Poets Love Stars

Gaze skyward and select a star
name it secretly,
the same name as the lover
you’ve longed to touch
if the circumstances of circumstances
loosed their vicious, tight grip
on the ribbon of choices that lead you here
and you could sail to them
like Peter Pan or Superman

now, pretend that this moment
is the last one worth holding
the flotsam floating
from the sinking ship of time

imagine as your vision dims and fades
as your body decays into dust
eternity will be you staring in blissful wonder
at one last image embossed forever
on the blackboard of your eyelids
in the abandoned elementary school of your life
time will stumble forward for living things,
but for you
at the moment your ghost
takes off its bodysuit
you’ll hang on this thumbprint of the world
no sinful heaven,
no sinless hell,
no ponderous purgatory
just one pure moment till the end of the end ends finally

pretend this is that moment
and that lover’s name
is the last one to echo through memory
kaleidoscoping all the dots and dates of your history
drawing a final picture of who
you always wished you were

this is that moment

I am pretending this moment, too
the way your name wraps around my frame like a blanket
thick with the smell of sex and ’80s punk rock

you hold a forever passport to my dreams
irrevocable despite your embargo of time
or the miles between our car crash collisions
that slam our bodies into each other
with evening newscast picture perfection

I’ll warn you now
that this poem lacks mathematical computations
calculating distances of our heartbeats
I won’t bore you with algorithms and complex probability equations
to explain why I love you

I'll warn you know that in daylight, I can’t gaze skyward
because you named all the clouds in my eye-scape
I try to repeat them like the 99 names of Allah
and somehow found YHWH was trying
to pronounce my name correctly

the last time I traveled the world
you asked me to bring you clouds and sunsets
but photographs lack depth
stories can’t change fast enough
poetry fails to articulate color
so I was doomed to fail you
you knew that before I left
but gave me a quest anyway
to test my sincerity
so all I have are the stars

I’ll warn you now
that this poem lacks ambiguity
I will not spend stanza after stanza
elucidating all your curves
without naming you as the owner
you will not be able,
in ages and ages hence
to claim this poem is for another lover
unless her name is Rebecca, too

now,
I have broken the oldest taboo of
all poets:
never name the girl
because the audience suddenly
gives the subject form and fixture
no longer is she vapor and ether
no longer a lover of theirs
no longer possibly them
strangers can bump into on the street
and say they already know her as the reason
poets love stars

I'll warn you now
in the space between midnight and dawn
I long to find you have taken
the Normandy beach of my doorframe
outflanked my defenders
slaughtered the POWs
and threaten occupation;
we promise no resistance
if you swear immediate annexation
strip me bare
and claim these lands as yours
you’ll find a nation of willing collaborators kiss me tiger stripes
transform my carcass into a buffet
eat of my body, broken for you
the bruises you inflicted have faded
retreated down to my bones
though in dreams,
they rise again to the surface
marking me like tattoos

I'll warn you now
that sitting next to you
for the first time in months
starring at the stars
I’m resisting the urge to lean over and kiss you
but we’re beyond that
better than that

children have those urges
and can’t keep their hands to themselves
but you and I have these stars:
but I do confess
my forever moment shares your name
I love not because I need to
but because I need you

"Exsanguination," March 31/31 Project

For Doc Luben's March 31/31 Project
No. 6

Exsanguination
By Christopher Fox Graham

when did you break?

some moment
between our last meaningful kiss
and the last time we shared a bed
you broke
the laugh is the same
stories haven’t changed
the proximity of your warmth
exudes the same radiance
but no one tends furnace

whatever I once loved
could not be without
the heart-skip of sight
somewhere between us has ceased
a stranger in a body
that once thrust itself beneath mine
rocked in rhythm to my hips
a tongue that dove into my mouth
like a toddler in the surf

a shadow lives there
inhabiting the shell
a squatter in a house
I longed to inhabit
secured a loan and put in escrow

I could blame the housing bubble
and economic downturn
the credit crunch
for the foreclosure

she made me outgrow you
swell into a man
with 44-inch chest
too large for your narrow sleeves
eager to teach
she gave me more in less
than you did
shoved me into high school
while you were at recess

you’re no different
the same mathematical equations
processed in a mainframe
grown obsolete with technology’s growth

but the girl you were
with fire in your belly
wrath in your chest
blazing roads into the constellations
dimmed in day
lost passion in dusk
and emptied all the contents on the floor
the stars are specks now
instead of destinations
while you forget to reach up
I learned to chart them
we are strangers
it only took too long to notice

I don’t know if I could have saved her
kept her skin intact
instead of the permeated husk
that bled out in my absence
and in the months since
has weaved her way back into my atmosphere
but a derelict devoid of reason
to find interest in the hows and whys she’s around
fruitless lovers and vapid moments
bear no interest anymore
not since the heroine protagonist
ceased to inspire the reader
your haughty lovers can think they've cuckolded me
then strut and preen their self-interest
forgetting how vents carry sound
or that recycling isn't theft
something can't be stolen
if it's already tossed aside


we can’t go back
not now
not with the paths overgrown
you still lost in the woods
and me overlooking the shining sea
I’ll remember our moments
but you’re still too forgetful for them to matter
but I can’t wait anymore
there are fire-bearing girls still out there
somewhere along this shore
reaching for stars
longing for a boy eager to meet them
if you reach this place
I will leave you markers to follow
show you where I’ve gone

but you won’t be coming
the signal flares I send up
merely light my way
because you only see
how they cast your shadow
you’ve stopped looking skyward
and my toes no longer touch the earth

"Extinguished," March 31/31 Project

For Doc Luben's March 31/31 Project
No.2

Extinguished
By Christopher Fox Graham

the world once fit in her hands
she could hold it like a egg
to break or raise into a feathered dream
but the weight of world bent her back
the taste of drugs
warmth of a warm body
the belief that like her mother
she could not rise above
left her swirling in mediocrity
she owns the men who chase her
they obey her whims unaware
of their adherence to her religion

behind her brown eyes
the fire burned
curiosity sought stories
macheted a path to my doorstep
no world would halt her

but unrequited, unanswered
she diverted course to smoother seas
let the doom of days pull her to simpler courses
the blaze forgot the taste of wood
let the ashes swallow the rage to burn

extinguished flames smolder
blacken the skies with the dreams she told me of
near her longing eyes
one can’t see the sun
she stands broken
tongue cut from throat
unarmed Lavinia ignorant of the crime
dancing delirious in Titus’ shadow

I share tea with Time
tell him of the story lost in tragedy
forgetful of the narrative
try to wipe away the stain of her eyes
how they burned into skin
coughing on the smoke
she passes me in shadows now
forgets herself from her history
the ancestry come ’round
the egg broken underfoot

she wanted poems about clouds
but never rose to meet them
just curses the sky for damning her
blames the heavens for circumstances
over which they lacked control
the faded fire lurks in photographs
reflects in mirrors in moments unclaimed
the girl who burned them
gone into shadows
her mother remade
as Time marches on

She tattooed me

I love Becca because she's my punk rock dream girl. Two weeks ago while drunk at a house party in Flagstaff at 4 a.m., she graffitied my shoes.

What seems apropos is that I feel somewhat punk rock wearing these shoes, but Becca always bests me. No matter what crazy story I have, hers always seems more awesome, more natural, and more sincere. Having her graffiti on my most punk rock of my punk rock shoes feels like she's welcoming me into her fold.

The older we get the closer our two paths seem to merge. Unusually it's me bringing her as a Parvalus into my traditions, cliques and social circles; it feels welcoming to be on the receiving end as an Erus.

My Best Day in Months

Manifest Destiny and I spend two days in Flagstaff last week. Two days of poetry, booze, conversation, wandering and passing out at odd places. The best part of it all was spending 11 hours with Becca Allen who, incidentally, looks far less goofy in person than on my camera phone.

My Best Day in Months

when I said it was my best day in months
I meant it
despite the drunken stumbling
the late-night cold
and breaking a lock to a public building
an hour before dawn
just to find a place to sleep

it was a good day
because so much of it was with her
swallowed in the warmth of her smile
as she tripped over herself
like always
unable to keep herself upright
I admire her clumsiness
because of its familiarity
the way she could hardly
keep her feet beneath herself near me
our twin orbits
pulling each other's equilibriums off-kilter
so we seem to slide into each other
as we have in the years of our courtship
that's what I call it anyway
she'd say were lurching toward insanity
as we bicker and part ways
for months at a time
only colliding together
when she chooses to miss me
never soon enough
never often enough

it was a good day
because for a few sweet hours
I felt hers
sprawled out her bed
as she picked up her laundry
or became familiar in her shower
with all the solutions and cleansers she uses
or as she gave me 9 gigs of music
knowing my lacking taste
I felt hers
for the first time in years
I would those moments last for years
if I had the power
but lacking anything beyond memory
I catalogued all the moments
as best I could
knowing I'd pen poems like these
for each one worth remembering
taking snapshots every few seconds
whenever she flashed a smile
over her boyfriend's shoulder
yes, he was there, too
oblivious to the details of our history
the living-room floor half-nude wrestling
the wine-fueled sleepovers
when you drank too much
and I forgot my name
the first time we fucked
mid-party with 70 friends
watching our foreplay
she kept her mouth silent
and I offered no insight
into our closeness
she consistently called me "friend"
though I interpreted it as "lover"
and hoped no one understood our dialect
with the same fluency

it was a good day despite the broken heart
of seeing her happy
with someone who wasn't me
but all my sins
made this inevitable
someday, when someone mistakes
all my poetry too seriously
my sins will become infamous
in the annals of romance
catalogued and cross-referenced
but for now,
my sins are still unfinished
I have dozens more love affairs
to trainwreck into oblivion
more relationships to ruin
more unkind words
spoken at just the wrong time
to demolish some sacred moment
my love is nothing if not entertaining
to those not caught in my crosshairs
with friends like me
who needs enemies?
so I can’t blame her
for choosing a better option
than what I could muster at the moment

it was a good day
one that made me want to be a better man
for a thousand different ways
I can't express to her with my succinctness
but it drained me of illusions for days
as if I could see the future
just a few moments ahead
and more aware of the beauty around me
the small things I used to embrace
years ago when I called myself "poet"
for the first time:
the flight of dragonflies
making love in the morning
the heady residue
in a pint of beer
the echo of small talk
in a crowded bar
as I scribbled this down
the feeling of being crestfallen for far too long
I've never felt this broken before
not this broken for this long
with no seeming way out

I needed to fall
have my wings clipped
suffer for my vanity
my unwillingness to forgive
my pride, which will one day
damn me to a sudden death
I want to live a cliché life sometimes
the 2.5 kids, housewife,
boring but steady job
and a dog bearing slippers
with all my potential poetry
locked in the closet of my mind
and no recollection of artistry
because this life is too hard
the loneliness, the hangovers
the desperate lurch from paycheck to paycheck
breaking me beneath its boot heel
wondering if today I'l pay for food
or car registration --

but I have to quantify this pressure
lest my mother again mistake these complaints
for suicidal thoughts
and I get another late-night call
to explain that poets only kill themselves
when they have nothing else to write
not when they're writing it all down --

I have no recourse but to endure
pray for better days
to celebrate surviving poverty
and I hope she's there
with open arms when I rise up
eager to hold me again
and recall this as just one good day
after so many piss-poor ones

this was a good day
because she was in it
and tomorrow is another chance
to see her again

Becca's Serenity Haiku

Fight fate when you want
resist, rebel, deny love.
Destiny fights back

Prohibition Era Speakeasy Party

These are Gregg's photos. In all, there were between 70 and 80 people. Only about 10 were not in costume. Not everyone was photographed, obviously.
David and Dylan
Ashley Wintermute
Aaron and Michelle
Michelle
Richard, Sean, Robert, and Dylan
Molly, Kera and Deeds
Michelle and Bri
Fiona, Richard, Ashley and me
Ashley
Paula, Gitangelique, Daniel and Aaron
Michelle ... I think Gregg liked shooting photos of her
Matthew Horstman, Kelly Cole and Jen Valencia, and at the bar, Dan Seaman, Zach and bartender David Reed
Aaron , Brandon, Lou, Zach, and Michelle
Paula, Gitangelique, Aaron, and Daniel
Gitangelique and Aaron
Lori-Ann, Sean, Michelle and Dave Harvey
Zach, Aaron, Gitangelique, Michelle, Bri and Glenn
Aaron and Michelle
Daniel, Gitangelique and Aaron
Richard, Sean and Robert
KuK and Sean
Jen, Matthew, Sean and Zach
KuK
Me, Richard, Ashley and Ian.
KuK and Porengui
Glenn, Gitangelique, Bri and Matthew Horstman
Michelle, Sean, Porungui, Dave Harvey and Lori-Ann (that's her thumb)

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

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

What I Believe

What I Believe:
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

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

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.

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"