"Checkmates" a new film by the Upright Citizens Brigade

I'd pay to see this spoof trailer greenlit into a feature film.

Of course, I grew rereading a book of chess every few months (I think it might have been "Judgment and Planning in Chess" by Max Euwe), recording games with algebraic chess notation and playing for money in high school ....

A Wino's Memories

A Wino's Memories

The Wine, by deviantART user juletjess

at the bottom
of wine bottles in the kitchen
hide misplaced memories
those drained, hold relived sins
the unopened ones swallow thoughts of her
swimming in scarlet-violet soup
grapes drowned into sweet poison
each swig pulls me back to her
while killing a little more
recalled kisses stain lips
the weeping remembrances afterward
make driving while under her influence
an arrestable hazard when
Bereaved Aortic Collapse
rises above 0.08 percent

napping in a bottle of Chilean Bordeaux
are roadtrips when I held her snoring on my thigh
beneath high desert nights
along a blacked-out highway
cruising above safe speed limits

resting in the green glass of Moscato d'Asti
her laughter at bad jokes at my expense
when her reverberations
could shake this empty bedroom
scattering inhibitions from my skin

Near the neck of a narrow Napa Pinot Noir
are all the words I spoke
when I thought she was listening
when instead she was just drunk on the sound of my voice
and whatever vocabulary spilled forth
was vacant of content but rich in tone

in the base of cheap Boone’s Farm
is the bruise she left after hitting me
for teasing her too unsympathetically
I drink it knowing
it gives me a headache by midnight and the day after

hiding in the depths of a Beaujolais Rosé
are mornings when I should have risen
but stayed longer and longer in bed
to hold her snoozing brilliance
outshining morning sunrises

behind the label of Wakayama Ume
are the sweetest moments
only suitable for the poetry held private
sent only to her and burned thereafter
you will have to pry me from the grave for those

swimming in Argentinian Malbec
are her stories of cities I’ve never seen
the feel of cobblestone stained with peasant mud
echoes of foreign tongues bartering wares
and revolutionaries’ martyred blood

in the unopened, overly large Mosel Riesling,
is the promise that she would return
when all the quantum equations of quarks and photons
conspired with gravitons and gluons
to nudge her back into my arms
it remains uncorked until she meets me
but I may be buried with it someday

if one could slice open these veins
vines have stained burgundy my blood-red tributaries
I don’t have enough winekeys in this house
to drown in her
so I uncork the moments one by one
swallow them in short glasses
lose coherence in the overswelling libations
pulling me into the touch of her moments
flooding back through open mouths
dripping out into intoxicated fingertips
before, overcome by the inebriation of remembering
eyelids heavy in her photographs
burned backward from brain to retina
push the warmth of her back into hands
allowing me to sleep guiltlessly
but even then, she pours herself into be
squeezes out the wine
so I wake unintoxicated
but drunk on longing for her
and a hangover of memories
I can’t forget again

"1861" by Walt Whitman

Wade Spees/The (Charleston) Post and Courier

Cannon blasts from Fort Johnson across Charleston Harbor toward Fort Sumter at daybreak signal the beginning of the Civil War 150 years ago.

Fort Sumter sits in the mouth of
Charleston Harbor, South Carolina

1861

By Walt Whitman

ARM’D year! year of the struggle!
No dainty rhymes or sentimental love verses for you, terrible year!
Not you as some pale poetling, seated at a desk, lisping cadenzas
      piano;
But as a strong man, erect, clothed in blue clothes, advancing,
      carrying a rifle on your shoulder,
With well-gristled body and sunburnt face and hands–with a knife in
      the belt at your side,
As I heard you shouting loud–your sonorous voice ringing across the
      continent;
Your masculine voice, O year, as rising amid the great cities,
Amid the men of Manhattan I saw you, as one of the workmen, the
      dwellers in Manhattan;
Or with large steps crossing the prairies out of Illinois and
      Indiana,
Rapidly crossing the West with springy gait, and descending the
      Alleghanies;
Or down from the great lakes, or in Pennsylvania, or on deck along
      the Ohio river;
Or southward along the Tennessee or Cumberland rivers, or at
      Chattanooga on the mountain top,
Saw I your gait and saw I your sinewy limbs, clothed in blue, bearing
      weapons, robust year;
Heard your determin’d voice, launch’d forth again and again;
Year that suddenly sang by the mouths of the round-lipp’d cannon,
I repeat you, hurrying, crashing, sad, distracted year.

Alice Keeney/AP

The lights shine at Fort Sumter at 4:30 a.m. EDT to
commemorate the moment the first shots of the Civil War
were fired in Charleston on Tuesday morning, April 12.
The South Carolina ceremony Tuesday begins the four-year
national commemoration of the 150th anniversary of the
Civil War.

Confederate troops in South Carolina fired on Fort Sumter 150 years ago this week, April 12 and 13, touching off the American Civil War. There are more than 70,000 books about the American Civil War, so there's no need for me to touch on that aspect, but I think discussing the poetry from and about the period from 1861-1865 will be fun to explore between 2011-2015.

"Indian Monsoon," March 31/31 Project

For Doc Luben's March 31/31 Project
No. 10

Indian Monsoon
By Christopher Fox Graham

I can smell you on the wind
Blowing east from lands I’ve never seen
The taste of curry and wasabi
Hindu mantras, Buddhist chanting, Shinto incense
I will not voice my yearning
Will not explode my cells
At the thought of hearing your words
Sit still, swallow pride, bear indifference
Attachment is the Eastern sin
As vanity is Western and my own

You came to me in dreams
Erupted from a doorway
As though I would be waiting
And there I was,
Waiting
Like you knew I would be
I will proverbially cut out this overeager tongue
Dumb but undeaf
Anticipating your stories
From Delhi roads and Goa beaches
Sapporo suburbs, Hokkaido hillsides
Tell me your path
I am vapor and ears
Quiet, attentive
An audience
Wholly yours

“Stop Talking and Fuck Me,” March 31/31 Project

For Doc Luben's March 31/31 Project
No. 9

“Stop Talking and Fuck Me”
By Christopher Fox Graham

"Feel me Love me Fuck me" by Andres Panesso

“stop talking and fuck me”
she said
removing any choice in the matter
I always appreciated decisiveness
too often I let thinking
get in the way of living
some days I just want to be a tool
a flesh machine serving at the pleasure
of her pleasure
“I’m naked already,
stop trying to seduce me”
she said
and again my mind has wandered
overthinking the moment
calculating the mathematics
of how to move her limbs
in puzzle piece to my own
so she can link ankles behind my back
wondering if I should cradle her head
or let it flop over the edge of the bed
as her eyes roll back
her mouth agapes to breathe deeper
how to best redistribute weight
so my arm doesn’t fall asleep
or I jab her with an elbow inopportunely
will she keep her eyes open
lock them with mine
as the rest of us dances tandem
we’re all Machiavellian perverts
when sex is the prize
the way she coos and flirts
forgets to wear underwear on formal occasions
because she know how it drives me mad
the way I feign disinterest when she’s moist
and just wants to fuck, then sleep

some women want a piston with legs
jackhammer hips erupting sweat
a fuck machine intent on reaching climax
roughly, quickly, or fanatically
I am not the Kool-Aide man
trying to punch her through the wall
I am a terrible dancer
so I’ve honed other skills to compensate
I am too methodical for sport fucking
my talents aren’t in the rage of hips
through poetry or carefully placed wit
my tongue wingmans this endeavor
but with the same vivacity
as flexing beach weightlifters glistening in the sun
coaxing in a lover
the rhetoric of convincing a crowd of one
to toss her clothes atop mine on the floor
and explore what makes us different
the bargain is alchemy’s equivalent exchange
it seduces, so it gets to play
the curiosity of which parts feel best
the persistence to thy all the angles
the dedication to not yield until she climbs the wall
forgets how to form consonants
and epileptically writhes
knocking over a water glass, alarm clock
and tearing the sheets
she’ll forgetfully ask later
if she caused the damage
and I’ll offer to repeat my instigation
each time we practice
the equations of pressure, speed and friction
become easier to calculate
her variables more familiar
I’ll never master her handling
but it’s worth anther try
and another and another

“why aren’t you inside me yet?
I told you to fuck me”
she said
I keep forgetting the moment
stuck in my head and not with her
delete the man
turn off his mind for a minute
become her toy;
my arm will fall asleep, elbows will jab
she can keep her head up if she wants
it doesn’t matter anymore
she just wants me to fuck her
oblige, I can think later

Damien Flores headlines Sedona Poetry Slam on Saturday, get tickets now

The Quick:

Damien Flores headlines Sedona Poetry Slam

Studio Live
215 Coffee Pot Drive, Sedona, AZ
Saturday, March 26, 7:30 pm
$10 tickets at the door, $5 online in advance.

The Long:

New Mexico champion Damien Flores headlines Sedona Poetry Slam

The Sedona Summer Poetry Slam will explode at Studio Live at 7:30 p.m. Saturday, March 26, presenting three rounds of poetic competition as poets battle for pride and $100.

Between rounds, the audience will be entertained with a feature performance by Damien Flores, one of the top slam poets in New Mexico and a member of the 2005 National Poetry Slam Championship Team.

Photo by Eirik Ott/Big Poppa E

Damien Flores features at the Sedona Poetry Slam on Saturday, March 26,
at Studio Live, Sedona.

Damien Flores hails from Albuquerque, New Mexico. He received a Bachelor of Arts in English and Chicano studies from the University of New Mexico in 2009 and was recipient of the 2008 Lena Todd Award for creative non-fiction from the UNM English Department.

He was named "Poet of the Year" in 2007 & 2008 by the New Mexico Hispano Entertainer's Association.

Flores is best known as a member of four ABQ Poetry Slam Teams as well as the two-time National Champion UNM Loboslam teams. He organized the College Unions Poetry Slam in 2008 and is also a three-time ABQSlams City Champion.

His published works include "A Novena of Mud" and "El Cuento de Juana Henrieta," and published by Destructible Heart and Culture Lab Press. His work has appeared in Bomb Magazine, The Daily Lobo, Duke City Fix, and The Underground Guide to Albuquerque. Flores has also been anthologized in De Veras: Young Voices From the National Hispanic Cultural Center, Earthships: A New Mecca Poetry Anthology, The 2006 National Poetry Slam Anthology, and A Bigger Boat: The Unlikely Success of the Albuquerque Poetry Slam Scene.

Damien Flores is currently an educator in Albuquerque and hosts the Spoken Word Hour on 89.9 KUNM-FM.

All poets are welcome to compete in the slam.
Slammers will need three original poems, each lasting no longer than three minutes. No props, costumes nor musical accompaniment are permitted.

The poets will be judged Olympics-style by five members of the audience selected at random at the beginning of the slam. The top poet at the end of the night wins $100.

Poets who want to compete should purchase a ticket in case the roster is filled before they arrive.

The slam will be hosted by Sedona poet Christopher Fox Graham.

The slam will be hosted by Sedona poet Christopher Fox Graham, who represented Northern Arizona on the Flagstaff team at five National Poetry Slams between 2001 and 2010. He has hosted and competed in poetry slams and open mics in Sedona since 2004.

Graham has performed in 40 states, Toronto, Dublin, Ireland, and London, and wrote the now infamous “Peach” poem.

Tickets are $5 online at www.studiolivesedona.com or $10 at the door.

For more information or to register, call Graham at (928) 517-1400 or e-mail to foxthepoet@yahoo.com.
See video from previous poetry slams at www.YouTube.com/FoxThePoet.

Founded in Chicago by construction worker and poet Marc “So What?” Smith in 1984, poetry slam is a competitive artistic sport. Poetry slam has become an international artistic sport, with more than 100 major poetry slams in the United States, Canada, Australia and Western Europe.

For more information about the worldwide phenomena of poetry slam, visit www.poetryslam.com and foxthepoet.blogspot.com.

Home of the Sedona Performers Guild nonprofit, Studio Live is located at 215 Coffee Pot Drive, West Sedona. For more information, visit www.studiolivesedona.com.

"A Plea to Kitsune," March 31/31

For Doc Luben's March 31/31 Project
No. 8

A Plea to Kitsune
Regarding the 2011 Japan earthquake
By Christopher Fox Graham

the world splits open
cracking the rock, a loaf of bread
the angry sea pitches
rolls uphill turning beaches into seabeds
Honshu homes built with sweat
float inland as driftwood
resistant to Godzilla and Mothra
the rage of Akira
and a 1,000 manga disasters
but the Earth’s quiver
a shudder at climax
topples shopping centers and temples
rips roads from foundations
pulls down a country made of chrysanthemums
cherry trees weep as roots drown in salt water


Einstein’s mathematics harnessed
already wiped two cities into cinders here
and a third teeters on the edge
the pride of Bushido
the nobility of seppuku and honor
as poetic as any martyrdom
has suffered this country too much already
this is the nation that gave us
the word for “tsunami” after all

she may have been there
a Bento box and sushi
fresh from the sea
reminding her of an age
when she still had trouble walking
when she reached up for father’s hands
to cross the street in safety
I gave her a warning
told her to be careful


if there is a world of shadow
underneath this one
where djinnis and angels play cards with fate
shades and yōkais plan their tricks
fairies and daemons brew new magicks
I can only hope a kyuubi no kitsune
unfaded from the eaves
warned her on my behalf
to be near a doorframe
stay away from the beaches
stand firm when the earth beneath did not
I beg him to whisper tonight
that he wrapped his nine fox tails
around her limbs and torso
roundhouse-kicked the falling roof panels
or ceiling tiles or tumbling walls
kept debris from falling on her
left her pristine, unbroken and unblemished
until she returns to my country
and if he could not find her
could not reach her in time
would tell her she is beloved half a world away
by the dozens of us who’ve know her
that we long to know she is unharmed

she doesn’t even have to know it was me,
kitsune,
just pass these words to her

"Tongue Tied," March 31/31 Project

For Doc Luben's March 31/31 Project
No. 7

Tongue Tied
By Christopher Fox Graham

Always a smile
with legs to heaven and back
her kiss must be languishing
and a little sloppy
if she even kisses boys

I wonder if she knows
that my heart skips a little
when she smiles
always at a loss for words
I sound like a bad playright's dull love interest
a faraway caricature of a boy
made of static and cardboard
penciled in by an uninterested editor
as the protagonist girl
seeks some inner wisdom
my conversation forced and insincere
small talk just to dance in the reverberation of her voice longer

when what I'd rather say
is how we should turn our bodies into geometry
and strive to determine each other's hypotenuse
race to see who can calculate our quadratic equation
taste what makes us different
while dividing by zero
add one plus one
multiply thirteen times three
or subtract my age from a century
until the climax of our calculations
removes any doubt of mathematics' sincereity

or perhaps I'd rather
she'd unloose her tiger blood
leap on my in the midst of strangers
and make the Adonis DNA in my blood
cry out in sheer madness

or even share truer words
of what I really want to say
when my mouth is footless

let my language follow the sincerity of my smile
to speak with untangled tongue

Embrace March Madness at Sedona's Second Saturday Art Häus

Celebrate March Madness with some of the best of Sedona’s art scene at the Second Saturday Art Häus.

Collage art at February's Second Saturday Art Häus by Pam Paggao

This underground art event rotates between private homes in the Sedona area, offering visitors a night of intimate discussion with the participating artists, as well as other arts supporters and patrons.

Each month, the featured artists are challenged to paint, sculpt and draw a number of pieces to match the theme.

Previous Art Häus themes have included “Fight or Flight” and “Cowboys, Indians and Aliens.”
Last month’s theme of “St. Valentine’s Day Massacre,” included art of candy hearts, broken hearts, real hearts and the infamous St. Valentine’s Day massacre of Chicago mobsters in 1929.

This month’s theme is “March Madness,” so expect art ranging from enthusiasm for college basketball to outright clinical insanity. The artists are free to explore themes as they see fit and produce several varying works depicting it. 

Plan on edgy, humorous, and up-to-the-minute paintings exploring the off-the-deep-end crazy rants of actors Mel Gibson and Charlie Sheen, in addition to more conventional dabbling in the realm of madness.

Art by Brian Walker at the Second Saturday Art Häus on Feb. 14

According to a press release, the show highlights the work of Sedona’s best known up-and-coming young artists. The featured artists include:

• Painter and sculptor Molly Berg, a Chicago transplant
• Sculptor and painter Miguel Guzman from Philadelphia
• Phoenix-born painter and pen and ink artist Jarrod Karimi
• Milwaukee minimalist painter Timmy Kehoe, a longtime Sedona resident whose work is featured around the city
• Pam Paggao, a collagist who hails from Chicago
• Chicago-born painter Brian Walker, a longtime fixture in the Sedona scene whose paintings are exhibited in several galleries and on a series of bottles from a Page Springs area winery

“We all bring our own styles into the mix, which makes for a vibrant and sometimes controversial take on each individually themed show,” Walker said.

“The art can be as soft and compassionate as cotton or as edgy as a nic fit,” he said. “That’s juxtaposition of the show, how different each of our styles complement and contrast with each other. It’s beautiful chaos. It’s like creating explosions in your hands.”

The art of Kehoe, Karimi and Walker have all been separately featured in the Sedona Red Rock News’ Sedona Underground arts column.

Refreshments will be provided. This month, Second Saturday Art Häus takes place at 80 Birch Blvd., West Sedona.

For more information, visit “2nd Saturday Art Haüs” on Facebook.

"Exsanguination," March 31/31 Project

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

Exsanguination
By Christopher Fox Graham

when did you break?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

"She Would Have Been Three," March 31/31 Project

For Doc Luben's March 31/31 Project
No. 5

She Would Have Been Three
By Christopher Fox Graham

she would have been three
I’m guessing
I never wrote things down in a calendar
especially dates I slept with someone
I do keep a list of names
I’m one of those
because lovers’ last names are too often forgettable
call them notches in the bedpost if you must
judge me, Philistines
pretend you don’t have a similar list
hidden in shoebox
written in code in a diary
or recounted in living memory
leaving no trace should death come suddenly
we’re all whores
those who aren’t,
are virgins, saints or liars

I am no saint

she would have been three
not sure of the months
I never understood at what point
a child is no longer counted in years
as if there’s a threshold
when time stretches into longer periods
I am 372 months now
I would have been 348 then, give or take

she would have been three
could have been mine
I was not her your only lover then
I was a name on your list
a notch on your bedpost

I only heard what happened
secondhand years later
flush of fluid
damage within
a loss, the swallow
a haphazard explanation
a medicalized synonym for bad plumbing
to seemingly make the justification less crushing
“your pipes, dear, just can’t hold water
must have been the installation”
you always bore a tough exterior
but fragile around the edges
I knew how to hurt you
with flippant words about how you waste your time
knowing now
if I could unsay those things
knowing what time would mean later
I would chew them back into my tongue
spit them back into my bowels
until they dissolved into my blood
and I could bleed them into a sink

I would do this

but breath has a way of mixing with air
to make itself irretrievable
hiding as ninjas among other atoms
of nitrogen and oxygen
if we only lived in vacuum

I can not ask if she was mine
I was never meant to know
told in secret confidence
why you had grown so distant
in vino veritas in nox noctis
he assumed I knew
had already heard through gossiping grapevine
understood the absent months
the quiet reemergence
the unanswered messages
ignorant of the earthquake that flattened your city

I can never know her name
ask if it was Rachel or Penelope
I always loved your name
the way it rolled of the tongue
like it was made to live there
explore the space between us
did you name her for your mother
had she been born
instead of bled
nine months whole
instead of shattering brevity
you would have told me
father or not

she would have been three
standing knee-high now,
with my eyes
or those of a stranger
but your smile

she would have been three
but in her absence
I have no name to call her
so in mind when I imagine
all she could have been
and that she could have been my daughter
I know the name I would have chosen

I call her by yours

"Finches," March 31/31 Project

For Doc Luben's March 31/31 Project
No. 4

Finches
By Christopher Fox Graham

every morning, the finches feed outside my window
they come each season
their mustard seed brains
containing physics equations of aerodynamics
instantly calculating how to move weight and mass
with the precision to dodge hawks
and avoid power lines
their grey matter specks
contain songs passed down generations
from father to egg
to coax mates from other lovers
the architecture of building a home from twigs
where to house themselves inconspicuous
from snakes and housecats on the prowl
synapses hold cartography of this country
tracking paths from one feeder to the next
returning here with such regularity
I should charge them seasonal rent
or give them each a name

amid that mess of maps and math
buried beneath sonnets of bird-speak oratory
I can see their curiosity
as some gaze back in my window
and wonder where you went
they remember seeing us bare skinned weekend mornings
wrapped around each other as discarded gloves
they were the only ones permitted to see us naked
slumbering until past noon
content together even if the rest of the world
imploded beneath its angry weight
only these feathered peeping toms
could give testimony of how my arms sheltered you
describe unbiased the concavity of man and woman
their mathematics can still see the geometry
of your trapezoid torso
my lithe limbs
four unclawed bare feet
two unfeathered heads rising from beneath sheets
my face buried in your raven hair

they come now and wonder
why you’ve been gone so long
ponder perhaps there’s a nest in another room they can’t see
where you may be raising young
or whether you’ve flown away
gone north or south for the season
but note the vast bed we shared still has space for you
a wide ocean of sheets
visited only by slim limbs reaching
finding nothing to fill them
then retreating home to my sides

they feed and fly on to their next destination
wondering if they may see you elsewhere
when they can tell you
if you stray too far away too long
you may forget you way home
back to the warm shelter
where they fell in love with how we fit together
and gave them a reason to always visit

"Revolution 2.0," March 31/31 Project

For Doc Luben's March 31/31 Project
No. 3

Revolution 2.0
By Christopher Fox Graham

type, type, send
type, type, send
the revolution begins not with a bang
but with a text message

we weep with you, Wael Ghonim,
you did not sign a declaration
shoot a gun
nor take an assassin's bullet
you ran a Facebook page

Egyptian secret police held you blindfolded for 11 days
promised you would be buried nameless, anonymous


as a Facebook event,
your ghost of Khalid Said
brought down a dictator

we weep with you, Wael Ghonim,
you unintentional revolutionary,
sob as the names of boys fallen
crawl across the screen
as Mona el-Shazly asks you to gaze up
swallow the Facebook photos and off-kilter photographs
taken at parties or late-night on-the-towns
images become epitaphs,
boys like us
who before Jan25
watched girls pass by
traded albums and downloaded music
called their mothers on birthdays
and never thought their country
would ever be theirs

if we could stand with you, Wael Ghonim, we would
embrace you as man to man
wrap arms around you to hold you standing
convince you to believe us
that your hands are clean
your soul is unstained
the blood of brothers and sisters on them
wasn’t spilt by you
use it to paint flags
touch it to your childrens’ foreheads
and tell them “this was shed for you,
by men and women who gave more than we did,
it is why you now have a voice
why freedom is more than a noun”

wash it off in the Nile
let it taste of the mother river
swim upstream to the sources
and down to the delta
tell all of Egypt
from Luxor tombs
to pyramid shadows
to the library halls in Alexandria
that your country is free
shake the earth
so dead pharaohs wake trembling
living tyrants flee from their thrones

we weep with you, Wael Ghonim,
we stood with you in Tahrir
we were the breath of bravery
you felt beside you
when the enemy rode in on camels
we stood beside you
five times a day
when you knelt to pray to Allah
we, atheists, Christians, Buddhists
Hindus, Sikhs, and Jews
we watched your back
stood guard in silence
we were the ghosts you felt
assuring you the world was listening
we don’t know your language
but understood each word
in your prayers because
“freedom” never needs translation
it feels the same
no matter the shade or age of skin,

we weep with you, Wael Ghonim,
because your tears are too heavy for one man
let us carry them for you
permit us bear their weight
because we could not physically stand alongside you
allow us sing our lullabies in 1,000 languages to your children
let us tell them our words for "liberty"
so no matter where they travel
we have that in common

we weep with you, Wael Ghonim,
because you are not alone
you never were

now, sleep,
guiltless
weightless
and free


Wael Ghonim is an Egyptian computer engineer and head of marketing of Google Middle East and North Africa who was living in the United Arab Emirates. He ran the Facebook page that organized the Jan25 movement to protest Egyptian President and dictator Hosni Mubarak. In January 2011, Ghonim persuaded Google to allow him to return to Egypt, citing a "personal problem." Planning only a six-day visit for the protest, he was captured by Mubarak's security forces and held blindfolded for 11 days and the protests swelled in Tahrir Square, Cairo. The day he was released, he appeared on DreamTV, where I first saw him.

The video is below. The last five minutes will bring anyone to tears.



On 9 February, Ghonim addressed the crowds in Tahrir Square, telling the protesters: "This is not the time for individuals, or parties, or movements. It's a time for all of us to say just one thing: Egypt above all."

The scholar Fouad Ajami writes:
"No turbaned ayatollah had stepped forth to summon the crowd. This was not Iran in 1979. A young Google executive, Wael Ghonim, had energized this protest when it might have lost heart, when it could have succumbed to the belief that this regime and its leader were a big, immovable object. Mr. Ghonim was a man of the modern world. He was not driven by piety. The condition of his country—the abject poverty, the crony economy of plunder and corruption, the cruelties and slights handed out to Egyptians in all walks of life by a police state that the people had outgrown and despaired of—had given this young man and others like him their historical warrant."

"Extinguished," March 31/31 Project

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

Extinguished
By Christopher Fox Graham

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She Loved Me Better On Paper," March 31/31 Project

For Doc Luben's March 31/31 Project
No.1

She Loved Me Better On Paper
By Christopher Fox Graham

she loved me better on paper
it was easier to forgive my sins
the ones deletable
or ascribed to fast typing or bad penmanship
on second reads it was simpler
to prepare herself for previously discovered ones

she loved me better on paper
flesh was too temperamental
too harsh with spoken words
too adaptive to her moods

when she got fed up with the content therein
she could not close the pages
and place me on the shelf
then grow to forget the offenses,
fondly recall the quotables
reinvest herself in the mystery
of footstep word after word
marching reincarnate on the same path
from moment to moment
pull me back into her wearied hands
and relive the story again from the beginning

paper was easier to throw away
to set ablaze and watch burn
skin, it seems, has a fouler odor
scratches and scars don’t heal with the same cleanliness
as those pencil marks needing erasure

even now,
she still loves me better on paper
prefers the me captured in moments
frozen in ink on pressed wood pulp
the notations she marks
remain without my trademark forgetfulness
or willful delusionary deception

in print, she owns me as she likes
without having to concave her ego
bend to match me in mutual reverence
admit she, too, could be mistaken sometimes
on the pages,
she is always right, my errors unrepentable
a good lover can shamelessly admit wrong
confess to death-penalty guilt
even when in the right

she loved me better on paper
but forgets to understand
those dead words will never breathe
unchanging youth frozen immortally vampiric,
they will one day suck the life from her
pull her into the longing for more
but unanswered
they will be just a tombstone of text
made by a dead man years ago

there is no ghost here, child,
he does not inhabit these pages
buried in your backpack or bookcase
his soul is still dancing elsewhere
breathing in the sunrises with wine-stained lips
somewhere else, he kisses the moonlight
and whispers to stars who’ll still listen
about how he loved this girl

she adores those paper words
but they can never hold her
never caress her bare gymnast’s back
soothe her into sleep
wake her into daybreaks
remind her why lovers always come in pairs

she loved me better on paper
in the same way
I loved her better in absence
because our present was untamable
it demanded too much compromise
too much acquiesce to the other

she loved me better on paper
but he can never say he was sorry
never reiterate that love
— the kind of love that forever tugs at all that aches
demands a heart break itself open
when she traipses through the mind from photographs —
that kind of love does not require reciprocation
saints, martyrs, crazies and dogs teach us this

while the flesh me has no one to say those things to
just lets the words fall from his lips
spill out into the ether
crawl into new pages
onto new paper
so she can love it instead

revere, write, abide
papers yearn for her
it will suffice
it must
it has to

"There is a Girl in Your Country:" an open letter to Stephen Harper, the Prime Minister of Canada

This poem obviously alludes to Shane Koyczan's "We Are More," performed at the opening ceremonies at the 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver, and The Klute's "Canadian Dawn." The references are meant for Azami. If you do not catch them, do not fret, you are not meant to.

There is a Girl in Your Country by FoxThePoet

There is a Girl in Your Country:
An open letter to Stephen Harper, the Prime Minister of Canada

Dear Prime Minister of Canada
The Right Honourable Stephen Harper, PC MP


On behalf of your neighbor to the south,
we surrender.
Since you set ablaze our White House in 1814,
we have tried to resist you
we have mocked your accent
rejected your poutine
stolen your best actors
filmed Oscar-winners in Vancouver and called it Seattle
and neglected to learn the geography of your provinces


that ends today.
invade us,
we now offer no resistance.
bring us your socialized health care
your mandatory two-week paid vacations
your high literacy rate and clean streets


we will begin adding extra “U”s to our words
pronounce Honour, Colour and Armour
as they are intended
we will adapt our tongues to “A-Geinst” and “A-Boat”
remeasure miles in kilometers
pounds in kilograms
turn our thermostats down to minus-15,
in Celsius, not Fahrenheit
and adapt our skins to the inevitable northern winds
soon to blow hence,


just to show you we’re serious
we’ll even submit to two years military conscription
— even through Canada doesn’t have the draft —
our kids would do better building Third-World clinics and schools
rather than blowing them up


send your Mounties south
we’ll great them with open arms,
our citizens will drive just below the speed limit
and start smoking copious amounts of marijuana,
but do so responsibly
as you so nobly taught us


we will begin shortening our sports
from four quarters to three periods
for nostalgia’s sake, baseball will stay at nine innings,
but we’ll concede to call it American Cricket.


Dear Prime Minister Harper,
welcome us as your brothers and sisters in the Commonwealth
put in a good word for us with the Queen
we will rename the U.S. Congress
the Parliament of the United Provinces of Southern Canada —
it was due for an overhaul anyway —
and spend the next decade learning how that shit works
let us keep Governor-General Obama during the transition
until Her Royal Highness appoints a new French-speaker to the post


By first prefixing the pedestrian “USS” with the regal “Royal”
the Royal American Navy will begin renaming warships
and sail home to merely protect our shores


The Royal American Marines will inscribe
“Toujours fidèle” beneath “Semper Fidelis”
on all their stationary


in revenge for Terrance and Phillip,
we’ll execute Trey Parker and Matt Stone to make amends
but since capital punishment is banned in Canada,
we’ll sentence them to creating tourist videos for the CBC


Once your conquest is complete
once our schools have risen to your minimum standards
once “Bonjour!” and “Hallo” is as common
as “Howdy” and “ ’Sup dawg?”
then I ask one favor
one small request in payment
to the unconditional surrender
of our bald eagle sovereignty
to your maple leaf dominance:


with the border fluid
and immigration law a mute point
I’m searching for someone


there is a girl in your country
she is easy to overlook
because she stays in the shadows
avoids the cameras on busy streets
though you can find her at festivals
dancing barefoot at the center of the world
as though the stars forged visas from heaven
slipped passed the earthly border guards to stand in the plazas
sleeve their glow in human bodies around her
and dance until the setting moon revokes their passports
calls them home to press their lips into constellations
you will not know she is here
until someone asks later if you saw the midnight sun
swirling the street in the afterglow of the stage lights
I’ll admit I’ve never seen an aurora
but I imagine it feels like her laughter
and I know why polar bears and icesheets
stay north of the Arctic Circle
because that’s as close as they can get to her


do not stake out hotels
thinking she’ll slip in some night
she can sleep in ditches,
on strangers’ rooftops,
the beds of pickup trucks
or backyard trampolines,
anywhere she can find 10 square feet
and quiet until the dawn


instead, you can search for her on the wide open Trans-Canada Highway
somewhere between St. John’s and Beacon Hill Park
I know it’s 8,000 kilometers,
so keep your eyes peeled
if you see her, it’ll be by outstretched thumb first
I know Canadian winters can be harsh
but you will identify her by her smile
because it will keep you warm no matter the season
now, her unpasteurized joy will take longer
first, she’ll get comfortable in the seat,
ask you your history
and wait for your story


speak slow,
tell your story as best as you can recall
she asks many questions and will cross reference your answers
she will forgive a faulty memory
as long as the words as spoken sincerely
and know that even if she’s not listening to your every word
she’s interpreting the sound of your voice
so be honest
do not lie to her
she will see your fabrications before you can erect them
sweep kick them out from under you
and leave you splayed out on the floor
before the lies can even leave your lips


she will play the role of stranger
drop lines of prepackaged wisdom
play her preshuffled hand of cards
but this is still her shell,
her way to test your defenses
judge whether you’re worth a second try
here, I can offer no advice
— she still gauges me with every phone call —
the game has no trick to win it;
it’s a measure of character or honor
something no one can give you and none can take away
if you don’t have it,
you can drop her at the next stop for gas,
and thanks for the lift,
but if she sees it,
she knows you’re worth more than a ride


she will start to unpeel herself like cloves of garlic
each one covered in its own thin armor
let drops of stories unshelter their instruction
she’s taken the hammer and nails of her ambition
and realized potential to build bridges
for the rest of us to walk across


and somewhere between Havana and San Salvador
on the Black Rock City playa
over a bento box lunch in Sapporo,
her joy will hit like a hidden tsunami
you didn’t see coming
sweep you away from shelter or shoreline
as those waters fill your lungs
you’ll wonder just how you were so oblivious for so long
how could you have not felt the energy she bottled


in her stories
she will teach you that borders
are lines drawn by men in office buildings
who live a fluorescent fiction of a world still flat
men who believe maps and flags and anthems
mean more than blood and handshakes and laughter
men who’ve never dreamed beneath stars she counts nightly
men who’ve never felt the first kiss between sun and Grand Canyon
shake morning reds into the eons-old stone
men who’ve never heard peasants thank Dios
for a vote that finally counts
in a country that is finally theirs


in these life stories of her travels
you’ll understand why she cast off worn shoes
to walk barefoot in the dirt
and spin fire from her arms in the desert
but leave no footprints to follow
just the earthquakes and scars
in those of us who ache for her return
the way zealots pray for messiahs
in their late night confessions the day before martyrdom
she’s a first-aid kit for boys like me
who didn’t know they were broken-hearted before her
she moves in like chess pieces on a board of checkers
brings a Howitzer to knife fight
lets loose a Pamplona herd in a china shop
but will offer to sweep up afterward


I’ll admit her tomboy tongue blindsides on idle Tuesdays
as if the ancient six-day week cleaved open just for her,
added one more day and said
“fuck the mathematics of calendars”
if she could sleep for days
cuddled in a boy’s arms
she’d surrender the world
but the urge to burn and rage at end of day
pulls her back into the dreamlessness
there are too many stories to live
too many fingertips to touch
tornadoes can’t stay stationary either despite the scenery


if you can’t find her on the road
you can search the boxcars,
ask hobos about a girl made of hula hoops
whose pulse thumps in rhythm to railroad ties
pickup all the hitchhikers you find
and en route between points A and B
subtlety ask if a dark-haired, brown-eyed dancer
with weathered hands and a black bandana
has recently shared a meal with them
offered to manufacture a tutu or
sew leg warmers from leftover sleeves


know that in summers she melts into the woods
to reforest what we clear
make amends for civilization’s sins
with a shovel and bag of saplings:
maybe this one will grow up to be a peace table,
this one a roof for a homeless family,
two lovers will kiss beneath this one,
and their grandchildren
will be buried beside its roots


Yukon men won’t admit it
but they came century too early
and weren’t looking for gold
they came to clear the roads for her
give the earth a wound for her to heal
to train her surgeon hands


if all else fails,
you can coax her into the open
by leaving out a plate of melted cheese and fresh garlic
I guarantee she is unable to resist them
it make take years, so make it fresh every few hours
and she’ll track you down one day


once you find her
give her a warm bed
with no annoying alarm clocks
keep her unchained and unlocked
left free to roam or return on her whim
she may pilgrimage to ashrams or overlooks
or cathedrals cut into stone
awaken the third eye in prophets and psychics
who’ve never looked too deep but foresaw her coming
she instigates greatness in those too afraid to birth it themselves


she may still wander away in the day
call down the sun and the moon to dance at dusk
beg Orion to share her arms
and press her lips against new strangers


but if she leaves you, do not chase her,
she befriends guerrillas and revolutionaries
who give her sanctuary like she was a daughter
they will fight to keep her unyielding
know that she growls back at coyotes
chases them from her playgrounds
and though she may ache for warm limbs beneath bedsheets
she can find midnight outdoor air just as soothing
she’s too fierce to hold on to too tightly
she can bite open a boy she loves from the eyebrow down
so imagine what she does to transgressors


I will not fault you if she leaves
just let me know where you last saw her
point me in the general direction of her last appearance
she’s worth the pursuit
whatever you may think of her
she is more


Dear Prime Minister,
if you vow to search for her
if you promise to give it your all
you can have this country
take whatever you want from it
import our monuments like the caesars did obelisks
rename our parks after your heroes
impose your laws or revoke ours
redraw our states into a grid
or the image of Pikachu
it doesn’t matter to me anymore
just demolish the borders between us
erase the lines that divide


leave the office building
to share the blood and handshakes and laughter
without the nomenclature of nations
dream beneath her stars
feel the sun kiss canyons and mountains
give us the freedom of movement to find each other
because whatever you believe I think of her
she is more

"Canadian Dawn" by The Klute

Canadian Dawn
By The Klute

As per The Klute: "Persona piece. 'Red Dawn' meets the 'Joe Canada Rant' set in an alternate universe for some reason."

February 28, 2010
A date which will live in infamy.

We should have seen it coming,
When our boys in blue were beaten,
Before the eyes of the whole world,
At the game of ice hockey.
We all wept when Americans were forced to stand beneath that maple leaf,
Made to listen to someone else's national anthem for a change.
You could almost hear the collective licking of our northern neighbor's chops
As they realized America's one weakness:
We're not that good on the frozen pond.
So a cabal of generals of the Canadian Armed Forces hatched a plan.
Using an eco-friendly, green technology doomsday device,
They would erode our long-standing line of defense
Against Great White Northern agression.
They reversed global warming!
A new ice age was upon us.

Their advance,
Like Quebecois tourists driving in the fast lane,
Was slow and methodical.
With no NHL team to defend it, Seattle was the first city to fall.
We tried to fight back, but it was no use.
Flocks of suicide geese grounded the Air Force.
Our Navy was crippled by strategically-placed icebergs.
The Army? Let's just say you don't bring a machine gun to a polar bear fight.
When they blasted George Washington's face off of Mt. Rushmore
And replaced it with Gordie Howe,
The resistance collapsed.
Panicked American refugees began to pour over the Mexican border,
The Red Maple now waving over the White House.

We survived in the United American Provinces of Lower Canada,
But they began to change us.
We were more polite,
Less eager to wave around a loaded handgun shouting "Who wants some!?! Who Wants some!?!".
Distances were measured in meters,
Temperatures reported in centigrade.
No one knew what the fuck was going on.
They denied our God-given right to die in a gutter,
Broke and penniless, Of an easily treatable illness.
I remember when my father was taken away...
On a government-mandated two-week holiday,
Clutching the plane tickets to Aruba in his hand, he shouted "AVENGE ME!!!"
We tried, Papa, but we were too busy getting drunk on Labatt's Blue
And planning our next trip to the Edmonton Folk Festival...
I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.

Now, due to the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, I must begin this poem over in French:

Nous devrions l'avoir vu venir.
Quand nos garçons dans le bleu ont été battus,
Avant les yeux du monde entier ...

No! This is a bridge I will not cross.
They cannot make me speak in French!
I will resist,
Proudly dipping my freedom fries in ketchup, and not poutine,
Replacing my tuque with a foam-dome filled with two cans of shitty American beer
And I will not let them change everything about us, from A to Z -
Because it is "Z", Not Zed, Z!!!
We will drive you syrup drinkers back across the 49th parallel north,
Raise Old Glory once again,
Take away everyone's health care,
Give the upper-class a tax cut, then really stick it to the poor,
Like we used to do when were still remembered what it meant to be American!
So let me say it so you can understand it, O Canada:

Je n'ai pas encore commencé à combattre,
I have not yet begun to fight!

Copyright 2010 © Bernard "The Klute" Schober



Klute, The: A rare breed of Southern Arizona slam poet, originally raised in Southern Florida (however, he's not a native Floridian - rumors trace his origin back to Illinois).

Abhors use of rhyme schemes in poetry, writes almost exclusively in free verse. Frequent targets: the goth subculture, neoconservativism (especially Dick Cheney), and crass-commercialism. Member of the 2002, 2003, 2005, and 2006 Mesa National Slam teams (Mesa's 2005 slam champion), and 2008's Phoenix Slam Team. SlamMaster of the Mesa Poetry Slam. Has released three chapbooks of his work: 2002's "Escape Velocity", 2005's "Look at What America Has Done to Me", and 2008's "My American Journey". Ask him nicely and he might send you a copy. Primary habitat considered to be raves (especially desert parties), goth clubs, and dimly lit dive bars. Prefers vodka, rum, and absinthe when drinking. Is considered friendly, but when cornered, lashes out with a fury not seen since last Thursday. He's totally smitten with his girlfriend, Teresa - so don't ask him to dance. Feel free to buy him a drink, but remember, he's not putting out. No matter how much you beg.

People are talking about The Klute!

AZSlim, Espresso Pundit poster: Don't argue with The Klute. His hyperventilating and pure hypocrisy shown in these (and many other) posts makes reasoning with a two-year old who didn't get the popsicle he wanted seem tame by comparison.

Phoenix 944 Magazine says: Despite the heat, [The Klute] wears a black trench coat almost everywhere he goes and if the setting permits, he’ll blast through enough slanderous commentary to make Andrew Dice Clay blush. [He] admits he started slam poetry out of arrogance. He saw a performance and figured he could do better, after which he also admits he failed miserably. Today, his addiction for getting in front of the microphone and spitting out everything from a Dick Cheney haiku to a long-winded prose on race car driving to the late Hunter S. Thompson is as strong as his love for vodka and absinthe. If anyone’s seen “The Klute” in action, they’d know it. If they haven’t, they must.

Jerome duBois, The Tears of Things: You have one of the blackest hearts I've ever had the misfortune to glimpse.

The Klute on LiveJournal

Photo of The Klute by Jessica Mason-Paull

Bid on me and other bachelors at the Sedona Bachelor Auction

Tomorrow, Friday, Feb. 18, I will be in the “for sale” in The Bold & the Beautiful Bachelor Auction. The auction is a fundraiser for Sedona Red Rock High School hosted by the Scorpions Booster Club.

The auction includes a bachelor and a date package. Bidders have the option of taking the date package and the bachelor, or just the date package, so women with husbands or significant others aren’t technically obligated to take their bachelor if they choose not to.

For more information and all the details, visit the auction's website.

Schedule:
6 to 7 p.m.: “Man-tini” Cocktail Hour...
7:15 p.m.: Dinner Service and Program Intro
7:30 p.m.: Bachelor Auction Begins

“The Bold & The Beautiful” Bachelor Auction items include:
A Muse Gallery, $50 designer hand bag
Allie Ollie $25
Art of Wine - $50 gift
Best of Show & Music, $50 guitar gift pack
Bliss Extraordinary Floral, $25 bouquet flowers
Cheers (2) $2
Cowboy Club $50
Cucina Rustica $50
Dahl & DiLuca $50
Dirty Hairys Pet Wash & Grooming $40
Elote Café $50
Estebans/Zonies, $50 designer bowl (pottery)
Hearline Café $50
Hummingbird House, $75 (3) glass vase collection
Naja, $50 in perfume and lotions
Sedona Art Wear, $40 Sweatshirt
Sedona Rouge Spa , $55 facial gift certificate
Toy Town at Tlaquepaque, gift item
UPS-Program Printing, $125 printing
Urban Gypsies $50
Well Red Coyote $25

The bachelors include:

Name: Patrick Carroll
Birthday: Oct. 3
Occupation: Fitness specialist

Name: Tod Christensen
Birthday: Nov. 4, 1964
Occupation: Vice president/Manager Coldwell Banker First Affiliate

Name: Bradley Earle
Birthday: March 8, 1976
Occupation: Marketing director

Name: Jim French
Birthday: Oct. 12, 1981
Occupation: Licensed veterinary technician

Name: Christopher Fox Graham Birthday: March 12, 1979 Occupation: Performance poet and newspaper editor

Name: John LaCaire
Birthday: September 28th Virgo
Occupation: Contractor

Name: Yervant May
Birthday: April 14, 1982
Occupation: Amara Resort concierge and college student

Name: Paul Piotrowski
Birthday: Sept. 21, 1961
Occupation: Commercial account manager Waste Management

Name: Johnny Romero
Birthday: Nov. 29, 1985
Occupation: Chef at Red’s

Name: Karl G. Samter
Birthday: Feb. 1, 1980
Occupation: Trainer, instructor and manager

The Bold & the Beautiful Bachelor Auction takes place Friday, Feb. 18 from 6 to 10 p.m. in the large dining room (on the right, not the bar on the left) at Olde Sedona Bar & Grill, 1405 W. SR 89A, West Sedona.

Dinner includes a choice of pasta primavera, Cobb salad, or tilapia with mango salsa.
Tickets $25 in advance, $30 at the door, available at: Sedona Red Rock High School office, Bashas’ in West Sedona, Best of Show and Music and Isadora Handweaving Gallery at Tlaquepaque. Limited seating.

For more information, contact Kathy Gorchesky at (928) 221-7837.

Donations are tax deductible. SRRHS Scorpion Booster Club Tax ID #86-0768722