your heart collapsing in your chest
here, I drown in your wetness
here, you swallow the sun to tease the moon
here, your kiss sucks breath from my lungs
here, I write another poem that fails
here, I write another poem that fails
here, I say “this is what being my wife would feel like”
this boy I am
will not let that man I will become
forget you
and here,
the day I left you
and I stand in my empty closet
with the door closed
and for that moment that stretched for days
the four walls supported the universe
of our breath,
our heartbeat
and our skins
you held me so tight
we could have shared the same apricot liver
I would have surrendered
my raspberry blood to share yours
i would have given you flower arrangements
scented back rubs
and sticky hazelnut butter sandwiches
until these young hands grew too old
and too ancient
and too useless to do anything
but stroke your cinnamon hair
we whispered things then
prophets should have written down
when i am ancient,
this boy’s last postcard
will make that old man smile himself into a boy again
and feel your peach kiss
on his lips again
when he whispers to death:
[exhale into mic]
when I am ancient
and these fingers curl so arthritically
they can no longer hold a pen
when my memory has bled Popsicle into the carpet
and sounds like origami paper
when I do not know my grandchildren
or recall drunk peppermint nights
sweating naked in dark youth
I promise you I will collect all the postcards
I sent to strangers about you
I’ve lost track of the number of postcards I’ve sent
so I’ve negotiated a truce:
Death will not collect me
until I am finished collecting them
they will bring you back
because memory does not live in sequence
but as a collection of moments we selectively remember
this boy will save the best of you
for the old man I will become
when I am ancient
I will shuffle from door to door,
and reincarnate you:
here, your painted toenails dance while you sip iced mocha
here, you say, "let's grow big bushy tails and become foxes"
here, your kiss sucks skin from my bones
here, you call me silly
here, your salsa hips seduce me again
here, I stop lying to you
forever
here, I write another poem that fails to capture your beauty
here, is the fear of your heart collapsing in your chest
here, I drown in your wetness
here, you swallow the sun to tease the moon
here, your kiss sucks breath from my lungs
here, I write another poem that fails
here, I write another poem that fails
here, I say “this is what being my wife would feel like”
this boy I am
will not let that man I will become
forget you
and here,
the day I left you
and I stand in my empty closet
with the door closed
and for that moment that stretched for days
the four walls supported the universe
of our breath,
our heartbeat
and our skins
you held me so tight
we could have shared the same apricot liver
I would have surrendered
my raspberry blood to share yours
i would have given you flower arrangements
scented back rubs
and sticky hazelnut butter sandwiches
until these young hands grew too old
and too ancient
and too useless to do anything
but stroke your cinnamon hair
we whispered things then
prophets should have written down
when i am ancient,
this boy’s last postcard
will make that old man smile himself into a boy again
and feel your peach kiss
on his lips again
when he whispers to death:
[exhale into mic]
Monday, June 23, 2003
House of Paper
boys are the carbon copies
of their fathers
chromosomes filling in the 'why'
do we do the things we do
patterns of patterns
of past behaviors
and here were are at square one
and I wonder if Adam was as fickle as I am
i swear i could be better than i am
when the chance comes
i could to be the superhero
the warrior
the badass
the protagonist
but post-modernism is cynical
and i'm still stuck in the epilogue
of my adventure
waiting for the author the set the world in motion
scribble down the first few lines
that ignite the conflict
of my epic-yet-to-be written
and i'm getting antsy
page one sucks ass
my imagination
is playing cards at gunpoint on page 68
racing jet planes on page 122
fist-fighting the billion-man Chinese army on page 181
curing a plague on page 254
dodging bullets on page 365
and telling the girl i met on page 9
that I want to marry her on page 909
but we have 500 pages to get to know each other
and 1,000 pages after that to love each other
till my deathbed confession on page 3269
that i did it all for her
'cause she was the great adventure
i don't want to die
as the secondhand, hastily-assembled sequel
to my father
sequel to his father
sitting dog-eared on a bookshelf
with the rest of them
squarely between diatribes
on genetics
and fate
hunkered down in low class used bookstore
tettering on the brink of bankruptcy
when my story ends
i want to be an endcap at Barnes & Noble
Borders will celebrate me
with an entire week of book signings and readings
Changing Hands will rake in the dough
I'll dropkick Harry Potter
Warner Bros. will fight for the movie rights
they'll bring Stanley Kubrick back from the dead to direct
because Steven Spielberg would just fuck-up the ending
i'll be an AOL keyword
a breakfast cereal
a fully-posable action figure with kung-fu action
i'll be in happy meals
on t-shirts, shower curtains, and bedsheets
and after Armageddon,
my story will inspire the survivors to rebuild
then i'll fade away
take up a nice retirement home
alongside Gilgamesh, Beowulf, the Iliad, and the Odyssey
talk about the weather
and complain about whippersnappers
only a footnote
in a C-minus high school paper
will mention the those carbon copies
of my failed fathers
but everyone everywhere
will know the name of the girl
of their fathers
chromosomes filling in the 'why'
do we do the things we do
patterns of patterns
of past behaviors
and here were are at square one
and I wonder if Adam was as fickle as I am
i swear i could be better than i am
when the chance comes
i could to be the superhero
the warrior
the badass
the protagonist
but post-modernism is cynical
and i'm still stuck in the epilogue
of my adventure
waiting for the author the set the world in motion
scribble down the first few lines
that ignite the conflict
of my epic-yet-to-be written
and i'm getting antsy
page one sucks ass
my imagination
is playing cards at gunpoint on page 68
racing jet planes on page 122
fist-fighting the billion-man Chinese army on page 181
curing a plague on page 254
dodging bullets on page 365
and telling the girl i met on page 9
that I want to marry her on page 909
but we have 500 pages to get to know each other
and 1,000 pages after that to love each other
till my deathbed confession on page 3269
that i did it all for her
'cause she was the great adventure
i don't want to die
as the secondhand, hastily-assembled sequel
to my father
sequel to his father
sitting dog-eared on a bookshelf
with the rest of them
squarely between diatribes
on genetics
and fate
hunkered down in low class used bookstore
tettering on the brink of bankruptcy
when my story ends
i want to be an endcap at Barnes & Noble
Borders will celebrate me
with an entire week of book signings and readings
Changing Hands will rake in the dough
I'll dropkick Harry Potter
Warner Bros. will fight for the movie rights
they'll bring Stanley Kubrick back from the dead to direct
because Steven Spielberg would just fuck-up the ending
i'll be an AOL keyword
a breakfast cereal
a fully-posable action figure with kung-fu action
i'll be in happy meals
on t-shirts, shower curtains, and bedsheets
and after Armageddon,
my story will inspire the survivors to rebuild
then i'll fade away
take up a nice retirement home
alongside Gilgamesh, Beowulf, the Iliad, and the Odyssey
talk about the weather
and complain about whippersnappers
only a footnote
in a C-minus high school paper
will mention the those carbon copies
of my failed fathers
but everyone everywhere
will know the name of the girl
Thursday, January 2, 2003
My Five of Five
Five things that 2002 taught me:
1. I can survive for 4 months on $300. Pretty well in fact.
2. My poetry doesn't suck. I am actually good at what I love to do.
3. By selling it all, choosing homelessness, and going on tour, I've done more at my young age to follow my heart than most people will do in their entire life. I'm braver than I thought I was.
4. I have to make my own destiny. Fate doesn't exist.
5. Life sucks without a car.
Five personally significant events of 2002:
1. Disowning my father. This was his second chance to be my dad in any way and it went worse than the first. Now I know how not to treat my children.
2. Finally telling Daniela to put up or shut up. She's been a cock-tease and a love-vampire for the last three years and I let her use me because I'm a coward. But I've finally stood up. I'm almost certain I've lost her but I'm free.
3. Getting arrested. It was stupid, I was guilty beyond doubt, and I don't want to commit the same crime ever again.
4. The Save the Male Poetry Tour. 39 shows, 26 states, four men, three months, two countries, and one van. Wow, what a ride.
5. Leaving Flagstaff. It's a good place if you can stand small towns and intrusive personalities, but I'm a city boy and need the diversity of 4 million people. I'd rather be a little fish in a big pond than a big fish in a soup.
Five things I want to do in 2003:
1. Make a National Slam Team and do the thing in Chicago.
2. Be satisfied with my poetry. The kind of poetry that isn't just selfless mental masturbation.
3. Have a meaningful relationship with someone who isn't 18, or in high school, or recently divorced, or my boss. A punk rock art chick who'll break me.
4. Make enough money to buy a car, get a computer, and start publishing the chapbooks of poets across the country.
5. Plan my next national poetry tour.
Five things I don't want to do in 2003:
1. Procrastinate.
2. Let fear or fear of loneliness paralyze my better judgment.
3. Settle.
4. Write crap poetry and try to pass it off as art.
5. Blame writer's block.
Five (groups of) people who I'd like to know better in 2003:
1. My three step sisters, Jessica 19, Danielle 17, and Kristina 11. Jessica got engaged over the weekend, Danielle has a secret artistic side I think I could coax out of her shell, and Kristina is more like me now than anyone else I know.
2. Corbet Dean. He's been the most supportive of all the poets I know, but I don't really know him like I should. He could also help me improve my performance.
3. Klute. He and I could have one of the great friendships that art scholars will debate for decades.
4. Trish JusTrish. I like her and her art more and more I hear it.
5. Scott Creney and Mathew Moon, the two Guerrilla poets from Boston moving to Prescott this month.
1. I can survive for 4 months on $300. Pretty well in fact.
2. My poetry doesn't suck. I am actually good at what I love to do.
3. By selling it all, choosing homelessness, and going on tour, I've done more at my young age to follow my heart than most people will do in their entire life. I'm braver than I thought I was.
4. I have to make my own destiny. Fate doesn't exist.
5. Life sucks without a car.
Five personally significant events of 2002:
1. Disowning my father. This was his second chance to be my dad in any way and it went worse than the first. Now I know how not to treat my children.
2. Finally telling Daniela to put up or shut up. She's been a cock-tease and a love-vampire for the last three years and I let her use me because I'm a coward. But I've finally stood up. I'm almost certain I've lost her but I'm free.
3. Getting arrested. It was stupid, I was guilty beyond doubt, and I don't want to commit the same crime ever again.
4. The Save the Male Poetry Tour. 39 shows, 26 states, four men, three months, two countries, and one van. Wow, what a ride.
5. Leaving Flagstaff. It's a good place if you can stand small towns and intrusive personalities, but I'm a city boy and need the diversity of 4 million people. I'd rather be a little fish in a big pond than a big fish in a soup.
Five things I want to do in 2003:
1. Make a National Slam Team and do the thing in Chicago.
2. Be satisfied with my poetry. The kind of poetry that isn't just selfless mental masturbation.
3. Have a meaningful relationship with someone who isn't 18, or in high school, or recently divorced, or my boss. A punk rock art chick who'll break me.
4. Make enough money to buy a car, get a computer, and start publishing the chapbooks of poets across the country.
5. Plan my next national poetry tour.
Five things I don't want to do in 2003:
1. Procrastinate.
2. Let fear or fear of loneliness paralyze my better judgment.
3. Settle.
4. Write crap poetry and try to pass it off as art.
5. Blame writer's block.
Five (groups of) people who I'd like to know better in 2003:
1. My three step sisters, Jessica 19, Danielle 17, and Kristina 11. Jessica got engaged over the weekend, Danielle has a secret artistic side I think I could coax out of her shell, and Kristina is more like me now than anyone else I know.
2. Corbet Dean. He's been the most supportive of all the poets I know, but I don't really know him like I should. He could also help me improve my performance.
3. Klute. He and I could have one of the great friendships that art scholars will debate for decades.
4. Trish JusTrish. I like her and her art more and more I hear it.
5. Scott Creney and Mathew Moon, the two Guerrilla poets from Boston moving to Prescott this month.
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