The poets and teams at the 2012 National Poetry Slam

The poets and teams at the 2012 National Poetry Slam. The numbers are merely alphabetical order placeholders.


Much thanks to Danny Strack's 2012 NPS Scouting Report

1 Nitty Gritty Slam (Albany, N.Y.):
Shannon Shoemaker, Elizag, Kevin Peterson, Poetic Visionz, Coach: Mojavi, Slammaster: Thom Francis, Daniel Nester Mary
New England/N Beast
http://albanypoets.com/2012/05/help-team-nitty-gritty-go-to-national-poetry-slam-in-charlotte/

2 ABQ Slams (Albuquerque, N.M.):
Jessica Helen Lopez, Khalid Binsunni, Damien Flores, Zachary Kluckman, Alternate: Eva Crespin and NJ Casey, Slammaster: Damien Flores, Kenn Rodriquez
Southwest Shoot Out
http://www.facebook.com/kennrodriguez.poet
http://www.facebook.com/home.php?sk=group_133873645144

3 Loser Slam (Asbury Park, N.J.):
Joshua Ballard, Greg Murray, Nicolas Cabrera, Dan Sanchez, Slammaster: Nicole Homer
New England/N Beast
http://www.facebook.com/loserslam

4 Art Amok! (Atlanta, Ga.):
Jonathan Samuel Eddie, Hillary Kobernick Watson, Marshall “Gripp” Gillson, Gabe Moses, Malika Hadley Freydberg, Slammaster: Karen “Karen G”
Southern Fried

5 Austin NeoSoul (Austin, Texas):
Shae Harris, LaLove Robinson, Danny Strack, Zai, “Korim” Jonathon Sterling, Coach: Ebony Stewart , Slammaster: Brian “B-Fran” Francis
Southwest Shoot Out

6 Austin Slam at Spiderhouse (Austin, Texas):
Good Ghost Bill, Kevin W. Burke, Margaret Ruth Olson, Keith Ruckus, Zachary Caballero Coach: Christopher Michael , Slammaster: Danny Strack
Southwest Shoot Out

7 Eclectic Truth (Baton Rouge, La.):
Chancelier Xero Skidmore, Jonathan Brown, Desireé V. Dallagiacomo, Rodrick Minor, Donney Rose, Slammaster: Jocelyn Young
Southern Fried

8 Boise Poetry Slam, Big Tree Arts - Delux (Boise, Idaho):
Cheryl Maddalena, Ross Hargreaves, Conor Hatchett Harris, Matthew Freeman, Alex Hatter, Slammaster: Cheryl Maddalena
Pac Coast/Big Sur
http://www.boisepoetry.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=frontpage&Itemid=1

9 Boston Poetry Slam @ the Cantab Lounge (Boston, Mass.):
Kemi Alabi, Antonia Lassar, Omoizele Okoawo, Mckendy Fils-Aimé, Melissa Newman-Evans, Slammaster: Simone Beaubien Mckendy/April Ranger
New England/N Beast
http://bostonpoetryslam.com/

10 Lizard Lounge; Boston/Cambridge (Boston, Mass.):
Porsha Rashidaat J. Olayiwola, Janae Johnson, Rudy Rudacious, TheIncredible Christopher Johnson!, Slammaster: Jeff Robinson
New England/N Beast
http://poetryjam.org/slam/

11 Verbal Slap at the Poetz Realms (Bridgeport, Conn.):
Midnight, Hawk, Baub, Coach: Frederick Douglass , Slammaster: Croilot Carlos, “Kwalo” Semexant
New England/N Beast
www.facebook.com/poetzrealm
http://www.gofundme.com/maddk

12 Bulington Slam Project (Bulington, Ontario, Canada):
Kay’la Fraser, Truth Is…, Tomy Bewick, Lip Balm, Alternate: Dan aka Dan Murray aka Dan, Slammaster: Tomy Bewick
Canadian
http://burlingtonslam.wordpress.com/

13 Charlotte Respect Da Mic (Charlotte, N.C.):
Blk Swan, CP Maze, EyeAmBic, Mania, Slammaster: Rochelle “Blaqbaree” Stanley
Southern Fried
www.respectdamic.org

14 SlamCharlotte (Charlotte, N.C.):
Ed Mabrey, Christopher Shawn Barker, Filmore Johnson, Boris Rogers, Twenty20, Slammaster: Boris “Bluz” Rogers
Southern Fried
http://www.slamcharlotte.com

15 Green Mill (Chicago) (Chicago, Ill.):
Eric Sirota, Shelly Giezler, Rik Vazquez, Marty McConnell, Slammaster: Marc “So What” Smith
Midwest/Rustbelt

16 Mental Graffiti (Chicago, Ill.):
Anthony Michael Cooremans, Patrick Pressl, Stephanie Lane Sutton, Billy Tuggle, Coach: Emily Rose, Slammaster: Emily Rose
Midwest/Rustbelt
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Mental-Graffiti/42614196497

17 Lake Effect Poetry, formerly Dragons Inc. (Cleveland, Ohio):
T.M. Göttl, Mello da Poet, Carla Thompson, Cory Mikesell, Alternate: Skylark Bruce, Slammaster: Vertigo Xi'an Xavier
Midwest/Rustbelt
http://www.lakeeffectpoetry.com/

18 Writer's Block (Colombus, Ohio):
Gina Blaurock, Hanif Abdurraqib, Rose M Smith, Vernell Bristow, Slammaster: Scott Woods
Midwest/Rustbelt
http://writersblockpoetry.rewritingovid.net/Current.php

19 Writing Wrongs (Colombus, Ohio):
Siaara ControverSi Freeman, AKeemjamal Rollins, Ethan Rivera, Rachel Wiley, Arianna Cheree McCall, Slammaster: Will Evans
Midwest/Rustbelt
http://www.facebook.com/groups/109154669177635/

20 Dallas Poetry Slam (Dallas, Texas):
Awaji Johnson, Candy, Twain, Lgb Jay Sentino, Slammaster: Rock Baby
Southwest Shoot Out
http://www.wordspace.us/past_events/

21 Java Monkey (Decatur, Ga.):
Marques “Quez” Linly, Daryl Funn, Miss Haze, Brian Patillo, Fit Linly, Slammaster: Daryl “MistaFunn” Funn
Southern Fried
http://www.facebook.com/JavaMonkeySlam

22 SlamNUBA (Denver, Colo.):
Jovan Mays, Kenya Mahogany Pollard, Jozer Guerrero, Alejandro Jimenez, Suzi Q. Smith Alternate: D. Brooks, Slammaster: Suzi Q Smith
Southwest Shoot Out

23 Mercury Café aka Denver Merc (Denver, Colo.):
Ian Dougherty, Rebecca Preston, Trevor Liam-Byrne Smith, Eddie Eifler, Kylee Wellons Alternate: Kayla Price Coach: Bianca Mikahn , Slammaster: Bianca Mikahn and Trevor Byrne-Smith
Southwest Shoot Out

24 Bull City Slam/Jambalaya Soul Slam (Durham, N.C.):
Kimberly Redefining Freedom, Sum Thyng Likea Poet, Elliot Axiom, I-Shine, Slammaster: Chris Massenberg aka “Dasan Ahanu”
Southern Fried
http://bullcitypoetryslam.com/about.html

25 Flagslam (Flagstaff, Ariz.):

Christopher Fox Graham, Ryan Brown, Shaun Srivastava “nodalone”, Tara Pollock, Jackson Morris, Slammaster: Ryan Brown
Southwest Shoot Out

26 Ink Well Poetry Slam (Fort Worth and Arlington, Texas ):
Divine aka Verb Kulture, La Quitta Alexander, Terry Odis, Michael Hatcher, Duane Madden, Slammaster: Duane Madden
Southwest Shoot Out
http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100003162799340

27 Fort Worth Poetry Slam (Fort Worth, Texas ):
DonJuan Hutchinson, Alex “ThaGreat” Gurley, Giselle Robinson, Stephen Seargant, Coach: A.J. Houston , Slammaster: Michael Guinn & Dave Stanley
Southwest Shoot Out
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Fort-Worth-Poetry-Slams/324953048000

28 Da Poetry Lounge - Hollywood Slam (Hollywood, Calif.):
Fisseha Moges, Simply Kat, Terisa Siagatonu, Javon Johnson, Venessa Marie Marco, Slammaster: Shihan Van Clief
Pac Coast/Big Sur

29 Hawai’i Slam (Honalulu, Hawai’i):
Liam Skilling, Tui-Z, Jenna Robinson, Sterling Higa, Ink, Slammaster: Kealoha
Pac Coast/Big Sur
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hawaii_Slam

30 Houston Poetry Slam (Houston, Texas):
Savannah Blue, Brother Said, Karega, Softly Spoken, Slammaster: Cedric “Brother Said” Ary
Southwest Shoot Out

31 Houston V.I.P. (Houston, Texas):
DEEP, Fluent, Trademark, Outspoken Bean, Slammaster: Marcell Murphy, D.E.E.P
Southwest Shoot Out

32 Jersey City aka J.C. Slam (Jersey City, N.J.):
Rico, Quote, Justin Woo, Sean V., Jaime Martin, Slammaster: Broken English, Benedicto Figuera
New England/N Beast
http://www.facebook.com/events/155669631228935/

33 Killeen Poetry Slam (Killeen, Texas (KPS @ NPS):
Forressa Harrison, Phetote, “Doc” - Jennine Krueger, John Crow, Allen Small, Slammaster: John Crow
Southwest Shoot Out/Southern Fried
http://www.facebook.com/kpslam

34 Spoken Innovation Slam (Lafayette, LA ):
Don “Yah Fu the Prodigal Son” Mitchell, Hungry Hungry, Michelle “Spirit Soul” Hayes Nelson, Traverse, Slammaster: Yahfu
Southern Fried

35 Las Vegas Slam (Las Vegas, Nev.):
A.j. Moyer, Kari O'Connor, Kingsnoise, Brian Du Fresne “Cactus”, Tiegen Kosiak, Slammaster: AJ Moyer
Southwest Shoot Out
http://www.facebook.com/lasvegasslam

36 Rocktown Poetry Slam aka Unified Arkansas (Little Rock, Ark.):
Houston Hughes, Kim Marshall, Lennon Simpson, Mo-Man, Slammaster: The Mo-Man Amoja Sumelr
Southern Fried

37 Team Speak On It - Louisville Poetry Slam (Louisville, Miss.):
Zamir, Cherish Triplett (Cheri B), TRUE, Sireal, Slammaster: Sam Green and Krystle Green
Southern Fried
http://www.louisvillepoetryslam.org/
http://www.facebook.com/lpslam

38 Urban Spoken Word - Madison Slam (Madison, Wis.):
Dan Vaughn, Sabrina Madison “Progress”, Tony Fudge, Caitlin Mchagan, Slammaster: David Hart
Midwest/Rustbelt
http://www.madpoetry.org/readings.html

39 SlamFree or Die at Milly's Tavern (Manchester, N.H.):
Heidi Therrien, Sam Teitel, Derek Avila, Beau Williams, Christopher Clauss, Slammaster: Mark Palos
New England/N Beast
http://www.facebook.com/slamfreeordie

40 Bama Slam (Montevallo, Ala.):
Natalie Peach, Alex Allen, Jerri Hardesty, Sara McCune “The Current Poet”, Lady Caldwell, Slammaster: Kirk Hardesty
Southern Fried
http://www.newdawnunlimited.com/

41 SNO - SlamNewOrleans (New Orleans, La.):
Katalyst Alcindor, Tarriona Tank Ball, Akeem Martin, Icon, Justin Lamb, Slammaster: Akeem Martin
Southern Fried

42 Intangible (Washington Square, New York, N.Y.):
Brian Omni Dillon, Mike Rosen, Vanessa Perillo, Seth Wallin, Thomas Fucaloro, Slammaster: Brian “Omni” Dillon
New England/N Beast
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Intangible-Collective/67799698440

43 Louder Arts at Bar 13 (Union Square, New York, N.Y.):
Mokgethi Thinane “Mega”, Megan Falley, Jamaal May, Catalina Ferro, Slammaster: Lynne Procope
New England/N Beast
http://www.louderarts.com/

44 Nuyorican (Lower East Side, New York, N.Y.):
Jaamal St John, McPherson, Falu, Cyn Thompson, Slammaster: Mahogany “Mo” L. Browne
New England/N Beast

45 Urbana (Bowery, New York, NY Urbana):
Joanna Hoffman, Jeanann Verlee, Jared Singer, Ingamar Dion Ramirez, Slammaster: Jeanann Verlee
New England/N Beast
http://original.bowerypoetry.com/urbana/

46 Golden State Slam (Oakland, Calif.):
Danee Black-Queen D, Prentice Powell, Imani Cezanne, Joshua Merchant, Slammaster: NerCitty aka Shawn Gullatt
Pac Coast/Big Sur

47 Red Dirt - Wayward Poets (Oklahoma City, Okla.):
Melissa May, Rob Sturma, Michael Pearce, Grae, Slammaster: Jenn Hudgens
Southwest Shoot Out

48 Center Slam - Omaha; Healing Arts (Omaha,Neb.):
Zedeka Poindexter, Sean Patrick Mulroy, Gage Wallace, Ben Wenzl, Jarvis, Slammaster: Matt Mason
Midwest/Rustbelt
http://novia.net/~mtmason/phealing.html

49 The FUZE (Philadelphia, Pa.):
Mike O'Hara, Clarence Wright, MJ Harris, Elicit, Warren Longmire, Slammaster: Sherod Smallman
New England/N Beast
http://www.facebook.com/FuzePoetry

50 Lawn Gnome Poetry Slam (Phoenix, Ariz.):

Rowie Shebala, Charles Levett, Bernard Schober “The Klute,” Kevin Chesko Briancesco, Slammaster: Aaron Johnson
Southwest Shoot Out
http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=10150744275064374

51 Piedmont Slam (Winston-Salem, N.C.):
Eurydice, Milli, LB, Kelly Rae, Krosswordz, Slammaster: Bob Moyer
Southern Fried
http://www.facebook.com/piedmontslam

52 Steel City Slam at Shadow Lounge (Pittsburgh, Pa.):
William James, Adriana, Tera McIntosh, Valkyrie, Alternate: Rhetorical Artz, Slammaster: Adriana Ramirez William James & Brian Francis
New England/N Beast
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Steel-City-Slam/154621124559854

53 Second Tues Slam at Port Veritas (Portland, Maine):
Ryan McLellan, Nate Amadon, Wil Gibson, Tina Smith, Zach Dickie, Slammaster: Nate Amadon
New England/N Beast
http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1456950954
(Depending on what coastline a team is from, this is called the "Portland" to much confusion with those who mistake it the Portland, Ore., team.)

54 Portland Poetry Slam (Portland, Ore.):
David Doc Luben, Meg Waldron, Samantha Peterson, Robyn Bateman, William Stanford Alternate: Chris Leja, Slammaster: Eirean Bradley
Pac Coast/Big Sur
(Depending on what coastline a team is from, this is called the "Portland" to much confusion with those who mistake it the Portland, Maine, team.)

55 Providence  aka ProvSlam) (Providence, R.I.):
Franny Choi, Aaron Samuels, Casey Rocheteau, Ryk McIntyre, Slammaster: Megan Thoma and Jared Paul
New England/N Beast
http://www.facebook.com/groups/27253469049/

56 SlamRichmond (Richmond, Va.):
Matthew Cuban Hernandez, John S. Blake, Casandra B., Douglas Roscoe-Burnems Powell, Lee Jones, Slammaster: Jason Moore
Southern Fried
http://www.facebook.com/slamrichmond

57 Salt City Slam (Salt Lake City, Utah):
Gray, DeAnn Emett, Jesse Parent, Brian Frandsen, Rebeca Mae, Slammaster: Jesse Parent
Southwest Shoot Out

58 PuroSlam! (San Antonio, Texas):
Amanda Flores, Christopher Rooster Martinez, Joshua Lakey Hinson, Diamond Mason, Kellee Taylor Morgan Greenwood, Slammaster: Jason “Shaggy” Gossard
Southwest Shoot Out

59 San Diego Slam; Elevated (San Diego, Calif.):
Benni, Joe Limer, Rudy Francisco, Nick Macedo, Treesje Powers Coach: Chris Wilson , Slammaster: Christopher Wilson Rudy Francisco
Pac Coast/Big Sur

60 San Francisco Bay Area United (San Francisco, Berkeley, Oakland and San Jose, Calif.):
Sam Sax, Katelyn Lucas, Lisa Evans, Cameron Awkward-Rich, Slammaster: Mona Webb and Betsy Gomez
Pac Coast/Big Sur

61 Legendary Collective (Santa Cruz, Calif.):
Jesse Rincon, Jasmine Rosemary Schlafke, Storm Thomas, Lee Knight Jr., Precious Wingo, Slammaster: Jaz Sufi
Pac Coast/Big Sur
http://www.legendarycollective.com/

62 Seattle Poetry Slam (Seattle, Wash.):
Sara Brickman, Rose McAleese, Roma Raye, Amber Flame, Slammaster: Daemond Arrindell
Pac Coast/Big Sur

63 Sedona Poetry Slam (Sedona, Ariz.):

Tyler “Valence” Sirvinskas, Evan Dissinger, Josh Wiss, Frank O'Brien, Spenser Troth, Slammaster: Christopher Fox Graham
Southwest Shoot Out
http://foxthepoet.blogspot.com/

64 Springfield Poetry Slam (Springfield, Mo.):
Michelle Nimmo, Sarah Woolsey, Mary Spratt, Gretchen Glock Teague, Slammaster: Seth White & Michelle Nimmo
Southern Fried
http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100001721305743

65 St. Paul Unified (Soapboxing & SlamMN) (St. Paul, Minn.):
Guante, Shane Hawley, Kait Rokowski, Khary Jackson (6 is 9), Slammaster: Sam Cook
Midwest/Rustbelt
http://www.soap-boxing.com/catalog.html
http://www.facebook.com/SlamMinnesota

66 Pierced Ear Poetry Slam (Stockton, Calif.):
The Saint, Leo Bryant, The Poet -i-, Christina Perez (Perez), Jaz Sufi, Slammaster: Anthony Gonsalves
Pac Coast/Big Sur

67 Toronto Poetry Slam at Cytopoetics (Toronto, Ontario, Canada):
Britta B, Eytan Crouton, The P.O.E., Noah Kaplan, Cathy Petch, Slammaster: David Silverberg
Canadian
http://www.torontopoetryslam.com/

68 Tucson - Ocotillo Poetry Slam (Tucson, Ariz.):

Mickey Randalman, Ethan C. Dickinson, Laura Lacanette, Jordan Pasch, Maya Asher, Slammaster: Maya Asher
Southwest Shoot Out
http://www.facebook.com/ocotillopoetryslam

69 Vancouver Slam (Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada):
Jillian Christmas, Erich Haygun, Erin-Brooke Kirsh, Zaccheus Jackson Nyce, Alternate: Julie J C Peters (alternate), Slammaster: Jessica Mason Paull
Pac Coast/Big Sur/Canadian

70 Beltway Slam (Washington, D.C.):
Pages Matam, Drew Law, Twain Dooley, Clint Smith, Slammaster: Sarah Lawson
Southern Fried
http://www.facebook.com/beltwaypoetryslam

71 White Plains (White Plains, N.Y. ):
Holden Contreras Sr., Sr., Bryan Roessel, Eric “Zork” Alan, Laura Vookles “LV”, Nina Robins, Slammaster: Eric “Zork” Allen
New England/N Beast
http://whiteplains.patch.com/announcements/official-westchester-poetry-slam-team-to-compete-in-national-championships-in-charlotte-north-carolina?logout=true

72 WU Slam - Washington University (St. Louis, Mo.):
Pat Hollinger, Lauren Banka, Bryan Baird, Jacqui Germain, Sam Lai, Slammaster: Mikkel Snyder - formerly Solomon Brown
Midwest/Rustbelt
http://www.facebook.com/WUSLam
https://sites.google.com/site/wuslam/

National Poetry Slam draw for the Sedona, Flagstaff slam teams

Sedona National Poetry Slam Team

Bout 8 (Venue 2, 9 p.m.), Tuesday

Sedona Poetry Slam:

Tyler "Valence" Sirvinskas, Evan Dissinger, Josh Wiss, Frank O'Brien, Spencer Troth

Poetry Slam Springfield, (Springfield, Ill.):
Michelle Nimmo, Sarah Woosley, Kait Rokowski, Khary Jackson "6 is 9"
Portland Poetry Slam (Portland, Ore.):
David Doc Luben (former Prescott and Tucson slammer), Meg Waldron, Samantha Peterson, Robyn Bateman, William Stanford
Red Dirt Poetry Slam (Oklahoma City):
Melissa May, Rob Sturma, Michael Pearce, Grae

Bout 30 (Venue 6, 7 p.m.), Thursday

Sedona Poetry Slam:

Tyler "Valence" Sirvinskas, Evan Dissinger, Josh Wiss, Frank O'Brien, Spencer Troth

ABQ Slams (Albuquerque, N.M.):
Jessica Helen Lopez, Khalid Binsunni, Damien Flores, Zachary Kluckman
WU Slam (Washington University, St. Louis, Mo.):
Pat Hollinger, Lauren Banka, Bryan Baird, Jacqui Germain,
Neo-Soul (Austin, Texas):
Shae Harris, LaLove Robinson, Danny Strack, Zai, "Korim" Jonathon Sterling

FlagSlam National Poetry Slam Team

Bout 14 (Venue 2, 7 p.m.), Wednesday

FlagSlam Poetry Slam:

Christopher Fox Graham, Ryan Brown, Shaun Srivastava "Nodalone", Tara Pollock, Jackson Morris

HawaiiSlam, (Honolulu):
Liam Skilling, Tui-Z, Jenna Robinson, Sterling Higa, Ink
Lake Effect (Cleveland, Ohio):
T.M. Göttl, Mello da Poet, Carla Thompson, Cory Mikesell
Nuyorican (Lower East Side, New York City):
Jaamal St John, McPherson, Falu, Cyn Thompson

Bout 34 (Venue 4, 9 p.m.), Thursday

FlagSlam Poetry Slam:

Christopher Fox Graham, Ryan Brown, Shaun Srivastava "Nodalone", Tara Pollock, Jackson Morris

Louder ARTS, Bar 13 (Union Square, New York City)
Mokgethi Thinane "Mega", Megan Falley, Jamaal May, Catalina Ferro  
Louisville Poetry Slam (Louisville, Miss.)
Zamir, Cherish Triplett "Cheri B", True, Sireal
Seattle Poetry Slam (Seattle, Wash):
Sara Brickman, Rose McAleese, Roma Raye, Amber Flame

"The Peach is a Damn Sexy Fruit," by Christopher Fox Graham

"The Peach is a Damn Sexy Fruit," by Christopher Fox Graham, clearing poem at the July 30, 2011, Sedona Poetry Slam at Studio Live, Sedona. I typically don't perform the infamous "Peach" poem at slams I host because it's so well-known, but my mother was a judge and she loves this poem.

"The Peach is a Damn Sexy Fruit"

By Christopher Fox Graham

the Peach is a damn sexy fruit
if I could love a fruit like a woman
I would love a Peach
strong but soft
sweet but tart
the fuzz tickles my nose
and the sticky dewiness
is finger-licking good

you can keep your apples
Mr. Johnny Appleseed
that turn brown in minutes

you can have your bitter grapefruit
the blinder of eyes at breakfast

tempt me not tomátoes or tom%u0103toes!
cucumbers and zucchinis
those transvestite fruit
masquerading as vegetables!
for shame!
be true to yourselves!
do not deny that you were born as
and will always be fruit!

Coconuts require hammers, screwdrivers, or stones
and I am not into fetishes

Raspberries are too fragile
and can not love my volatility

Strawberries went corporate and sold out
now just fruits of the Man

Bananas are too exotic, too high maintenance
I have no patience for their ego

Cherries are but pop culture prostitutes
in everything from couch syrup to antacids to condoms

give me truth!
give me tenderness!
give me consistency!
give me a Peach!
give me Peaches!
give me millions of Peaches
Peaches for me
millions of Peaches
Peaches for free

you can eat a Peach voraciously
diving into juicy goodness
dribbling down your chin,

or eat it slowly in slices - one by one
you can nip off the skin
bit by tender bit
in a slow seduction
and tongue and suck it to the end

or you can rub that Peach into your face
eating it like a drunk starving monkey
and leave the orgasmic dew
on your cheeks and lips for hours

when complete,
no matter how consumed
you have the core
as a reminder that we are all the same
beneath it all
when our flesh, youth, and vitality are gone

yet...

you can bury the Peach core
to be born again
because the Peach embodies hope
because the Peach embodies life
the Peach is a message
the Peach is sensual
the Peach is you and me
the Peach is a damn sexy fruit

Copyright 2003 © Christopher Fox Graham

Slam Tutorial: Having Fun With Sex

Objectifying a body part of the opposite sex can sometimes be a difficult thing to do in poetry. Between lovers, behind closed doors, we all often spend hours discussing anatomy, what they like, what they don't how things feel or how things can feel with the right stimulation.
That aside, Rock Baby's sheer enthusiasm for breasts is what sells this poem. Imagine performing this poem in a cover reading at your local open mic or poetry slam and you can see the inherent difficulty unless you are so over-the-top with the humor to truly sell it.
And yes, in person, Rock Baby is hysterical. I met him at the National Poetry Slam in Chicago in 2003 and I distinctly remember one breakfast morning where he had three tables in stitches talking about the van trip from Texas.

Titty Man
By Roderick "Rock Baby" Goudy

Warning, warning
This poem is not suitable for those who take life too serious
And lack a sense of humor.

Titty man gone wild
Titties, titties, titties!
I love me some titties
Big titties, small titties, skinny titties
Tall titties, titties sagging down
Titties juicy and round.

I love me some titties
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle
I like those titties with a dark nipple in the middle
And ohhh! When they jiggle
Jiggle, jiggle, jiggle
Iggle, iggle, iggle, iggle
Iggle, iggle, iggle.

Breasts-ises
B-R-E-A-S-T-S--ISES
Just another name for those titties
You see they come in all shapes and sizes and forms
The average person don't know 'em like I know 'em
This goes for the ladies, too
Who've had titties
All their life.

I can tell the difference between a real titty, a fake titty
A too-young titty
And a titty that's ready and ripe
'Cause I'm a titty man
Hell, I could tell your future
If you just let me hold those titties in my hands.

You see, it does something to me when I see and hear a bra snap
When those titties stand out
It makes a brother like me
Moan and groan and slooooobber at the mouth
Especially when they're naked and pressed up against my chest
It makes it difficult to choose the type of titty that I love the best.

It could be old titties, swoll titties, titties hanging loose
Titties that look like fruits
Titties fully grown
Titties made of silicone
Tittes that make you always wanna hold her
Titties that you can throw over your shoulders.

Titties, difference colors, and I need them
Tittes on people who don't need them
Mean titties, sad titties
Titties that make you wish you had titties
Perfect titties squeezed together
And pushed to the front.

Now if I had a pair of titties
Those would be the type of titties that I'd want
Because I looooove me some titties.

I like 'em on the beach
In the sand
And when it's hot at home
I like to lick those titties in front of a fan
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh..

Whether in a regular, laced or fuzzy bra
I like those tittes that belongs to super stars
And for those ladies with those titties swoll like 2 balloons
I like to stick my face between 'em and go.

Bur-bur-bur-burrrrrrrrr!

Because I loooooove me some titties
LORD!


A native of Hattiesburg, Miss., Roderick Goudy, aka Rock Baby, is a seasoned performance poet, comic and writer. Widely considered a natural performer with an unique, eclectic and clever style, Goudy has delighted, educated and entertained people of various ages and ethnicities across America, quickly making him a crowd favorite within the "chitin circuit" of spoken word.
Appearing twice on HBO’s Russell Simmons’ Def Poetry Jam in 2003 and 2005, Rock Baby offered television explosive performances with his distinct style of comedic poetry.

"To The Girl Riding Shotgun" Sedona Poetry Slam video

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

Slam Tutorial, Part XI, The Signature Poem

Round Three: The signature poem

All slam poets become "known" for certain poems. When the chips are down and you need a perfect 30, or you're so far ahead you want to reward the audience regulars, a signature piece is a thumbprint of you and your work.

The Peach is a Damn Sexy Fruit
Am I known for my political poems? My love poems that fill notebooks by the dozen? My deeply personal, self-reflective analysis of life as a young artist with little or nor real direction in life? Nope. I'm known for a silly poem about one type of fruit.

the Peach is a damn sexy fruit
if I could love a fruit like a woman
I would love a Peach
strong but soft
sweet but tart
the fuzz tickles my nose
and the sticky dewiness
is finger-licking good

you can keep your apples
Mr. Johnny Appleseed
that turn brown in minutes

you can have your bitter grapefruit
the blinder of eyes at breakfast

tempt me not tomátoes or tom%u0103toes!
cucumbers and zucchinis
those transvestite fruit
masquerading as vegetables!
for shame!
be true to yourselves!
do not deny that you were born as
and will always be fruit!

Coconuts require hammers, screwdrivers, or stones
and I am not into fetishes

Raspberries are too fragile
and can not love my volatility

Strawberries went corporate and sold out
now just fruits of the Man

Bananas are too exotic, too high maintenance
I have no patience for their ego

Cherries are but pop culture prostitutes
in everything from couch syrup to antacids to condoms

give me truth!
give me tenderness!
give me consistency!
give me a Peach!
give me Peaches!
give me millions of Peaches
Peaches for me
millions of Peaches
Peaches for free

you can eat a Peach voraciously
diving into juicy goodness
dribbling down your chin,

or eat it slowly in slices - one by one
you can nip off the skin
bit by tender bit
in a slow seduction
and tongue and suck it to the end

or you can rub that Peach into your face
eating it like a drunk starving monkey
and leave the orgasmic dew
on your cheeks and lips for hours

when complete,
no matter how consumed
you have the core
as a reminder that we are all the same
beneath it all
when our flesh, youth, and vitality are gone

yet...

you can bury the Peach core
to be born again
because the Peach embodies hope
because the Peach embodies life
the Peach is a message
the Peach is sensual
the Peach is you and me
the Peach is a damn sexy fruit

Slam Tutorial, Part X, The Future Road

Round Three: Road Trip Poem; The Past Fades, the Future Looms

Part of poetry is a sense of growing up, leaving the past behind and looking toward the future. A poem that takes the audience along a journey, literally on the road or metaphorically on the road of self discovery gives the audience a sense of completing a journey as the slam ends. It can also be used to show that the future is still uncertain. A great ending if the last part of the third round is neither high energy nor low energy.

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

Slam Tutorial, Part IX, The Poetry Benediction

Round Three: A poem that celebrates the power of poetry

You're at a poetry slam and it's the last round. Chances are, the audience is already in awe of all the poetry they've heard, so now's the time to rub it in by talking about how powerful poetry can be.
This works like a benediction that complements the invocation poem in the first round. There is no need to do both, but if you do, it forms a nice bookend. If the two poems are related and echo the same words - which I have seen done before - the poem can have a powerful impact. This type of sequence only works, however, if you go early in the first round and late in the third.

Spinal Language
give me a tattoo
deeper than skin
on the bones of my spine
onto the surface of every vertebrae
in every human tongue
tattoo their word for "poetry"
so that no language feels foreign anymore;
so that each human voice
can speak a word in me

let Arabic and Hebrew
sit side by side without throwing stones
let Cantonese and Hindi characters
link hands to hold Swahili and Hutu in a hammock
let Basque and Zulu finally touch lips Vietnamese
while Navajo rests it's head on the shoulder of Malay

we speak six thousand tongues
but i'll endure the pain and the time
so no human voice can speak to me
without being felt
down to the bone

let African syllables
share space with European articulations,
Asian morphemes,
and Aboriginal pronunciations,

line them up and engrave them
like an organic barcode written in Braille
readable by the worms that will one day convert me back
to the religion of dust and ash
that we believed in once
before this cult of flesh and blood
brought us out from clay
to play brief characters in the rain

let them taste the flavor of our words
let them consume poetry
and give it back to the soil
so the earth can feel the weight of our words
and not forget us
when we extinct ourselves
like the species before us

carve the last word
in morse code
at the base of my spine
so that I can hear the rhythm of the word
in my hips when i sleep
.--. --- . - .-. -.--
let dots and dashes spread
across all my bones in a virus of comprehension
so if i lose my voice
I can still speak a word
by tapping my fingers,
pounding a drum
or changing the rhythm of my heartbeat
to speak with my blood

imagine

six thousand tongues
playing my spine
in 33-part harmony
making a symphony of me
with a melody that reverberates
up my spinal cord
echoing louder and louder in the tunnel
amplifying the compounding music
all the way to the base of my brain
where it detonates
and resonates inside my skull
ricocheting
six thousand new expressions
for the same word
with the voices of six billion singers
into my six trillion thoughts
until I can take no more chaos
and their song explodes from my lips

offering the world
a moment of synchronized understanding
of one song
of one voice
of one man
for one instant

before the world blinks
loses focus
and listens to the echo
slowly fade away

Slam Tutorial, Part VIII, Love & Humor

Round Three: A Love Poem with a Dash of Humor

By the third round, surely someone has slammed a love poem. Perhaps everyone has dropped a poem here or there. They best way to turn the slam on its head is with an over-the-top humorous poem that tackles poetry's favorite subjects: love, sex, lust, relationships and sugar.

Breakfast Cereal
for Gretchen Ryan Hays

I like you like breakfast cereal
choc full of goodness
because I want have you first thing in the morning
while watching cartoons
as a reward for being for being good
or really, really naughty the night before

I like you like breakfast cereal
because I feel all soft and soggy inside
when I'm around you
like a marshmallow
tender and squishy

I like you like breakfast cereal
you have green clover in your hips
and red balloons in your lips
I want to make love to you under the yellow moon
and let all the blue stars watch
and I find myself following purple horseshoe prints to find you,
tracing them with my finger back around to you

I like you like breakfast cereal
and I like feel that stupid rabbit trying to catch you
and I could put on silly costumes
and tell you long-winded stories
and try to distract you long enough to get just a taste of you

but tricks are for kids
and we promised to be honest
so honestly -
you have been part of my complete breakfast
ever since I saw you across the room
and tasted you with my eyes
imagining your flavor
my tongue gets twisted in fruit loops
I am so lucky, so charmed to have you
I like your packaging - simple but really pretty
I feel like a Cap'n in your arms
I am coco for your CoCo Puffs
you make me cheery, oh... so cheery

I think of you first thing in the morning
and how you have enough vitamins and minerals when you blush
to keep me healthy all day long
I want a bowl of you every morning
until I am too old to pick up a spoon
and have to have you though a straw

I will follow you to France and make toast
or Florida to squeeze oranges
or South America for bananas
but you don't need anything extra to make me like you
I could have you wet ... or dry
quickly on a lunch break
at 2 a.m. all drunk and sloppy
on a camping trip
or while driving cross country in a Waffle House parking lot
you're satisfying anywhere

I want you three times every Saturday morning
when there's no school, no work,
and when we can play till Sunday
because your contents don't shift during shipping and handling
and none of your ingredients are artificial
you are naturally flavored
and so painfully sweet it hurts my teeth when I see you
I will like you until all my teeth fall out

Slam Tutorial, Part VII, A Controversial Issue

Round Two: A Controversial Issue

Be it abortion, gay rights, domestic violence, or suicide, controversial issues all have personal stories behind them. Whatever your politlcal or social leaning, putting a human face on the subject makes the topic more than a cerebral debate.

A Moment in Albuquerque
This poem covers a topic of dear friend of mine and her boyfriend at the time who had to travel to New Mexico to have an abortion. She was under age 18 at the time and could not have an abortion in Arizona without her parents' approval. They did not know she was pregnant. I tried to make sure that this poem does not contain any political overtones belying my opinion, which really doesn't matter. It simply relates a story.

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

Slam Tutorial, Part VI, A Poem About Family

Round Two: A personal poem about family

We all have family. For some, family is a footnote. For others, family is the most important part of life. For people like me, we don't really know how important they are until their gone. Any audience member can appreciate that distinction.

We Call Him Papa
for Frank Leslie "Buster" Redfield
May 14, 1925 - Oct. 31, 2004

What makes this topic so important to me personally is that my grandfather and I shared 25 years on Earth, but I learned more about him in the last six hours we spent together talking, both knowing his cancer was terminal, than I did in the 25 years before those hours. The tragedy is that my grandfather had to die for me to truly understand what I had lost and what he meant to me. That lack of understanding for so long is the only sin in my life I truly regret.

we call him Papa
and he could move mountains with his silence

he fathered a family of artists
who knew the value of labor
the efficiency of expression
if it is unclear, rephrase it
if it is unusable, remove it
if it is imperfect, rework it
until it is as much a part of you
as a limb
he never said this
but his life implied it

his stone eyes
edited lies from our speech
before we could speak them
his hands held me tight once
after I sinned
they held me soft
when my father translated himself
into a mythology
I've since ceased believing in
his hands were the tools
with which he spoke through his silence

he carved and crafted rifles
like Stradivarius made violins
and the first recoil
was a symphony
compressed to a split second
he brought wood to life
as though generations of forests grew
to make the right grain
the right feel worthy of his talent

he did not build airplanes,
he built aircraft with the precision of a heart surgeon
knowing a loose screw, one misaligned wire
could transform a craft of beauty
into a coffin
and wife like his into a widow
he made no widows
except one

he crafted art that soared like mechanical angels
and made us feel
how he must have felt with Grandma

even in his absence he scares me
because he was so much more
of what a man should be
than the men I see around me
than the man who fathered me

he was sometimes the machine moving me
he was sometimes the monster under my bed
keeping me from going gently into the night
without fighting the darkness
he was sometimes a giant
stretching hands from horizon to horizon
holding down the sun and moon
and dictating their rising

I am convinced that eastern Montana
is so perfectly flat
in awe of him

we call him Papa
and he could move mountains with his silence

I never heard him say he loved her
not in words
not in a way I could steal
not in a way that the cheap poet in me
could have plagiarized into a stanza
for some mediocre poem unworthy of his memory

I never heard him say he loved her with words

he said it with his eyes

he said it in the stories my mother would tell me
about how he would raise armies and wage wars
just to bring her flowers

he said it with the way he told me
about driving across New York and Pennsylvania every weekend
just to see her for two hours between college classes and curfews

he said he loved her by playing "waltzing matilda" on a harmonica
like he was asking her to dance for the first time,
even after all these years

he said he loved her
by showing us how good man
should love a woman right

we call him Papa
and he could move mountains with his silence

he is the poet
me, his eldest grandson,
I am just his microphone

Slam Tutorial, Part V, An Intense Personal Poem

Round Two: An Intense Personal Poem

An intense personal poem often makes a good piece to read in the second round a three-round slam. Be wary if every other poet is doing the same. Your poem must stand out and relate to the audience. If it's too wrapped up in your nuances, personality or private jargon, your audience won't care. If you met someone in college who lead you into drugs and self abuse, hence the reason you lost a finger in a car accident then ran from the police, no one cares what your major was. Your goal is to make your audience realistically believe that they are you for a few minutes. Thus, the poem must relate to the them, being specific enough to be you, yet just generic enough to give them the sense of "oh, I've been there, too."

She Only Loves Me When the Bars Close
For Ashley Wintermute

she only loves me when the bars close
and no one else is willing to take her home
spilling drama Ibsen would envy
about this girl or that boy
who said or did something
we must deal with right away
even though the guilty parties
aren't around to argue the contrary

she comes in the back door
as my roommates sleep oblivious to the impending Armageddon
soon to destroy us all
fights past all my contradictions
to slip into my satin sheets
and call me to bed
no matter whatever late-night duties require my attention
I just want to sleep
without a stranger's tongue in my mouth
drift off to sleep alone and contented in my loneliness
without her arms wrapping envious tendrils around me
desperate for my attentions, tongue or cock
to remind her she's human and wanted

I've lived my days without a woman
to make me feel like a man
just give me a soft pillow
and dreams of past lovers
or memories of travels
or fictional visions of potential futures
and I drift into dreamland
with a smile until dawn
but she calls me to bed
to wrap myself around her
hold her like all the lovers she's left behind
I am not them
I am more than a body
with a hungry organ seeking a cathedral
to play my music in
while the seats sit empty of religious devotees
I don't need the fictions
that tonight is the night two twin souls find each other
one drunk on whiskey
the other loaded up with gin
making long island iced tea love
ripe with thick cigarette smoke on our breath
to stink the air beneath the sheets

she slips off her clothes
throws her panties to floor
as if the only key I needed to her moistness
was the lack of a cotton barrier

my hips learned the motions
the thrust and throb of hips
from wise women who could have taught
a hundred thousand men
the way to love properly
I have been a student of masters
who still make my head spin
years after they taught me how to play

one who showed me how a tongue can speak verse
by the way it flicks and glides across a clit
as if poetry was not the sound of words
but their movement in space
another who wanted to fuck everywhere but the bed
finding the best place of all
was an overloaded dryer
bouncing off-balance
while the buzzer went off every 15 minutes for hours
another who taught me the way to find perfect rhythm
is to pretend you're a jazz trio
accompanying a polka band
while the titanic sinks

loving a woman with hips and skins
takes intention and concentration
but their arts are wasted when you are, too

she calls for lips
pops a pill to ease herself
pulls close my muscles
and wants the better parts of me
to fill her
but when the competition is eighty proof
I see no reason to trespass on her intoxication
I want to love her
but her stories change too fast to trust

she stretches her limbs
rubs below my belt
to awaken what she thinks she wants
and opens her anime eyes to my otaku desires
but I've seen the way this ends
and no one in Neo-Tokyo lives to tell the tale
I am more than her cartoon perfect playmate
I've seen her pull the football out from her Charlie Browns
only she's left unsatisfied and oblivious
while they go off to find
little red-haired girls to love

she treats her pussy like a daytrip destination
instead of somewhere one wants to live
pay a mortgage,
build a white-picket fence
and eventually retire
we've all gotten postcards
from those who've been there before
and the mystery has become a cheap tourist trap
we only visit for the novelty
of saying we've been there, done that

she spreads her legs
to spill honey
but she's only catching flies
so I zip mine up
and sleep on the couch
by myself at least I'm with someone who loves me
for what I dream of
not what I dangle between my lonely thighs

she only loves me when the bars close
only calls after 2 a.m.
and I can tell her time zone
by checking the clock
each message begins with slurs
about missing me with extra "s"s
and how much she hates me for not calling back by three
but how much she loves me, but hates me, but loves me
whatever my name is tonight

she curses my lovers
points at their photos and says they'll never love me again
but that's not why I keep them
they loved me once
and that's all I have in the end
she hates my wall-hanging lovers
because she hasn't been one of them

she doesn't remember
the night I let go of these rules
slipped part of me into her
and watched her writhe with joy
as her hips shook uncontrollably over and over and over
she asked me the next morning if we fucked
they way you'd ask someone
if they'd read a news story
or seen a movie
or cleaned the rain gutters last year
if she can't remember
why remind her

I've fucked for fun
and for curiosity
but not to be forgotten
I don't need any more stamps in my passport
and I've visited countries like hers before

she only loves me when the bars close
but I don't serve what she's drinking
I only save her a barstool
pour water and soda until she's so drunk on her own vintage
that she doesn't know what time it is
drifts off to sleep in my arms
only then is she finally honest enough
for me to trust her
only unconscious, still and silent
do I believe what she has to say
only then
when she can't contradict me a thousand ways
I whisper what she wants to hear

Slam Tutorial, Part IV: Heavy Social Adocacy

Round One: Heavy Social Advocacy

Living is tough. The world is unforgiving. While we all know this, there are certain incidents that hit us harder than others. As poets, our job to empathize and speak for those who can't. A poem touching on social concerns, like young suicides, abuse by "the system" or touching on modern "hopelessness" achieves this goal. This poem does well late in the first round after the atmosphere becomes serious. Too early and the audience is unprepared. This needs to be balanced against the poems that come before it.

Three Minutes for Dylan
This poem relates to an 8-year-old boy named Dylan, who hanged himself in Cottonwood, Ariz., in December 2004. On Jan. 22, 2005, a local 11-year-old, RayLynne hung herself. It was been the third such suicide by hanging in the Verde Valley in two months. The first was Dylan, then a 15-year-old boy, the son of Camp Verde's Town Manager. The girl's mother had a meeting with me at the newspaper I worked at. The girl's grandmother had faxed a letter to the editor thanking local organizations and individuals for support and donations to the girl's funeral expenses. The mother wanted to add some names. She came in Friday and she was tweaking on methamphetamine at the meeting. I helped her out as much as I could and made the changes she requested, but I wanted to punch her. I left work immediately after. I just wanted to break something.

Wednesday, Cottonwood
7:07 p.m.
in the air the boy hangs
suspended above the floor like an angel
his lungs are vacant of sound and life

7:08 pm
the upstairs bedroom closet door opens
slow at first
and fear explodes
mother's hands
no! struggle! rope! throat!
no! phone! fumble! 9–1–1!
no! address! son! paramedic!
no! baby! come! quick! please!
no! son! son! son …
Dylan …

she had three minutes with him
three minutes alone
three minutes to contemplate
how her eight–year–old son
could hang himself
could jump from a chair
could prepare a closet
could tie a noose
could find his lungs vacant of a reason to live
could decide at 8
that life was not worth living

she had three minutes
before they arrived
and no answer when they did

there is a word
for a man widowed by a wife
for a woman widowed by a husband
for a child orphaned by parents
but there is no name
when a parent loses a son
because the thought is too terrifying
to imagine

he was trying to speak to us
but his lungs were vacant
before he jumped
but his lungs were vacant
before he tied the noose

the ritual of suicide
speaks a language of its own
with a gun – helpless fury in a moment
with a leap from a building – surrender to the world
with an overdose – a secret shame
with a bomb strapped to your body – rage wrapped in your people's despair
but with a hanging
every step must be calculated
and there can be no doubt
of your intention

but his vacant lungs either
did not speak before then
or we did not hear him

the medical examiner ruled the case closed
with no four play
and the paramedics added one more
atrocious anecdote to their nightmares
and we, at the newspaper,
had to grapple
with how to best word the headline
and write the story
of a child who was too silent to speak
whose lungs were too vacant of breath to be quoted

no one was charged in his death
but we are criminals
because none of us stopped him
none of us heard him
none of us offered him
three minutes of silence
to contemplate his value
to tell him he was an angel worth living

he tied the noose
he prepared the closet
he jumped from the chair
but we hanged him
by not hearing the scream held
in his 8–year–old lungs

his name was Dylan
these are the three minutes I'm giving him

your turn

Slam Tutorial, Part III: The Power of an Artist

Round One: The Power of an Artist

Your audience is about to experience a poetry slam, a powerful art form that strives to elicit strong emotions from your audience in a short amount of time. A crowd could be rolling on the floor laughing at one poem, and crying in their seats during the next, a mere three to five minutes later.
Thus, pointing out how other types of artists or art forms can affect people is an oblique way to point out how poetry, specifically yours, can do the same.

The Dust is Centuries Thick

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 stands

Slam Tutorial, Part II: The Invocation

Round One: An invocation to open the slam

Early in the first round, an invocation, much like one at the beginning of a church service, can put the audience in the mood for an intense slam. Many ancient Grecian performances began similarly, with an Invocation to the Muse, calling up the minor deity who governed the particular art form that the performance in question.
The invocation often works well in the first two slots, if the poem is well-rehearsed.

Imagine a Religion

imagine a religion
where words
are scripture
and we only speak to pray

this is how she and I communicate
each word with salvation on its edges
the sounds of angels in our speech
and god in our sentences

I never want to open my mouth
let sound spill from my lips faithlessly
I want each word to move believers
in the way I have been moved

I want believers to quote my prose
knowing that faith is in the understanding of language
I want them to take vows of silence
except with speaking sincerely

no tone or breath should leave lips
without a purpose
except to shatter shackles
or build homes for those less fortunate

words should hammers become
raising walls and roofs beneath which families may flourish
words should be so valued
that each one is written down in sequence

we speak with this brevity of purpose
where minds lock hands with minds
dropping the illusion of wordplay
in favor of doubtlessness

imagine a world
where tongues speak truth without suspicion
where people are judged only
by what they say

imagine the death of chatter
imagine a society where small talk is sin
where strangers are silent
except when faith convicts them to sound

imagine a world where lies have no substance
imagine children learning that words must have weight
or they are useless,
imagine people speaking only when the spirit commands it

imagine a world where all strangers can be trusted
if they break their silence
to tell us their names
or stories of how they came to be here

imagine a world where lovers
whisper in the dark
only to say what haunts them
so we may whisper back, "fear not, I understand"

Slam Tutorial, Part I: Choose Wisely, Slam Poet

A Slam Tutorial

Christopher Fox Graham's picks for a typical slam

The following include my choices for a generic three-round slam, using my own poetry.as the fodder.

My personal preference is to hit the first round with either a flash and bang poem, a silly poem, or one of my memorized favorites. I have a terrible case of nerves before a slam, and hitting a polished piece gets me over the hump.

For round two, I prefer, like a lot of other poets, to perform a slow, personal, meaningful poem. A running joke among many of us in the national slam scene is that "In round two, everybody dies." These are where the breakup poems, death poems, suicide poems, and sorrowful poems find the most traction. The crowd is more subdued and willing to accept what you have to say. The flip side is that if the three or four poems ahead of you are personal poems, but low-energy downers, I sometimes throw a humorous poem to change the energy. If the scores are low, 7s and 8s, this can often score a high 8 or in the 9s. This sometimes backfires if the scores are higher because the audience wants to stay serious.

Round three is the most loose. If the night has been high energy, I go out high. If it's low energy, I usually perform one of signature poems or a polished poem. If I have a big lead or I'm way behind and statistically unable to place 1st, 2nd, or 3rd without more than a perfect 30, I'll perform something new that likely scores lower, just to test the piece. Also, if I'm in a situation where I'm feeling sentimental about the venue, the date, the slam itself, or personally, I'll perform a poem with personal value and forget about the scores. Additionally, I there's someone in the audience who I want to hear a particular poem, this is where I throw it.

Old Town Shootout Poetry Slam results

Results from the Old Town Shootout Poetry Slam
The third Poexplosion 3

Saturday, Dec. 13, 2008, Old Town Center for the Arts, Cottonwood, Arizona, 7:30 p.m.

Calibration poet Terence Pratt, a professor at Yavapai College and a Cottonwood City Councilman

Round 1

Sedona, Gary Every, 28.8 (1:59:47)
Phoenix, Jose Magana, 28.4 (2:41:29)
Tucson, group poem with Lindsay Miller, Mickey Randleman, Ethan Dickinson and Maya Asher, 28.6 (3:00:43)
Mesa, Tufik Shayeb, 29.6 (2:59:02)
Flagstaff, group poem with Evan, Faldwin, Maple Dewleaf and Brian, 26.1 (2:40:56)

Sorbet poet Jen Valencia, a writer from the Village of Oak Creek

Round 2

Tucson, Mickey Randleman, Ethan Dickinson, Maya Asher, 29.3 (2:34:16)
Mesa, Jonathon Standiford, 30 with -0.5 time penalty (3:19:25)
Flagstaff, Evan, 26.7, with -1.5 time penalty (3:33:25)
Sedona, Dan Seaman, 29.9 with -0.5 time penalty (3:11:00)
Phoenix, Madaleine Beckwith, 28.4 (2:48:41)

---intermission---

Sorbet poet and host Danielle Miller
Sorbet poet Terence Pratt

Round 3

Flagstaff, Maple Dewleaf, 27.1 (1:32:37)
Sedona, Apollo Poetry, 30 (2:58:32)
Phoenix, Megan, 27.7 (2:49:03)
Tuscon, Lindsay Miller, 29.2 (2:24:37)
Mesa, Neil Gearns, 27.6, (2:27:22)

Sorbet poet Kaila Haas, from the Village of Oak Creek and 2007 graduate of Sedona Red Rock High School

Round 4

Phoenix, Lauren Perry, 28.6 with -1.5 time penalty (3:33:06)
Tucson, Maya Asher, 28.4 (2:24:24)
Mesa, Tristan Marshell, 30, (3:08:18)
Flagstaff, Brian, 28.9 (1:36:44)
Sedona, Christopher Fox Graham, 30 with -0.5 time penalty (3:11:18)
Sorbet poet Tara Pollock, from Sedona
Victory poem, Apollo Poetry, Team Sedona

Final scores
Sedona, 117.7
Mesa, 116.7
Tucson, 115.5
Phoenix, 111.6
Flagstaff, 107.3

Slam staff

Scorekeeper: Alun Wile
Timekeeper: Danielle "Deeds" Gervasio
Host: Danielle Miller
Organizers: William Eaton, owner of the Old Town Center for the Arts
Christopher Fox Graham, Sedona 510 Poetry
Richard Hazen, owner of Green Carrot Cafe and D'Lish Very Vegetarian

CFG features at the Applesauce Spoken Word Theater

FlagSlam, Sept. 24

Last night, I slammed in Flagstaff.

Manifest Destiny, a poet from Tempe, was the feature. He came up for GumptionFest earlier this month. He wound up staying for almost a week, mainly due to Lori-Ann Rella, Danielle Gervasio's cousin who was also here for the festival and stayed more than a week. She has since moved back to Sedona from New Jersey.

Manifest, Lori-Ann, Danielle Miller and I headed up to Flagstaff around 7:30 p.m.

SLAM:
Calibration
1) Random draw, 20 max.
Feature Teaser
Clearing
2) High-Low, top 7.
Feature
Scores

I had signed up with Jessica Guadarrama over the phone and pulled slot 17 of 19.

I was more nervous than I remember being in a long time. I hadn't slammed in almost a year and hadn't slammed in Flagstaff since summer 2006. I sat in half a dozen places trying to calm my nerves and get comfortable, but in the end, I had to throw up.

This wasn't just a slam. I was living up to a reputation. All the organizers knew me but hadn't seen me perform. Some of the older poets in the scene have an air of legend around us, even though we were just punk kids and are now just punk kids who look like adults. The room was all college kids, some were certainly in grade school the first time I hit a slam microphone almost eight years ago. I have slammed in Flagstaff perhaps 100 times, but because it's a college town, it's always new and fresh.

I'm also the winningist slam poet in Northern Arizona, simply because I've been in the scene as long as Christopher Lane. He hasn't slammed as much as I have because he usually hosted and removed himself from most competitions after Oren was born.

The only I poets I acknowledge as my superiors didn't stick around long: Nick Fox left after a year and Josh Fleming after two.

While Logan Phillips was a good challenger, he only slammed for four years. He's an Art Slammer, not a Craft Slammer, and art never beats craft in the long run. In a fair 10-poem head-to-head, my diversity of range and content would beat him. There's also too much hidden ego on his part, while mine is naked, which oddly makes it more sincere, less conceited, and more adapt to change with the times. He's a Niche Poet, not a Renaissance Poet.

Suzy La Follette has been the only poet who I think could beat me consistently, but she also left for Austin before we ever settled on who was the better poet. When she left, she was a great performer with many , but I never heard a tremendous range of diversity.

Many of the poets were angsty, others just angry. All in all, a typical college town slam.

It's funny how if you've been in slam long enough, you can ID poets before they speak. It seems like a person's physical build determines the kind of poetry they're going to do when they start in poetry slam.

The host, whose name I neglected to remember, asked me for a little bio before I spit. Among other things, when he said, "and he's been to Nationals four times," a kid of the right side of the audience exclaimed, "shit!" and I knew I had them.

I was the mic, cleansed, and hit with "We Call Him Papa." As soon I spoke, I was electric. No slips, no stutters, no pauses. I killed. I think I pulled 9.7, 9.8, 9.9, 10, 10.

I picked the poem because it is the most sincere piece in my repertoire. It also has such a dynamic voice, from near-whispers to shouts, and I wanted to show the young poets the importance of softer poetry and dynamic changes.

Manifest and Lori-Ann did a teaser poem after poet #19 and round two. It was great for a room full of white college kids to see a black poet perform. They need to see the range of diversity on poetry tangibly rather than theoretically through Def Poetry Jam or the occasional visit to Phoenix or other cities. I wish Flagstaff and Sedona had more poets of color. Flagstaff has Hispanic and occasional Navajo or Hopi poets, but black poets, Asian poets and foreign poets are few and far between. The demographics of the cities preclude those ethnicities from being large right now, but I wish they existed at all or that the demographics become more diverse.

As the top poet from round one, I went first, and hit with "Peach." It was a cheap ploy for scores, but I had to show my range as a performer and it was worth the move. It also established "Peach" as a memorable piece. With that poem out in the open, I'll be known for it in the future, as a form of brand identity.

I pulled a 9.5, 9.7, 9.8, 10, 10.

Lori-Ann and Manifest alternated the feature with her guitar and his poetry. She finished off the feature with two Johnny Cash-esque songs that had the audience clapping in rhythm.

For my victory, I read "My Father Hides in the Stars." I asked the audience to gaze up at the ceiling and pretend to see the stars, which I saw and heard, through the sounds from shifting chairs, they did. For some reason, I was shaking uncontrollably the whole time, due more to coffee and cigarettes than nerves.

I think the nervousness came from me realizing that I had to win. My reputation, not my ego was on the line. If I had been fluffed up so much and lost, how could I teach these young poets what I have to teach them? I'm the old man in the slam scene, the slammer who remembers the first FlagSlam at The Alley and all the trials and tribulations in the scene since the naive days of the first team. Nick Fox, Josh Fleming, Andy War Hall and Arek Dye are gone. Christopher Lane is a ghost who is in charge in name and pocketbook only. Besides, he rarely understood the struggle of the working poets, because he always wanted to earn his credit by leading, not fighting on the stage.

I simply had to win or I would have lost everything. I won by 0.7.

I plan to feature later next month.

Slam Tutorial, Part V