Three Days From Now

for Daniela Jara's 20th birthday on 6.21.04

three days from now
she will rise up to the playground of angels
fighter jets and zeppelins
burst open the door
translate her body into an equation
of one–hundred twenty pounds moving
nine–point–eight meters per second per second
and tumble from heaven
because she wants to taste the sky
on her birthday

this is the part of the poem
where I should drop metaphors
about falling in love with her
or how she's already fallen from heaven once
or something about shooting stars
or glass ceilings
but this isn't a love poem

I said I would fall alongside her
stretch out fingers to find her
falling ninety miles an hour
doesn't scare me nearly
as much as forgetting her touch

the romantic in me said
if her parachute does not open,
I will not open mine
instead, I would rather impress myself
emboss myself into the earth
next to her
so that the soil remembers me following her
always
until the crater I create
speaks poetry without my body there

she called me silly

I said
if her parachute does not open,
there is no reason to open mine

she said that if her parachute doesn't open
she'll reach the earth first
and she wondered what it would sound like

I said that it would sound like a dream exploding
it would sound like all the poems in history
being read simultaneously
it would echo across the earth
making poets of every language weep
like a thousand hearts breaking in unison


she wondered if it would be more like a 'thud'
or a 'squish'

I said that if my parachute doesn't open
I would hit first
so she could hear the sound
and in the next life, moments later,
she could tell me
she said I would have to wait her lifetime
for that story
and how much it would suck
to get her car keys from my pocket
so she could drive home

this isn't a love poem
because three days from now
she will fall away from me
and she doesn't want me to catch her

this isn't a love poem
because she wants to fall alone
I know now
I've never been good enough for her
she knows now
that she never needed me in the first place
that our kisses were forgettable
that the press of our skins together beneath sheets
kept her warm some nights
but that anyone else would do

she's not the kind of woman
who will wait for anyone to follow her
even at terminal velocity
she wants to fall alone
which is why I write these love poems

three days from now
my heart will become a projectile
as she shatters herself through heaven
from the other side

to her
this isn't a love poem
it's just some crap to read
before she leaps from the door
and tastes the sky
alone

to me
only the sky knows
what this feels like

3rd Annual Arizona All Star Slam: 3rd Times the Harm

Round One
(poet, poem, score, cumulative score, rank)

Akua, 25.3, 8th
Don McIver, 21.4, 15th
Dan Seaman, 23.1, 13th
The Klute, "NASCAR Über Alles", 27.5, 2nd
Suzy La Follette, "Suzy Strap-on" 22.3, 14th
Cass J. Hodges, "Sushi", 25.1, 9th
Bill Campana, 25.0, 10th
David Rodgers Luben, "Weed" My lament for those who toke instead of at least having the dignity to do real drugs 24.7, 11th
Brent Heffron, "24", 25.8, 6th
Logan Phillips, "¿Sin Voz?" 25.5, 7th
Eric Larson, 24.4 (after -0.5 penalty for 3:19), 12th
Sharkie Marado, 26.7, 5th
David Tabor, "A.A.D.D." - Another rant about living in the times that I do, 27.1, 3rd
Christopher Fox Graham, "Spinal Language", 26.9, 4th
Aaron Johnson, 27.6, 1st

Round Two
Aaron Johnson, 25.4, 53.0, 6th
Christopher Fox Graham, "Three Days From Now", 28.5, 55.4, 1st
David Tabor, "Slugger!" - Written after braking yet another printer while working on a chapbook. After braking my car-horn a week earlier, inspiration strikes. 26.3, 53.4, 5th
Sharkie Marado, 27.8, 54.5, 3rd
Eric Larson, "Alpha Male", 26.2 (after -1.0 penalty for 3:26), 50.6, 12th
Logan Phillips, "Prescription", 26.3 (after -0.5 penalty for 3:15), 51.8, 11th
Brent Heffron, 26.2, 52.0, 9th
David Rodgers Luben, "Preposition Noun" "In Love" being the specious phrase in question 28.0, 52.7, 7th
Bill Campana, 27.0, 52.0, 9th
Cass J. Hodges, "Beautiful", 27.4, 52.5, 8th
The Klute, "Cereal Aisle Racist, 26.8, 54.3, 4th
Akua, 29.5, 54.8, 2nd

Round Three
Christopher Fox Graham, "I’m Not A Poet For Applause" 25.7 (after -1.0 penalty for 3:22), 81.1 4th
Akua, 28.5, 83.3, 1st
Sharkie Marado, 27.7, 82.2, 2nd
The Klute, "Love Letter to Private Lynddie England" 27.2, 81.5, 3rd
David Tabor, "The Poem About My Dad" - About 20 years of my having breakfast with Dad every Sunday. Summed up in 3 minuets. 26.3, 79.7, 8th
Aaron Johnson, 28.0, 81.0, 5th
David Rodgers Luben, "Fat Girl Fuck" Which, after over a year, still makes my mouth go dry with fear every time I speak it in public 25.4 (after -1.5 for 3:31), 78.1. 10th
Cass J. Hodges, "Waking Up", 28.4, 80.9, 6th
Brent Heffron, "Super Drunk", 79.0, 9th
Bill Campana, 28.2, 80.2, 7th

Final Rank
1, Akua, 83.3 $300
2, Sharkie Marado, 82.2 $75
3, The Klute, 81.5 $50

4, Christopher Fox Graham, 81.1
5, Aaron Johnson, 81.0
6, Cass J. Hodges, 80.9
7, Bill Campana, 80.2
8, David Tabor, 79.7
9, Brent Heffron, 79.0
10, David Rodgers Luben, 78.1

11, Logan Phillips, 51.8
12, Eric Larson, 50.6

13, Dan Seaman, 23.1
14, Suzy La Follette, 22.3
15, Don McIver, 21.4

"Major, major props for what I think was the best slam in AZ..." - The Klute
"I'm more impressed with the talent level of NORAZ every time I come up the hill." - David Tabor
"As always it was a blast. I especially loved the fact that I did well and didn't feel obligated to do three greatest hits and instead of performing I did what I love to do most, which is writing crazy shit and reading it to a frenzied crowd. Until next time..." - Bill Campana
"I felt incredibly priviledged to be at the All-Star Slam, and it meant a lot to me to be on the stage with a whole carnival of poets who seemed truly to feel that the work and the chance to share it was more important than points and praise. People who seemed to know the shit from the shit. Shiny." - David Rodgers Luben
"Love to Mr. Lane too for the host-y goodness." - The Klute

Southwest Shootout Finals

Denver, 5 person group poem (Andrea Gibson, Ian, Eirean Bradley, Paulie Lipman, & Ken Arkind), 28.8
NORAZ, Logan Phillips, 12 Things You Need to Know About Mexico, 28.2
Berkeley, Mack Dennis, 28.5
Palo Alto, 4 person Group (Lee, Karuna Tanahashi, man, and woman), 27.0
Austin, Zell Miller III, 29.3

Palo Alto, Lee, 29.2, 56.2
Austin, Andy Buck, Janet Jackson's Tittie, 29.7, 59.0
Denver, 5 person group poem (Andrea Gibson & Eirean Bradley off-stage, Paulie Lipman, Ian, & Ken Arkind at the mics), Welcome to Suburbia, 28.6, 57.4
NORAZ, Christopher Fox Graham, The Peach is a Damn Sexy Fruit, 28.7, 56.9
Berkeley, Abdul Kenyatta, Fuck a Poet (with the line "I have a dream today / that Jew and Gentile / Black and White / Christian and Muslim / Lesbian and Gay / will spank a poet's ass tonight"), 58.9, 57.4

NORAZ, Eric Larson, Plea, 28.0, 84.9
Berkeley, Charles Ellik, 26.8, 84.2
Palo Alto, 28.5, 84.7
Austin, Christopher Lee, 29.0, 88.0
Denver, Paulie Lipman and Eirean Bradley, For the Survivors, 28.6, 86.0

FINAL SCORES
Austin 88.0
Denver 86.0
NORAZ 84.9
Palo Alto 84.7
Berkeley 84.2

Southwest Shootout

First Bout at the Harwood Art Center

Dr. Trans All Stars, Matthew John Connelly, 26.4 (after -0.5 penalty)
NORAZ, Logan Phillips, ?Sin Voz?, 27.1
San Antonio, RIAlistic, 27.0
Colorado Springs, Kevin 23.0 (after -0.5 penalty)
Sante Fe, Henry Vasquez, 25.9 (after -1.0 penalty)

Colorado Springs, Carol, 26.1, 49.1
Sante Fe, Danyem, 25.3, 51.2
Dr. Trans All Stars, 26.7, 53.1
NORAZ, Christopher Fox Graham, Spinal Language, 28.8, 55.9
San Antonio, 27.0, 54.0

NORAZ, Brent Heffron, Battle Cries, 26.1 (after -0.5 penalty), 82.0
San Antonio, 27.0, 81.0
Colorado Springs, Karen, 26.8, 75.9
Sante Fe, 27, 78.2
Dr. Trans All Stars, Taneka Stotts, 28.6, 81.7


FINAL:
NORAZ 82.0
Dr. Trans All Stars(a pick-up team) 81.7
San Antonio 81.0
Sante Fe 78.2
Colorado Springs 75.9



Second Bout at the Harwood Art Center

San Jose, Mighty Mike Magee (2003 Individual National Poetry Slam Champion), I like you a lot, 28.4
Albuquerque, Group poem with Cuffee, Libby Kelley, and Jazz
Palo Alto, Duo with Lee and Melissa Rose, 28.7
Westside, Big Poppa E, I Can't Dance, 28.1
Austin, 28.0

Westside, Jerry Mondragon, Radio of Life, 27.8, 55.9
Austin, Da'Shade, 29.2, 57.2
San Jose, Caroline Harvey, A Crooked Line, 28.2, 56.6
Albuquerque, Group poem with Tony Santiago, Don McIver, Libby Kelley, and Cuffee, 28.2, 56.3
Palo Alto, Duo with Lee and Karuna Takahashi, poem about a female Palestinian suicide bomber and an Israeli soldier, 28.8, 57.5

At this point, a homeless man burst into the venue, host Danny Solis went to handle it and Taneka Stotts, Danny's co-host took over, but got the order mixed up.

Westside, Sonia Dragon, 27.7, 83.6
Danny Solis took over, explained the situation and said that his name tonight was "MC Protest Denied". Slam resumed as follows:
Albuquerque, duo with Tony Santiago and Don McIver, Johnny Cash, 28.9, 85.2
Palo Alto, Karuna, Peanut Butter (funny and erotic), 28.8, 86.3
Austin, Tony Jackson, Black Coat, 29.2, 86.4
San Jose, Eric Sanchez, 29.0, 85.6

FINAL:
Austin 86.4
Palo Alto 86.3
San Jose 85.6
Albuquerque 85.2
Westside (a pick-up team) 83.6


3rd Bout at the Blue Dragon
FINAL:
Denver
Berkeley
Albuquerque High School
Dallas
Houston

Tonight is the finals
the 5 teams:
NORAZ
Berkeley
Austin
Denver
Palo Alto

Ode to Tarah Leija

Ode to Tarah Leija:

A silly little poem

oh Tarah,

for whom my heart beats

oh Tarah,

who art squeezably soft

oh Tarah,

with hair dark like midnight
and other poetical things that are dark,

oh Tarah,

the tarahlisciousness of thy skin makes me weep
weep like a little boy
a little boy with melting ice cream
and hands too small to enjoy the dairy joy on a cone
with chocolate sauce

oh Tarah,

you are the square root
of love

oh Tarah,

you are the kiss and oak tree gives a Jetta at 80 miles and hour

oh Tarah

may little girls want to grow up to be you
and little boys want to grow up to love you

oh Tarah,

who is so sexy,
she makes that final "H" in her name silent in shock
of her beauty
and makes it speak to the rest of us,
"H" (an exhale)

oh Tarah

tall enough to shatter skyscrapers

oh Tarah

whose smile still breaks hearts
from 151.67 miles away
I looked it up on Mapquest

of Tarah,

you are the comma (,) in this sentence
and the period at the end of this one (.)
you are still punctuating my poetry
with a smell of skin that I can't deny
semi-colon, question mark, exclamation point, exclamation point, ellipse
;?!!...

oh Tarah

why do you tease me so
by not marrying me?

oh Tarah

I would buy you dishes
with a great china pattern
that your mother would love
like she would love me,
the boy who loved Tarah

oh Tarah

if you were a Kangaroo,
I would watch you hop

oh Tarah

if you were the moon
i would build a rocketship
land on you
and hit golfballs in a spacesuit
just to make an MTV commercial
20 years later

oh Tarah

you are where my keys are

oh Tarah

lets hyphenate your last name
with mine
and say them together
every time we meet someone new
that's real love, honey

oh Tarah

your name means Earth
if it were spelled differently
and we all spoke Latin
but we speak English
and it's spelled with two A's
and a silent H
which is Latin for nothing
but not nothing
i mean nothing translates into Latin
from "Tarah"
which is how I like
to love you:
untranslatably.

Ode to Tarah Leija

Ode to Tarah Leija:

A silly little poem

oh Tarah,

for whom my heart beats

oh Tarah,

who art squeezably soft

oh Tarah,

with hair dark like midnight
and other poetical things that are dark,

oh Tarah,

the tarahlisciousness of thy skin makes me weep
weep like a little boy
a little boy with melting ice cream
and hands too small to enjoy the dairy joy on a cone
with chocolate sauce

oh Tarah,

you are the square root
of love

oh Tarah,

you are the kiss and oak tree gives a Jetta at 80 miles and hour

oh Tarah

may little girls want to grow up to be you
and little boys want to grow up to love you

oh Tarah,

who is so sexy,
she makes that final "H" in her name silent in shock
of her beauty
and makes it speak to the rest of us,
"H" (an exhale)

oh Tarah

tall enough to shatter skyscrapers

oh Tarah

whose smile still breaks hearts
from 151.67 miles away
I looked it up on Mapquest

of Tarah,

you are the comma (,) in this sentence
and the period at the end of this one (.)
you are still punctuating my poetry
with a smell of skin that I can't deny
semi-colon, question mark, exclamation point, exclamation point, ellipse
;?!!...

oh Tarah

why do you tease me so
by not marrying me?

oh Tarah

I would buy you dishes
with a great china pattern
that your mother would love
like she would love me,
the boy who loved Tarah

oh Tarah

if you were a Kangaroo,
I would watch you hop

oh Tarah

if you were the moon
i would build a rocketship
land on you
and hit golfballs in a spacesuit
just to make an MTV commercial
20 years later

oh Tarah

you are where my keys are

oh Tarah

lets hyphenate your last name
with mine
and say them together
every time we meet someone new
that's real love, honey

oh Tarah

your name means Earth
if it were spelled differently
and we all spoke Latin
but we speak English
and it's spelled with two A's
and a silent H
which is Latin for nothing
but not nothing
i mean nothing translates into Latin
from "Tarah"
which is how I like
to love you:
untranslatably.

Ode to Tarah Leija

Ode to Tarah Leija:

A silly little poem

oh Tarah,

for whom my heart beats

oh Tarah,

who art squeezably soft

oh Tarah,

with hair dark like midnight
and other poetical things that are dark,

oh Tarah,

the tarahlisciousness of thy skin makes me weep
weep like a little boy
a little boy with melting ice cream
and hands too small to enjoy the dairy joy on a cone
with chocolate sauce

oh Tarah,

you are the square root
of love

oh Tarah,

you are the kiss and oak tree gives a Jetta at 80 miles and hour

oh Tarah

may little girls want to grow up to be you
and little boys want to grow up to love you

oh Tarah,

who is so sexy,
she makes that final "H" in her name silent in shock
of her beauty
and makes it speak to the rest of us,
"H" (an exhale)

oh Tarah

tall enough to shatter skyscrapers

oh Tarah

whose smile still breaks hearts
from 151.67 miles away
I looked it up on Mapquest

of Tarah,

you are the comma (,) in this sentence
and the period at the end of this one (.)
you are still punctuating my poetry
with a smell of skin that I can't deny
semi-colon, question mark, exclamation point, exclamation point, ellipse
;?!!...

oh Tarah

why do you tease me so
by not marrying me?

oh Tarah

I would buy you dishes
with a great china pattern
that your mother would love
like she would love me,
the boy who loved Tarah

oh Tarah

if you were a Kangaroo,
I would watch you hop

oh Tarah

if you were the moon
i would build a rocketship
land on you
and hit golfballs in a spacesuit
just to make an MTV commercial
20 years later

oh Tarah

you are where my keys are

oh Tarah

lets hyphenate your last name
with mine
and say them together
every time we meet someone new
that's real love, honey

oh Tarah

your name means Earth
if it were spelled differently
and we all spoke Latin
but we speak English
and it's spelled with two A's
and a silent H
which is Latin for nothing
but not nothing
i mean nothing translates into Latin
from "Tarah"
which is how I like
to love you:
untranslatably.

Ode to Tarah Leija

oh Tarah,

for whom my heart beats

oh Tarah,

who art squeezably soft

oh Tarah,

with hair dark like midnight
and other poetical things that are dark,

oh Tarah,

the tarahlisciousness of thy skin makes me weep
weep like a little boy
a little boy with melting ice cream
and hands too small to enjoy the dairy joy on a cone
with chocolate sauce

oh Tarah,

you are the square root
of love

oh Tarah,

you are the kiss and oak tree gives a Jetta at 80 miles and hour

oh Tarah

may little girls want to grow up to be you
and little boys want to grow up to love you

oh Tarah,

who is so sexy,
she makes that final "H" in her name silent in shock
of her beauty
and makes it speak to the rest of us,
"H" (an exhale)

oh Tarah

tall enough to shatter skyscrapers

oh Tarah

whose smile still breaks hearts
from 151.67 miles away
I looked it up on Mapquest

of Tarah,

you are the comma (,) in this sentence
and the period at the end of this one (.)
you are still punctuating my poetry
with a smell of skin that I can't deny
semi-colon, question mark, exclamation point, exclamation point, ellipse
;?!!...

oh Tarah

why do you tease me so
by not marrying me?

oh Tarah

I would buy you dishes
with a great china pattern
that your mother would love
like she would love me,
the boy who loved Tarah

oh Tarah

if you were a Kangaroo,
I would watch you hop

oh Tarah

if you were the moon
i would build a rocketship
land on you
and hit golfballs in a spacesuit
just to make an MTV commercial
20 years later

oh Tarah

you are where my keys are

oh Tarah

lets hyphenate your last name
with mine
and say them together
every time we meet someone new
that's real love, honey

oh Tarah

your name means Earth
if it were spelled differently
and we all spoke Latin
but we speak English
and it's spelled with two A's
and a silent H
which is Latin for nothing
but not nothing
i mean nothing translates into Latin
from "Tarah"
which is how I like
to love you:
untranslatably.

Summer Conversations in April

summer conversations in April
unglue the bookends between
weekends and weekdays
Calvin and Hobbes adventures
through backyard forests
bare feet in clover like when we were 10
remove the clothes of adult professions
fold up the faces of waiters, lawyers,
and corporate drones
stick them in a drawer
with fake smiles and name tags
and flip on cartoons
let milk soggy cereal
slide across tile in white socks
and don’t let mom
catch us with water guns in the house…
bugs, garden hoses, unleashed dogs
and summer baseball
short an outfielder and a catcher
we’ve forgotten when the civil war started
how to spell "obsequious"
or the square root of 121
left them behind
to make room in our heads
for sleep over ghost stories
tree house constructions with rope swings
games of ding dong ditch
and water balloon slingshots

neighbor’s cats hate boys
before they chase girls instead
and change the content
of summer conversations
from skinned–knees
and expeditions to rooftops
to kisses,
pretty nothings,
and shaking hands on feminine kneecaps
while boyish stories fade
until sons long to hear them

every day should sing like this

every day should sing like this
the pageantry of cities
swimming by tourists
drunk on summer conversations in april
bright shiny words or catch our eyes
costumes on skin, of skin
on a parade of genetic soup
in endless variety

every day should sing like this
where boys who should be brothers
reminisce over childhoods they could have shared
exorcise the pretty words
conjoining thoughts of hopscotch games
already pointless
boil down the bullshit
to its component parts
and only speak new things
shed free of the costumes and headdresses
so we are nameless

every day should sing like this
we pave streets with the should’ves and would’ves
let loose our insides to another
to cyclone leftward,
lift our skins back to Oz.
kisses that should be
gestate into gyrations of heartbeats
germinate across the carpet
leaving warm hands on hands
sweat and skin compacted tightly
and bare feet wading in shallow breath,
swallow from ear to ear
in another smile’s taste,
the alto and tenor shaking,
sharing harmonies like they should have
long before they forgot how to sing
dancing around the octaves with new resonances
beating forth the songs
of the next 100 generations in their smile,
pulled through hair and whispers

every day should sing like this
where new tribes dance
around new fires
on the laughing shadows of ancestral tombs
while new myths spring from shared tongues
and remixed memories
new loves replace ones misstepped before
and new starts from good endings

Birth, Disease and Grand Slams

Christopher Lane and Akasha had a baby at 8:17 on Friday night, Oren Jacob Lane (rolled or gutteral "R" on Oren; those wacky Jews). 7lbs, 9oz. Already has more hair than Lane, and his beard is coming in the same. Oddly enough, I hear he's already taller than Chris.... I am a surrogate uncle. But it means he was out of the slam.

I was in pain from the sore throat starting Sunday and by Tuesday, I was in so much constant pain that I just wanted death, sweet death. I slept for four straight days with breaks in between to cry in the shower, try to not throw up, and drink water, tea, and gargle with salt water. Took me till Wednesday to actually say "ah" and look at my throat. I'm the son of a Registered Nurse, yet, I am a medical idiot. Anyway, went to the Emergency Clinic for the pain. The doc said I tested negative for strep and mono, but that my throat was the worst (throat infection) he'd ever seen on a living person. The doc was 70+ so he has some clout. He said the strep test (a throat swab) may have given a false-positive, but the mono test (blood test) was almost totally negative. I wasn't sleeping because I was tired, I slept because it was either sleep or feel pain. He gave me some antibiotics (heavy dose of amoxicillin) and I was over-dosing to get the throat clear for Saturday. Instead of 2 every 12 hours, I was doing 2 ever 8 on top of double doses of 24-hour Sudafed and extra-strength Tylenol. When I get a disease, I blitzkrieg the mother-fucker. I never do things the easy way.

By the Slam, I was feeling OK, more or less. More on the Slam later. Suffice it to say, the venue rocked, the audience was fucking huge, the host Bill Campana, feature (one of my best friends and former touring partner) Josh Fleming, calibrators Rebekah Crisp, John R. Kofonow, Dan Seaman, and Suzy La Follette, and slammers Justin "Biscuit" Powell, Sharkey Marado, Cass Hodges, Aaron Johnson, (and my NORAZ Teammates:)Brent Heffron, Logan Phillips, and Eric Larson were amazing. I was honored to share that stage. Everyone I know, poetry-wise in Northern Arizona was there, in addition to my Mom and step-dad Bill, and my Phoenician best friends Michael "KuK" KuKuruga, Nikki Kaufmann, Kevin Crawford and his wife Erin Crawford.

Oh, and I won the slam. By more than 4 1/2 points while everyone else was fighting for the 1/10ths of points between them.
Whoopty-fucking-do.

Slam finalists

Sedona Slam March 26th:

1st Christopher Fox Graham - 81.7
2nd Eric Larson - 78.7
3rd Sharky Marado - 78.4
4th Brent Hefron - 73.7
------------------------------------------------
5th Aaron Johnson - 72.6
6th Rhette Pepe - 67.4
7th Ryan Guide - 50.7

Flagstaff Slam April 14th:
1st Cass Hodges - 88.9
2nd Aaron Johnson - 88.6
3rd Christopher Lane - 88.0
4th Logan Phillips - 87.6
-------------------------------------------------
5th Justin Powell - 87.1
6th Rebekah Crisp - 86.4
7th John Kofonow - 86.0
8th Dom Flemons - 72.1

The top four from each slam face off at:

NORAZ Poetry Grand Slam Finals
Hosted by Bill Campana
Featuring Josh Fleming
Tickets are $10, students are $7.
Orpheum Theater.
NORAZ Poets
Flagstaff Poetry.

When I Am Ancient

For the Sedona Semi-final Poetry Slam on March 26

when I am ancient
and these fingers curl so arthritically
they can no longer hold a pen
when my memory has bled Popsicle into the carpet
and sounds like origami paper
when I do not know my grandchildren
or recall drunk peppermint nights
sweating naked in dark youth
I promise you I will collect all the postcards
I sent to strangers about you

I’ve lost track of the number of postcards I’ve sent
so I’ve negotiated a truce:
Death will not collect me
until I am finished collecting them

they will bring you back
because memory does not live in sequence
but as a collection of moments we selectively remember

this boy will save the best of you
for the old man I will become

when I am ancient
I will shuffle from door to door,
and reincarnate you:
here, your painted toenails dance while you sip iced mocha
here, you say, "let's grow big bushy tails and become foxes"
here, your kiss sucks skin from my bones
here, you call me silly
here, your salsa hips seduce me again
here, I stop lying to you
forever
here, I write another poem that fails to capture your beauty
here, is the fear of your heart collapsing in your chest
here, I drown in your wetness
here, you swallow the sun to tease the moon
here, your kiss sucks breath from my lungs
here, I write another poem that fails
here, I write another poem that fails
here, I say “this is what being my wife would feel like”

this boy I am
will not let that man I will become
forget you

and here,
the day I left you
and I stand in my empty closet
with the door closed
and for that moment that stretched for days
the four walls supported the universe
of our breath,
our heartbeat
and our skins
you held me so tight
we could have shared the same apricot liver
I would have surrendered
my raspberry blood to share yours
i would have given you flower arrangements
scented back rubs
and sticky hazelnut butter sandwiches
until these young hands grew too old
and too ancient
and too useless to do anything
but stroke your cinnamon hair

we whispered things then
prophets should have written down

when i am ancient,
this boy’s last postcard
will make that old man smile himself into a boy again
and feel your peach kiss
on his lips again
when he whispers to death:
[exhale into mic]

I quit my job today

I worked for the Safeway/Vons Call Center until today. I sent this email to the 100+ people in my office. Tarah is my immediate supervisor, Ron covers the other have of the staff, and Teresa is their boss.


Subject: Adios

Adios. I move tomorrow for better poetry and a more diverse and rich art scene in a new city. As I bounce:

Tarah - You are perhaps the best boss I've ever had. Your fierce loyalty, professionalism, and compassion for those under your command is the trait better witnessed in military generals, not bosses. Both personally and professionally, you amaze me.

Ron Bigler – You made the weekends fun and i greatly respect you personally. If every weekday was like the weekends that we had in HS, I could have worked here with you and the team for decades. I wish you well.

Skip this next part.

Teresa - Your ineptitude, deceit, latent racism and reliance of others to think for you will hound you till your end and doom you to a life in middle management, mediocrity, and insignificance. Vacations and fake smiles won't cure the flaws in your character. The only reason I didn't quit at least a dozen times is because of my respect for Tarah and Ron. From baseline incompetence to ineffectual leadership, your management style is best described as a train wreck. I've worked for severe drug addicts and alcoholics who've had more reliability. You don't promote an environment wherein intelligence or innovation would improve the workings, but rather you want to maintain the status quo, because, quite honesty, you're not intelligent nor adaptive enough to handle a mental challenge and you're terrified that your coworkers and employees will discover this, as many of us have. Mike Gillette and Ron Jones are either innocently oblivious, don't care, or are taking your gossiping, chatting, revisions, email forwarding, and inter-office politicking as real work.
You and the other supervisors have promoted and maintained a racist working environment by your systematic firing and transfers of Black and Hispanic employees while promoting, time and again, young Anglos into management positions, especially those who gossip, act subservient, or who strive more nothing greater than being the next lap dog; Richard's harassments were ignored for months and he was even given an interim lead position by you because he learned your game. I wonder what would have happened had complaints about his bigotry and treatment not been circumvented around you to Human Resources. Would you even have reported them, or just let them slide? Additionally, I was not the only one to notice that the only four temps fired on Christmas eve were two Black women and two Black men. The statistical possibly that they were fired based completely on job performance is ridiculously infinitesimal. The marginalization and eventual expulsion from HS of Ken Williams and John Brackens, both intelligent Black men who somehow raised your ire though White employees with more issues remained. Only an investigation by Human Resources or a lawsuit by the ACLU would reveal the systematic purge of minority employees and systematic discrimination during your tenure, but I don't really care that much to pursue it. The shame is that you'll run from office to office in flurry of helplessness and meaningless meetings after you read this, then force Ron and Tarah to work damage control with the staff rather than fixing your flaws of management.
My deepest apologies to Ron and Tarah for any inconvenience, but my grievances are hardly my own, and some I am forwarding some as I leave so that the parties most affected can remain anonymous. Ron and Tarah, please don't be angry with me for long.

With that bit of bitterness purged, I feel better. But the shame of this adios is that I had to include it at all and that I'm leaving with a bad taste in my mouth. Better a bang than a whimper.

To everyone in HS - I wish you well. The past year or so has been great, if it wasn't for the work. So many hungover mornings I've catalogued. Do what you do, be pleasant, and remember that they're using the parades, stuffed animals, and shiny buttons to pacify your resistance. The day you can't quit because you feel obligated to the corporate machine is the day you should quit.

I'm easy to find; Google my name.
-Christopher Fox Graham


What? I'm a Slam Poet. You expected me to quit quietly?

Flagstaff, Sedona, and the Resolution Slam

I work best under pressure. So, rather than work on the minimum six poems I needed for the slams over the last month, I squeezed four of them into the last week, and two into the last 20 hours before I needed to leave; staying up to 4:00AM the day before tweaking lines.

Procrastination is a religion.

It was in the shower the next morning that I had the brilliant idea to write a slam poem specifically aimed at arch-nemesis and über-rival Christopher “Death Monkey” Lane. Good Morning America was on television and I could hear political ads playing. I love mudslinging ads. I love slam poems directed in good humor at someone in the audience. I love Christopher Lane’s reaction to the stunts I pull. Voila, the Election Year Mudslinging. Genius.

Whenever I leave Phoenix, it’s like I’m busting out of prison. Seems fitting that one passes two prisons (a juvenile hall and a federal prison) just before losing sight of the city and heading into the “master planned” town of Anthem, a suburban prison (the Nazis had master planned communities too…).

Reached Sedona and master Lane. We ate at an Indian buffet, talked poetry and politics then headed down to the Write Here Writing Center, in the back of Sedona Books and Music. It was an excellent place to cool and chill. I met Rochelle Brener who will be interviewing me next week for an upcoming featurette in the Kudos newspaper that serves 18,000 readers in Sedona and the Verde Valley. Cool for me.

Lane and I haven’t faced off in a slam bout since the 2001 Flagstaff Slam Team, either in a practice bout or at the Slam Off itself. So the smack-talking between us started weeks ago. I even convinced my mom to send him an email with the gist of “Hi. My son is going to kick your ass tonight. Sincerely, Sylvia.” The fact that she did it proves she rocks and Lane’s reaction was hysterical. Imagine getting smack talk from someone’s mother.

After I got the details down, I squeezed out the gem of a poem "Election Year Mudslinging" in about 30 minutes. The piece almost wrote itself. What made it brilliant, in my mind, was that I planned to read the piece with the semi-accusatory voice we’re all used to on political ads. I had to duck out a few times to work on the sound I wanted for some parts without him overhearing.

We headed back to Lane’s, picked up his fiancée Akasha, and headed north for the bout. I was itching to bust out the new piece.

The old crew was there, everyone ready to slam. The über-amazing full-of-love Suzy La Follette, Dom Flemons much improved since I first saw him, Cass Hodges deep-down my secret favorite, Logan Phillips back from Mexico with a full beard, Brent Heffron in his first slam since last April.

The feature, Krystal Ashe, a former Slam Master in Chicago and now living in the Bay area, arrived a little late after driving seven hours. She came in to the packed house during the second performer of the open mic and Kofonow put her after the first round, with the house already geared up.

Everyone was on top of their game but I was only gunning for Christopher Lane. Suzy la Follette did a great piece about being made into an action figure toy, a lesbian with a strap-on. I’d buy one for all my friends. Lane’s first round piece was also brilliant, a humor piece toying with the idea that if men could get pregnant, we’d make it a sport. He went way over time and lost a good 4 points.

I pulled the wrong love poem for round one. I had meant to pull a new love poem "how once was", but instead grabbed "i smelled you on my skin today." it's a good poem, but i had read it in Sedona at the Butterball Slam in November and I wanted to do a new piece.

Round two was a little more perfect. Lane went toward the end, doing his "Can you spare some change" political poem. After a brief respite from Dom Flemons, i got my chance to bust out "Election Year Mudslinging." Pure genius in the rotation.

Best night's sleep I had in weeks.

The next morning, Lane and Akasha went to Flagstaff to see their midwife. I bounced up the same time and went to Snowbowl. It'd been months since I'd seen snow so i took the long road at full tilt and ran around in the snow. Such a boy.

I headed to Barnes and Noble. It's always uncomfortable to go, after all that drama with Lisa. Her engagement wasn't really a surprise and I doubt I'll see her again, but that fear is there. I always hope she'll be cordial, want to chat, maybe about her engagement, etc., but I'll never know. I bought "Worst Case Scenario Handbook: Parenting" for Lane and Akasha, Al Franken's "Lies, and the Lying Liars who tell them", and Chuck Palahnuik's "Lullaby."

I met this amazing poetess named Danielle (her stage name was Sandia), the very same night Lisa and broke up two years ago. She and I went on this amazing date at the Morning Glory Cafe. Live music, and then we all made sandwiches and got a little loaded. I walked her to her car and said goodbye, but i was too much of a wus to ask her out for a second date. So I stopped in to the Cafe, bought a hemp sandwich, and made small talk with the owner who remembered me. She is a little crazy, but intuitive. She suggested that i wasn't "big" enough then, but i am now.

I ate for lunch downtown and added special notes to the parenting handbook.

By chance, I caught up with Lane and Akasha at the Campus Coffee Bean, made a little chat, then met Brent Heffron at B&N. After a bit of the talky-talky, we started the night.

The first bar we hit has always been one of my Flagstaff favorites. San Felipe’s is a little preppy, a little posh, but i like the bright shiny colorful things.

And therein, amid the bright and shiny, was Eliena, über-amazing from the smile to the attitude. She is a dance student at NAU and moved her body like art. She walked like she was telling a story. Cute, sweet, took command of the conversation like she had written it before we got there. She also had the best story for how her mom named her; She-ra's best friend. Remember She-ra, Girls' reply to Boys' He-Man? That rocks. She's a heartbreaker.

We bounced to Uptown Billiards for round two. The bartender had my same birth date, even year, so she and i traded quips about our respective personalities. Too weird.

My ex Emily Lyons met up with Brent and I for a few games of pool, a few more drinks before we bounced back to San Felipe's for another round. Emily Lyons kept stealing my drink, claiming I had had too much (this will be important later).

The final stop for the night was the Monte Vista. Here, we did more of the drinky-drinky. I love the dark velvet lighting of the space. For Karaoke, Emily Lyons did, perhaps the worst rendition of Danny Boy I've heard. All in fun though.

Meanwhile, of all the people I thought I'd never see again, I ran into Emily Markel. She was shooting pool with her new beau, and we made the talky-talky, but I don't really remember much at that point.

We also hooked up with Emily Lyons's friends, a gay boy with glasses and a cute Asian girl whose names totally escape me. Swap stories, trade laughs. Might see more of them in the future.

The drive home was my personal highlight. Emily Lyons sat on Brent's lap, on the verge of queasy. But as she got out, she paused by the tree in her front yard and doubled over. It's so funny to be on the other side of the drunk curtain for once.

Slept on Brent's floor.

A foreign bathroom is always a unique experience. The water pressure, the temperature, it's all like being a kid again. Especially when hung over.

Nice drive home. Had plenty of time to clear my head. I am going to enjoy moving up to Sedona.

Lane was surprised to see me, on time and sober. The hiking party consisted of myself Lane, Akasha, and her 1-year-old niece Zowie, and crazy fun Carl, who is at least 60 if not older. We hiked Doe Mountain., west of Sedona. The five of us, marching in a line; two hunters, a pregnant woman, a baby, and wise, wacky, slightly crazy old man, felt very tribal.

Akasha took me and Zowie to meet with her younger sister, (and Zowie's mom), Hannah for lunch at Natural Foods. Afterwards, I met with Mary Guaraldi who worked with me on some of my pieces and my breathing (i get too tense in my shoulders and upper torso).

I reworked my new piece, "hit me running" and primed it for the slam.

I didn't expect them to show up (he had to work and I didn't think she'd make the 2hr drive alone), but my two best friends from Tempe, Michael "KuK" KuKuruga and Nikki Kaufman grabbed seats in the back. That made my day.

The Slam's feature was Krystal Ashe fresh from a show down in the Valley

The slam was slated for 12, but got pushed to 15 because of the way the newspaper invitation worded the event. Lane is tough with the rules and doesn’t play favorites, but the article seemed to indicate that anyone who signed before 6:30 could have a go. 15 it is, then. The first slammer was Logan Phillips from Flagstaff, followed by Tony Carito from Sedona. Not a big fan of Tony. He does improv performances, but has a fake ring to him and stands out as being way too pretentious. His work (i wouldn't call it poetry per se), doesn't have any honesty to it. Next was Corbet Dean, who after throwing a fit about Sedona and boycotting an event, felt okay coming up to compete this time around. Up next was Dom Flemons. As I've known him, I've become more and more appreciative of his work. He does enjoy performance. Following him were Eric Larson improving performer, but he needs to stop pacing back and forth), R. Scott, Robin Anderson slowly becoming one of my art heroes, Reese Lebard who should never be allowed on stage ever again, Brent Heffron slamming for the first time in a long while, Akua from Phoenix, Rebekah Crisp who is also improved a great deal since her first slam last year (and may be my new landlord), Autumn Garza (who may have been drunk), Sharky Marado a blue-collar slammer from Flagstaff slowly coming into her own. Pulling up the last was the unsinkable Bill Campana, then myself. For round one, I busted out "Election Year Mudslinging",, just to get me into round two. A went a little long, and though I scored a perfect 30, the time penalty dropped me to a 29.0.

The cuts were fierce, dropping out Tony Carito, R. Scott, Robin Anderson, Reese Lebard, Brent Heffron, and Autumn Garza.

For round two, I read another new poem "spinal language". Despite my hope that my third round poem would have the biggest impart, I got most of the compliments for this poem.

Cuts for round two were Dom Flemons, Sharky Marado, and Logan Phillips.

This left only 6 slammers, including Corbet Dean and Eric Larson. I was extremely pleased that Rebekah Crisp made the cut, proving that she is moving forward in her performance. Bill Campana performed "Rulebreaker". I had hoped that he would have performed a new piece, but only because I'm so familiar with it, and I think he's gone above and beyond with his more recent work. Bill scored a 29.9, as did I with "hit me running". Edging us out was Akua with a perfect 30.0. That left Bill and facing off with a haiku bout. I won the toss, and Bill's testicle haiku whooped mine (i think because I said "I will" instead of "i'll" and the judges counted 18 instead of 17 syllables. Akua didn't have a victory poem on hand, so she did an old favorite.

Every time I'm in Sedona, I fall more and more in love sweet, young Lyrica. I think i may marry her. Flirty-flirty, talky-talky.

Later, at the campfire, the night's survivors talked poetry, drank cheap beer, and faded out. Nikki, Lane, KuK and I endured longer than the others, and turned in around 4:00AM. The five of us (Akasha was already asleep) slept in their tiny trailer in Oak Creek Canyon. The next morning, KuK and Nikki left early, so Lane and I had breakfast at the Garland's store down the hill. We read over the surveys from the night before, made the talky-talky, then I took off for the valley, having decided to move to Sedona by mid-March.