New Mexico poetry slam icon Damien Flores features at Sedona Poetry Slam on Saturday, Nov. 13

After the successful return of slam poetry to Sedona in October, the Sedona Poetry Slam proudly welcomes New Mexico slam poetry icon Damien Flores to the stage on Saturday, Nov. 13.

Performance poets will bring high-energy, competitive spoken word to the Mary D. Fisher Theatre starting at 7:30 p.m. with Flores performing between rounds.

Damien Flores

Flores is an award-winning poet, comedian, author, actor, educator, & radio broadcaster from Albuquerque, N.M.

A two-time National Poetry Slam Champion and two-time College Unions Poetry Slam Champion, he has published three books: “Junkyard Dogs,” “El Cuento de Juana Henrieta,” and “A Novena of Mud.”

Flores and his works have been featured in several anthologies, magazines and newspapers, including Albuquerque the Magazine, Bomb Magazine and El Palacio. He is a past presenter at TEDxABQ, was twice named Poet of the Year by the New Mexico Hispano Entertainers Association and received the Lena Todd Award for Creative Nonfiction from the University of New Mexico.

He produces the monthly open mic and slam called Poetry & Beer as well as the regional invitational Southwest Showdown Poetry Slam and the local ABQ Slams Championship Tournaments. He is also a Radio Free America DJ & hosts the Spoken Word Hour on 89.9 KUNM.

Anyone Can Compete

A poetry slam is like a series of high-energy, three-minute one-person plays, judged by the audience. Anyone can sign up to compete in the slam for the $75 grand prize and $25 second-place prize. To compete in the slam, poets will need three original poems, each lasting no longer than three minutes. No props, costumes nor musical accompaniment are permitted. The poets are judged Olympics-style by five members of the audience selected at random at the beginning of the slam.

Slam poetry is an art form that allows written page poets to share their work alongside theatrical performers, hip-hop artists and lyricists. Poets come from as far away as Phoenix, Tucson and Flagstaff, competing against adult poets from Sedona and Cottonwood, college poets from Northern Arizona University and youth poets from Sedona Red Rock High School. All types of poetry are welcome on the stage, from street-wise hip-hop and narrative performance poems, to political rants and introspective confessionals. Any poem is a “slam” poem if performed in a competition. All poets get three minutes per round to entertain and inspire the audience with their creativity.

Mary D. Fisher Theatre is located at 2030 W. SR 89A, Suite A-3, in West Sedona. Tickets are $12. For tickets, call 282-1177 or visit SedonaFilmFestival.org.

The upcoming poetry slams of the season will be held Saturdays, Jan 15; Saturday, March 5, featuring Bernard “The Klute” Schober, of Phoenix; April 23; and May 14.

The prize money is funded in part by a donation from Verde Valley poetry supporters Jeanne and Jim Freeland.

Email foxthepoet@yahoo.com to sign up early to compete or by the Friday before the slam or at the door the day of the slam. Poets who want to compete should purchase a ticket in case the roster is filled before they arrive.

For more information, visit sedonafilmfestival.com or foxthepoet.blogspot.com.

What is Poetry Slam?

Founded at the Green Mill Tavern in Chicago in 1984 by Marc Smith, poetry slam is a competitive artistic sport designed to get people who would otherwise never go to a poetry reading excited about the art form when it becomes a high-energy competition. Poetry slams are judged by five randomly chosen members of the audience who assign numerical value to individual poets’ contents and performances.

Poetry slam has become an international artistic sport, with more than 100 major poetry slams in the United States, Canada, Australia and Western Europe. Slam poets have opened at the Winter Olympics, performed at the White House and at the United Nations General Assembly and were featured on “Russell Simmons' Def Poets” on HBO.

Sedona has sent four-poet teams to represent the city at the National Poetry Slam in Charlotte, N.C., Boston, Cambridge, Mass., Oakland, Calif., Decatur, Ga., Denver and Chicago.

Sedona Poetry Slam returns to the Mary D. Fisher Theatre on Saturday, Oct. 2

After an 18-month hiatus, the Sedona Poetry Slam returns for its 13th season Saturday, Oct. 2. Performance poets will bring high-energy, competitive spoken word to the Mary D. Fisher Theatre starting at 7:30 p.m.

A poetry slam is like a series of high-energy, three-minute one-person plays, judged by the audience. Anyone can sign up to compete in the slam for the $75 grand prize and $25 second-place prize. To compete in the slam, poets will need three original poems, each lasting no longer than three minutes. No props, costumes nor musical accompaniment are permitted. The poets are judged Olympics-style by five members of the audience selected at random at the beginning of the slam.

Slam poetry is an art form that allows written page poets to share their work alongside theatrical performers, hip-hop artists and lyricists. Poets come from as far away as Phoenix, Tucson and Flagstaff, competing against adult poets from Sedona and Cottonwood, college poets from Northern Arizona University and youth poets from Sedona Red Rock High School. All types of poetry are welcome on the stage, from street-wise hip-hop and narrative performance poems, to political rants and introspective confessionals. Any poem is a “slam” poem if performed in a competition. All poets get three minutes per round to entertain and inspire the audience with their creativity.

Mary D. Fisher Theatre is located at 2030 W. SR 89A, Suite A-3, in West Sedona. Tickets are $12. For tickets, call 282-1177 or visit SedonaFilmFestival.org.

The upcoming poetry slams of the season will be held Saturday, Nov. 13, featuring Damien Flores of Albuquerque, N.M.; Saturdays, Jan 15; March 5, featuring Bernard “The Klute” Schober, of Phoenix; April 23; and May 14.

The prize money is funded in part by a donation from Verde Valley poetry supporters Jeanne and Jim Freeland.

Email foxthepoet@yahoo.com to sign up early to compete or by the Friday before the slam or at the door the day of the slam. Poets who want to compete should purchase a ticket in case the roster is filled before they arrive.

For more information, visit sedonafilmfestival.com or foxthepoet.blogspot.com.

What is Poetry Slam?

Founded at the Green Mill Tavern in Chicago in 1984 by Marc Smith, poetry slam is a competitive artistic sport designed to get people who would otherwise never go to a poetry reading excited about the art form when it becomes a high-energy competition. Poetry slams are judged by five randomly chosen members of the audience who assign numerical value to individual poets’ contents and performances.

Poetry slam has become an international artistic sport, with more than 100 major poetry slams in the United States, Canada, Australia and Western Europe. Slam poets have opened at the Winter Olympics, performed at the White House and at the United Nations General Assembly and were featured on “Russell Simmon’s Def Poets” on HBO.

Sedona has sent four-poet teams to represent the city at the National Poetry Slam in Charlotte, N.C., Boston, Cambridge, Mass., Oakland, Calif., Decatur, Ga., Denver and Chicago.

"The Envy of the Moon" by Christopher Fox Graham

"The Envy of the Moon"

By Christopher Fox Graham

The Arizona desert is so silent

that on a night like this

you can hear the Moon

because of the distance between here and there

it takes time for messages to pass between us

but tonight I ask,

"Moon, do you envy the Earth?"

on most nights,

the Moon remains silent in the night sky

unwilling or unable to reply

but tonight,

tonight on the breath of the wind

deep and slow like it had centuries of time to contemplate an answer

I heard the Moon whisper, "Yes."

when speaking with heavenly bodies

you must slow your mind

understand that they do not enunciate impatiently

every syllable takes time to shake free of its surface

so they only speak when gravity is worth the weight

"Yes, I envy the Earth," the Moon said

"we were lovers

born in the same fire

spinning like dancers drunk on each other

shattered by craters which made us old before our time

but across her

oceans hide her secrets

I pull at them hoping to see her again

I lost sight of her beneath all the green

across her, moving things became too many to count

the noise of it is deafening

your people covered across her plains

cut geometric squares that now change with the seasons

cities spread from sea coast up her rivers to the mountains

and places in between

threads of lines connect them all

you people shake loose so much of my old lover

I barely recognize her

and I wondered what is so important

that you were so busy for so long

and then a few of you came to visit

planted your feet and your flags on my skin

said things close to me

there was no time to wait for the echo like before

it was overwhelming

the Earth feels like this every day

and i'm certain some days it's more than she can take

but I would give anything to feel it again

you had stared at me for so many generations

your desire to reach me was burned into your bones

so happy to be the first

you left your names engraved in stone for those afterward

and then I knew what she felt

why she held you so tightly

why she changed herself after every eruption or impact

it was to give a few of you a chance to survive

it was the only way we could touch again

you came to visit

but none of you stayed

you left me here

and I did not know I was lonely until you were gone

but I will tell you a secret:

deep in your American South

in the bayou of a delta

there is a man who sits nightly on his porch

as the sun dips below the horizon

he plays his guitar for hours

I can narrow my vision to see his face like he was sitting here

he plays and stares at me

like we are old friends

the lunar desert is so silent

that on a night like this

you can hear single note

because of the distance between here and there

it takes time for messages to pass between us

but I strain to listen

and I know I must compensate for the delay

deafen all the other songs and stories

so I can hear what he has to sing

but on a night like tonight

on the breath of the wind

he sings of being alone

I count you daily

there are 7 billion of you around him

some within miles

be he, he is alone

profoundly nakedly alone

as though he, like me, had been alone in the dark for centuries

but remembers what it was like to be loved and touched once

and when stares at me, he knows that only I know what he feels

he sings to me

he sings for me

he sings because I

do not know how

so, yes, I envy the Earth

I want you to be here

I want your cities to spread across these ancient craters

I want to be so deep beneath your feet that I am forgotten

because you are staring out at other worlds to touch

I want you to no longer call me the Moon like I am a stranger

but 'home' because this is where you spent your lives

this is where you want to be buried

this is where you want to leave from

and never look back

I envy the Earth

because she has this," the Moon said

"she has you"

A colonized moon

Christopher Fox Graham © 2014

"In the Blood" by Christopher Fox Graham

"In the Blood"

by Christopher Fox Graham

Fair warning,
you die first.

"...written with his own blood" by Janina-Photography

I know, you’re thinking that with all my whiskey nights
I’d cease the fight first
but fate plays dice —
my eulogy isn’t profound, but between us
it’s the only poem worth all the blood I’ve verbalized
my heart beats after yours
because I never could imagine the world without you
so you had to show me the hard way
even this old, I’m still chasing you
like I did at the beginning

— 10 —

Our daughters visit one by one
find me holding one hand
while a machine holds the other
beeping,
beeping,
beeping
with clockwork regularity
counting down the heartbeats you have left —
I read you 60 years of blood poured into poems
“The Peach” still makes you laugh

— 9 —

We send our son a message to the colony on Mars
he can never visit,
when he boarded the shuttle
we knew it was a one way trip
I tell him to hold his sons tonight
gaze across the terrain
and remember that the red in his blood
is deeper and darker
binding him forever to home

— 8 —
On the first day of our retirement
we burn all your business cards
and all my button-down white shirts —
we make love in the kitchen like horny teenagers
I later find your red underwear in the sink —
the pasta boils over and burns the pot
so we feed it to the neighbors’ dog
you hate the neighbors
but like the dog

— 7 —
after my wedding toast,
I swing dance with our youngest daughter at the reception
because I save all my slow dances for you
rest my hand in the small of your back
kiss your crimson lips like the first time
when we get to our empty nest,
we split a bottle of Jameson
and wake cuddling each other’s pounding hangovers

— 6 —
you get almost leave me three times
the first two are admittedly my fault —
I don’t learn about the third until years later
when your reasons have faded to such silliness
you laugh when you tell me why
I buy red roses for a month anyway

— 5 —
in the Red Chair Hotel lounge in Prague
we hold hands
not saying a word
and for an hour
no one else enters
that was the moment —
the one I’d hold onto
when asked,
“what was the best day of your life?”

— 4 —
By the last one, you’re a pro —
but you leave my arm bruised
when our first child is born
one fingernail drew blood
and the scar is my joy
that I became a father

— 3 —
the proposal was unexpected
I stood on the stage
performing a poem you’d heard before
but you noticed two lines changed
and midway through, a new stanza flipped the meaning
before I dropped to a knee and asked
the time penalty cost me points
and the other poets called you a “prop”
but we got four 10s and a red heart
when you said "yes"

— 2 —
I apologize for our third date
everything goes wrong
the restaurant is terrible
you kiss me so deep I get hiccups
the sex is sloppy
I cut my hand changing the flat tire
so the first time you say it
I am staring at the bloody bandage
wondering about stitches
so I have to ask, “what do you say?!”

— 1 —
I small talk
to mask my skipping heart
although I can’t tell if you like me
when you finally ask me out
blood rushes from my fingers and toes
leaving me warmly cold

but all the way home
I think how the first poem
should start at the end
and work backward
so the only mistake I’ll ever regret
was waiting so long to begin

"Telephone" by Owen Davis and Eugene Brosseau, performed by Jess Ryan and Christopher Fox Graham

"TELEPHONE for solo piano and mixed media" from Owen Davis on Vimeo.

Poet Christopher Fox Graham, left, composer Owen Davis, pianist Jess Ryan,
and poet Eugene Brosseau at Northern Arizona University's Ashurst
Auditorium on Saturday, Dec. 8.

In collaboration with visual artist and poet Eugene Brosseau, "TELEPHONE" is a piano solo commissioned by Jess Ryan in 2012. Using the sounds of live and prerecorded telephones along with spoken word poetry, this work aims to integrate the entire performance space and audience into the music. The video serves as a montage of information and the full performance at Ashurst Auditorium at Northern Arizona University on Saturday, Dec. 8.
For more information on the work, please contact: owendavismusic@gmail.com

What I do is use one cell phone to call another, put them both on speaker, and place them earpiece to mouthpiece to create a feedback loop, which grows louder. By the third portion, it sounds like digital crickets, which coincides with Brosseau's line "holding it tight as crickets call from under the back porch."

"Telephone"

By Eugene Brosseau

This whole thing started as a conversation
but has turned to so much noise that neither of us can hear the other

as if the words themselves were now the meaning
and the only virtue of silence is its contrast to such incessant discord

I can barely tell your voice from mine as we run together unaware in wasted words

our minds made unclear by the now hoarse voices we hurl at the walls of each other's holdings

I know passion must play a part and I suffer for not recognizing yours
and yet I insist on trying
at first to convince you
and then to drown you out

unwilling to refuse myself I beat you about the ears while I persist in covering my own

but I am beginning to feel that I want something better

I want a revelation

BREAK

Some strand of hope must be running through this
something vital coming over the lines

I can feel it under my bare feet as I run through you like a puddle

splashing as I go to make you feel my waves
which are all reduced to ripples

when
if ever we stop
can we listen to the silence
and find something in common there

there is where we could live

in the stillness on the line

we could walk into that silence
like a Baptist into a river
with all our armor off
complete and unrevealed
and wash away this enmity and dread

BREAK

Are you there

I can hear you breathing
please don’t hang up
stay on until I fall asleep

you can tell me what you see when your eyes are closed and I'll just listen
holding the empty can to my ear while the string hums

holding it tight as crickets call from under the back porch
and the stars are coming out in the purple sky
and the pine trees send their comfort on the cool air
through the screen window into my room
where I lie on my bed legs crossed

listening to your words

humming on the string

into the empty can

pressed against my ear

Buy a copy of my new poetry book "The Opposite of Camouflage"

What did I do on my holiday? Made a new book, "The Opposite of Camouflage."

16 poems in a 52-page bound book, available for $9.99

Poems included:

• Welcome to the Church of the Word
• Manifesto of an Addict
• We Call Him Papa
• Spinal Language
• Ragnarok
• The Peach
• Breakfast Cereal
• In the Corners of This Room
• Three Minutes for Dylan
• Do You Have a Baseball Bat?
• My Hands are in the Mail
• The Devil’s Gardens
• Revolution 2.0
• Staring at the Milky Way with One Eye Closed
• Dear Pluto
• They Held Hands

Special thanks to Big Pappa E for suggesting the title.

Click here to buy a copy now

"Manifesto of an Addict" by Christopher Fox Graham

you see I’ve got a problem
I’m addicted to that one thing
that everything that true thing
every moment I’m looking for another fix
wandering from here to there
trying to get just one more hit
you see I'm addicted to humanity
it’s just this power that overwhelms
this power that draws me in
I don’t know what it is
I can’t escape
humanity has me addicted
every time I kiss a girl
talk to a friend
hear the story of a stranger
I get just that much more addicted
and it’s just that much harder to break myself away

when a 75-year-old black man
tells me how he earned a vicious scar on his face
from a near-lynching in 1952
just outside Birmingham, Alabama
I get more addicted
his story
that human story
draws me in

when a mother of two
tells me what it was like
to explain her boys
that daddy is never coming home again
because semi-trucks don’t leave survivors
I get more addicted
her story
that human story
draws me in

when an elderly Jewish matriarch
tells me what was like
to grow up in a Polish concentration camp
to see her family get shot
then rolls up her sleeve to reveal a tattoo of
4
7
3
2
8
carved in the flesh
of her forearm
her story draws me
in every gesture
every feature
every wrinkle crease earned through survival
draws me in
like a moth to a flame,
like a comet to a star

I can’t escape
I tried once
I tried to withdraw once
ever gone through human withdrawal?
I left the world for a day
and it almost killed me
I couldn’t function
I couldn’t act
I couldn’t breathe
I couldn’t walk
I couldn’t talk
do you know what it’s like
for a poet who cannot talk?
a poet who cannot talk
who cannot write
is dead

I had to come back
my addiction keeps me alive
do you know how easy is to get this stuff?
they don’t even sell it
they give it away
I can’t round a corner without getting another hit
and it’s killing me

if I could break his addiction
I could live forever
but what would my life be like without my humanity?
they say we’re all made to die, does that mean we’re all addicted?
are you?
are you?
are you?
I am
I my love my addiction
I want to experience the stories of everyone
because what differs us is just time and space
I want to know what other possibilities my soul had
before it chose this time
this space
this body to occupy
I want to know
I want more and more
I want to do the lines of every human face
I want to walk the features
memorize the names
live the stories that of every human who ever lived and I still want more

I want to feast with Gilgamesh
I want to besiege Troy
I want to drink with Alexander
I want to walk the halls of Camelot
I want to meditate with Buddha
I want to pray with Mohammed
I want to burn with Joan of Arc
I want to ride with Crazy Horse
I want to stand in the streets of Hiroshima with 140,000 other human beings
and feel the skies turn instantly
into the wrath of God
and want to sacrifice myself on Calvary
and become your Messiah
because God
if there is one
was just the first addict

I love being addicted
even if it’s going to kill me
I ask for more
I beg for more
I would sell my soul for more
but what makes this addiction my curse
is that I’m just one man
and I don’t have much time

Christopher Fox Graham © 2000

I guess I never posted this poem online before. Originally just a solo poem, I performed with Nick Fox and Chris Lane as a three-man group poem at the 2001 National Poetry Slam in Seattle.

See the Big Easy

This is from part of a poem about Hurricane Katrina I found recently and decided to finish.

See the Big Easy

The journalist in me
wants to see the Big Easy
it’s not every day that a city
gets wiped off the map

there are stories that need telling
how two men survived on a rooftop
eating pigeons
when the canned food ran out
until a neighbor they had never known
carried them away
or the family of six that let secrets spill
for the first time in years
when they faced the end
and saw bodies floating by
the mystery of the man
with six shots in the torso
and two in skull
— his killer had to reload —
but what happened to change me
from homeowner to corpse?
there are stories that need telling
and my hands are aching
to tell them a world blinded
by the sheer numbers

Baltimore, what would you do?
Seattle, how would you behave?
St. Louis, how would you collect your dead?
Los Angeles, would your rage subside
for the sanctity of touch?

Atlantis sank
Pompeii turned to ash
conflagration mythologized Troy
reduced Rome to Nero’s fiddlesticks
ended London’s Renaissance
doomed Windy City bovines
erased Dresden’s heart
eviscerated Coventry, Darmstadt, Pforzheim, Brunswick, Stalingrad, Hamburg, Tokyo, Osaka, Kobe, Hiroshima and Nagasaki
but the vanity of men
rebuilt them into new glories

each one will die in the old ways
or new, undreamed catastrophes
or ironically appropriate calamities
imagined only by trite screenwriters
yet those with the wherewithal
to hold on by fingernails
will merely collapse in the absence of men
fossilizing our bones in their bellies
before Fenrir swallows the sun
the vault of heaven falls
and grass covers all

I want to see how the end may come
interpret the foreshadowing doom,
behold the ego of man
smote by Mother Nature’s gloved fist
to remind us of our insignificance,
lest we forget
stand in the French Quarter
feel the wafting sin evaporate from the gutters
and understand right retribution
only witnessed before in Sodom and Gomorrah
I want to see the death of one great city
barely hiccupping back to life
before I, too, succumb to my personal tragedy
let me hear the jazz funeral tunes
echo over the eaves of abandoned tombs
when there are no saints left to go marching in

Christopher Fox Graham, "Spinal Language"

Christopher Fox Graham performs the poem "Spinal Language." Christopher Fox Graham hosted the Sedona Poetry Slam on Saturday, June 27, 2009.

"In the Corners of this Room" at the Sedona Poetry Slam

I performed the poem "In the Corners of This Room" while hosting the Sedona Poetry Slam on Saturday, June 27, 2009. After seeing myself on video, I am surprised by three things:
1) That I ever get laid. Seriously? How could a woman with working eyesight be attracted to that?
2) That I ever win slams. How can you listen when I look like a flesh version of Gumby.
3) That people don't hit me in the face with a brick more often. I mean, I want to right now.

In the Corners of this Room

In the corners of this room,
the dust is centuries thick
accumulated from the hundreds of thousands
of footfalls that have shaken the hardwood floors

in the corners, the dust narrates stories
of surviving the earthquake that leveled the city of Lisbon
in 1755 but left this building standing

its tiled walls still echoes the voices
of the men from the 16th century
who filled this library
whispering to each other
the truths that they gleaned from illuminated books

this dust heard Napoleon at the gates
held safe the patriots that resisted him
the vaulted arches comforted both factions
in the civil war without choosing sides
to further divide the brothers already at war

the dust in this room withstood the revolution,
the coup d'état, the book-burners,
the two world wars
and the end of an empire

the dusted lasted all these years
but never has it seen anything
as beautiful as her

she, the dancer, glides across this hardwood floor
on bruised and battered toes
her arms ache from repeating the movements
until they are flawless

she takes the train
the bus, the metro
to come here
suffer the abuse of a teacher demanding no less
than perfection
she is intimidated by her own passion
yet will not surrender

she, the dancer, is artistry in motion,
skimming over the hardwood
with every limb, every ounce of her
articulating all the poetry that used to fill this room

books are no longer necessary
define beauty
watch her
what is art?
watch her
is there a god?
watch her

speak to me a radiant poem about a sun rise
watch her and the poem
will spill from lips like breath

she does not move like us
her muscles are an army
every part, an instrument
combining the chorus of her feet
with the brass of her legs
the strings of her arms
the percussion of her chest
beating her heart drum
in rhythm to the symphony of her presence
if the tiles had eyes
they would not blink
fearing that she would wisp away like a dream
in the sunrise streaming through the windows

fill this space with the memory of your movements
dance across these wood floors that creak underfoot
and ache to hold your steps
for a moment,
like a lover would

as she dances at the center of the world
the dust, in the corners of this room,
forgets all the years
forgets the wars, the blood, the books, the whispers
and she,
at this moment
is why this building ever stood