They'll hover round the tomb

They'll hover round the tomb
long after I am a memory
trading stories of who knew me best
swap stories of this bar
that lover in the moonlight
while the best me smiles in the coffin in the corner

I plan an Irish wake

they'll trade the tales that made me to them
wondering who was closest
who knew the secrets that I told no one else
never guessing that the best parts
will be buried tomorrow

laughter will drown out the honesty
and they'll walk away
bellies full of my favorite dishes
eyes swelling with the booze I always ordered
stumbling home to write in lonely journals
that they learned more about me that night
than they did while I lived

and nowhere in those stories
are the nights I laid on my roof for hours
counting the stars of the milky way
or the secret soft lover I called Monica
who never existed in flesh
but danced across my pages
calling herself by a thousand different names
and slipped in silently
into the lovers I never held for more than a moment

there are gypsy Irish songs
I played only when no one was home
the poems saved on my hard drive
password-protected so no one would find them
it's so easy, friends, to read them:
just know where is home to me
and they'll open themselves to you

I loved women who will never know,
wanted to be boys who will count the days onward
never knowing that they were envied

the poems I wish I had written and
my secret sins will claw at the earth
begging for freedom if only someone would search beneath the surface

but those who venture close
will understand the magic tricks I played:
everyone thinks they know you
if you split a pitcher
and make the conversation revolve around them

I've learned the tricks of journalists
that I wish I could have elucidated earlier
most writers use their tales to show who they are
I use mine to hide me
behind those visages
that others know so well
the poet, the musician, the writer, the painter
my fascination with them
with what they create
hides my inner drives to do what I have done

and, of course, being the sad poet I am
I spit the hidden verses to reveal in bit and parts
what I wanted to say
when the moment was right
when the last girl was in my arms
when all the mathematics aligned
to find that equation that equaled me
but no one does math anymore
they merely wait for the blog entry
the poem, the song, the novel, the drunken pronouncement
to clarify their suspicions

I play harder to get
to know what hides beneath,
beat me in game of chess,
with my honesty on the line
catch me alone one night at home
with roommates gone
the dog asleep on the sofa
the computer off and all the electronics shut down
listen to that which makes me laugh aloud
read the lines that I reread a thousand times on weekends
watch my favorites movies run raw with wear

find the poems I have hidden places
where no one will find them in my lifetime
speak to the women I have passionately followed for years
and I'll be there hidden between the lines

playing this role
wherein all the players know my name
stop me in grocery stores
and chat about their day
what they want from me
or what they need me to do
they hold an image encapsulated by my name
that I often laugh at in early mornings
when I stand naked before taking a shower

we all hold our friends and foes
in the places that make sense most
puzzle pieces played on the board
to win the game
never knowing if our prize
is a coup d'état waiting for the moment to strike

to know a person is simple:
what would they die for
what would they kill for
what do they live for ..
and these are never the same

so for know
shout my name as I spit verses on stage
claim to know me on the street
or in late night bars
relate our mutual occupations of space
as stories to friends
read my writings and delve deep
pose with me for pictures for those who couldn't be there
slip between my sheets to hold me in the night
and when I pass
tell these stories to the assembled crowd
but know what foolishness you speak

because those who know this poet
will gather later
long after my corpse is resting
and laugh at my silly things
how she could make me wait with a whisper
how I cried to "Walking in Memphis"
the draw of a pretty girl anywhere
late night Irish drinking ballads
how a good story could captivate me
joy in friends' happinesses
unspoken affection for family
finding the girl I always sought
and how only those who knew me
sans façade, sans image, sans name
would have read a poem like this one

Fight Club

the bass beats run wild
while the johnny walker
reminds me of the daily pulse
dot dot dot
and drink down the night
deck me in the jaw
to remind me we're friends
that's how the pulse goes sometimes
while heavy metal rips on the speakers
god, life feels close
when pain is a fistfight away
bloody my face
and we're never part friendship

The planet formerly known as Pluto

On Sept. 7, the former 9th planet was assigned the asteroid number 134340 by the Minor Planet Center (MPC), the official organization responsible for collecting data about asteroids and comets in our solar system.

The move reinforces the International Astronomical Union's (IAU) recent decision to strip Pluto of its planethood and places it in the same category as other small solar-system bodies with accurately known orbits.

Pluto's companion satellites, Charon, Nix and Hydra are considered part of the same system and will not be assigned separate asteroid numbers, said MPC director emeritus Brian Marsden. Instead, they will be called 134340 I, II and III, respectively.

Pinocchio

kinetic push of flesh
moving the body art
through choreographed scenes
while the mind flutters circumnavigate
the candlestick of memory

I dance the tango of the days
spit out the lines at the appropriate scenes
and wait for the invisible audience
to reward my perfect pronunciation
at the end-of-year ceremony

on autopilot, calendar dates are irrelevant
stories are games to tell
and the drama of living
can be evaded like doing dishes during commercials

none of the day-to-day matters
so it slips away like echoes
"remember whens" archivists will have to assemble
when all is said and done

what moves me
hides beneath the shell outside
a director manipulating the scenes
a wild-haired physicist
measuring the proper mixture
of language, action, time and place
to produce results
sentience is a word it seems only I know
but choose to ignore
so as to fit in with the flesh machines
responding to stimuli of biology and linguistics

yet a wild-haired speck of skin among the pantheon
seeks me out
dotting the I's and crossing the T's I'd forgotten
backtracking me to the whys of my whats
fencing me into a corner that my science can..t elude

her language-hilted rapier
slides past my parries
cuts the skin
and stings the softer spots

car chases and explosives flash on the screen
but her teases leave more impact
and she's winning all the Oscars

the plastic mold wrapped around this name and image
melts into a puddle in the desert
the deities lose their feathers
and can't hold their thunderbolts
flesh curls over Geppetto's pawn
the liar's sins are clear as noses
and excuses make no difference

in those languid embraces
the sorrow of centuries
breaks through the skin
bleeding my ache into the sand
the words held tight for the sake of image
fall as rain
soaking the desert for the first time in years

These night with wide-open eyes

these night with wide-open eyes
beers poured straight from the tap cold on barren lips
while warm memories of days past
hang in the air
swirling with cigarettes and stories

they laugh in the moments
faces illuminated by the fire
telling the same stories nightly
with new characters, new names

while indoors, through the glass
the musicians try to reinvent the wheels of chords
drummers play new beats
guitarists verse new instruments
poets pen new lines
and explode from the doom of days

we are heading daily toward death
trying to forget our inborn destiny
with swift fingers, kisses and pretty words

"if only we could drink them away"
the poets and musicians say between the lines
hoping that riff, that lyric will make it so
begging the drum beats to shake loose our age
and return us to youth and oblivion

but we wake in dawn's light
to the same fate day after day
knowing the course hasn't changed:

our hair will gray
drop to the floor
and remind us in the echoes
that lover's kisses are fleeting remembrances
forgotten with too much time or distance to part us

we will spill our incoherence from lips
dream of days past
press memories into photo albums
to remind our older selves
that we lived once
when the Golden World still held its glimmer with sheen
and we will sigh at all the appropriate times
when reminded and cued

"remember when?"
"yes, drunken poet, those were the days"
we raged against the dark loneliness of life
sweating in the arms of someone young
and gloriously beautiful
we dropped synonyms
and danced with our long hair swishing about hips rocking
to the beat
loosened our fingers as through
they were broken free from hands except for skin and intention
we shook arms and legs with reckless abandon
and tipped the barkeeps
too much for their troubles

but tonight
raise your fists
beat against the blind sky
and scream out in drunken ecstasy:
"tonight with not be the last!
we have more days to forget our names!"
more minutes to press lips to microphones
and believe in our own desperate words

we are dust and echoes in the pageantry of dying skins
renaming ourselves when the dialects change
live fast, die young at heart
and leave a poem, a song, a story for those who bury you

all that matters is the moment
the musicians, the poets, the lovers and the dancers
scream into the night
forget all that doesn..t matter
which is all of the human drama

we waking shadows
we walking dreams
we face the inevitable echo
that haunts all our days
that one morning will be silent and sober
when we are forgotten

on that morning,
the songs will change
and the band will play on

Days Keep Counting Down

these days of weighted dreams
hanging onto my psyche
pulling me down from those lofty places
I used to hold tightly
the pitter-patter stories
we, as boys, promised ourselves
we would follow
all those paths from hand-holding
to kisses at altars
and all the mishmash afterward
we boys dreams like little girls do
but hold them much more secret
and share them only with stuffed animals
spill them later on the teenage pages
as dreams ferment in our bellies into the angst
that drives us to wars and booze
as our hairs begin to gray

those boy's dreams wage war
with the boy I have become
whose lovers are few and far between
measuring the distances
with drunken nights, the newest novels
more poems than needed
road trips, porno pages and borrowed CDs

we make excuses about the ones we left
the one we're waiting for
if only time would hurry us there
and moments of the brain-blinding joy
when we think with butterflies
is this it, is this her?

but time keeps clicking
the scope of rifle zeroing in on moving targets
waiting for the round that will hit us
before we hear it

and our bank accounts fill and empty
the calendars fall from the walls
and the numbers keep adding up
while days keep counting down

Sacrifices by Rebecca Allen

Sacrifices
By Rebecca Allen

I believe that everything happens for a reason. And because of this belief I can honestly say that I
appreciate and understand that for me to be who I am now, my dad had to be a drug dealer. Before and after I was born my dad was an Angel Dust (PCP) dealer. He left my mother and I when I was ten days old. But growing up I was as naive to the situation as one could possibly be. I thought that my dad was the captain of the world and I was his first mate. I claimed ignorance until a childhood friend in the fifth grade revealed to me what my dad kept from me for years.

At this point in my life, I was just starting to become aware of what drugs were and wasn’t sure what the appropriate course of action was. So I kept quiet, like my dad had been doing for all of those years. I waited. After having my eyes forced wide open, I started to pay closer attention. Closer attention to why people did what they did and how outside forces affected them. I realized that instead of my dad continuing to sell drugs, he had become an alcoholic.

Being a drug addict and being an alcoholic are two completely different states of addiction in our
society’s mind. But my mind couldn’t accept that just because my dad could legally be addicted to alcohol that it was right by me. I know that I made harsh judgments at an early age and as a result of that I asked my dad to put down the beer can, but he wouldn’t. There is very little that I ever asked from my dad and because he refused me I haven’t talked to him in over two years.

I believe that everything happens for a reason, but above that I believe in the power of addiction. This experience was only the beginning of an entire world filled with addiction for me to find. Addiction has continued to pry open my eyes to the bare essentials of human desire. I didn’t understand that addiction is a poison that reaches all around the world and because I didn’t understand that then I sacrificed a relationship that can never be completely filled. We give addiction the opportunity to bring us up to the highest when nothing else can stifle that desire, but there is a long downward spiral waiting to blind us of everything else. I believe in the power of addiction because if we want something enough there is little that can keep us from it.

The Borderlander: The artist culture's need to find the frontier

The Borderlander:

The artist culture's need to find the frontier

Everywhere was once "The Frontier"

Despite the advancements in technology, the human race remains a hunter-gatherer society wherein the role of warrior, homemaker, mother and father remain paramount. As members of the species outgrew the confines of the twenty-person tribe into nations, the parameters of the tribe remained, among its core tenants: provide for the tribe, do not kill members of the tribe, provide for and protect the next generation, and proportionately punish those who violate those rules necessary for survival.

Each tribe, then nation, and then ethnic culture adapted rules, rewards and punishments in accordance with their locale, terrain, food supplies, traditions, and value systems to enforce these basic rules.

Those that failed starved until they adapted or went extinct.

The Birth of Civilization Delineates "The Frontier"

However, as the human race spread and multiplied, those rules changed to reflect the sheer size of the tribe, which numbered in the thousands, then millions.

As each nation state adapted rules reflecting the unique genetic culture and social history, the system of laws, whether ruled by book, the whim of a ruler chosen by merit or from the most powerful and influential family, or a heritage of agreed-upon rules, became the underlying governance of the basic hunter-gather tribal structure to keep the peace.

What is "The Frontier"?

In the long history of the human race, those who disobeyed or rejected those rules found either punishment and annihilation or ostracism as liberation. The frontier has always been the salvation of the tribe.

In the small society, those who left founded their own tribes. If the new tribe failed, it died. If it succeeded, it later conquered or assimilated the founders, conquered or was conquered by another, and in some cases, created a new tribe or nation state that found an equilibrium with the founders, either as neighbor and sometimes ally, sharing a mutual common heritage, or as the dominating or subservient tribe of its founders until rebellion or assimilation reestablished a nation state capable of survival.

As such genocide, or at least a cultural genocide, is ingrained in human heritage as it is with other species on a far longer, but no less important genetic scale. The new mutated species survives and becomes something new, while the older species either adapts to the change or becomes extinct itself, or the new mutation becomes obsolete and a genetic dead end.

Physical Frontier Has Disappeared

But the human frontier has disappeared. Until travel and colonization to the deep sea and to other worlds becomes possible, there is no more wide-open frontier. The forests and wild lands have reached their limits and the barren north or south is simply too remote and inaccessible.

The human race continues to adapt and reject its own systems, but is cannibalizing the structure to reestablish a frontier. With no new terrain, the landscape is the cities and countryside in which the human race has already inhabited.

The Need to Rebel Into the Frontier Turns Inward

All human societies face rejection and rebellion from within more so now than ever. Traditions that have stood for centuries or longer are being rejected. They worked to keep the society safe when they were created, but are growing more obsolete in the face of new art, technology and interaction between nation states.

While one nation developed laws and government according to its unique landscape, both physically and sociologically, access to information bombards a nations people with new ideas. People finding error with their systems look elsewhere and find better ways to behave individually and collectively, but without understanding the systems, success and failures that led to that particular adaptation.

"Civilization" is Slow to Effectively Adapt

Thus, cultures are adapting traits that should work, but fail completely or create more problems. The heterogeneous cultures are striving to adapt and fix underlying issues that have plagued their systems and are stumbling toward developing a homogenous social structure that can apply to all of a nations people and its immigrants, however, they still strive to keep their dominant cultural heritage.

The result in the short run will be a social structure that eventually collapses into anarchy as the heterogeneous elements reject the mainstream and fight first the dominating power, then each other, until a new equilibrium is reached, or a complete restructuring of the social structure that creates a bland, cultureless superstructure that ignores the genetic and cultural distinctions between peoples that seeks only to keep the peace.

This peace will only last until the cultural vestiges evaporate through interbreeding, blending the species until a single amalgamated race, or until a majority-minority power structure ignites into anarchy and the combative tribal structure again reestablishes itself.

From the 1998 movie "Bulworth": "All we need is a voluntary, free-spirited, open-ended program of procreative racial deconstruction. Everybody just gotta keep fuckin' everybody 'til they're all the same color."

Until a New Physical Frontier is Found, Civilization Faces Violence From Within

Due to scale of the human race, especially as the population continues to increase, will still create a cultural regionalism and culture based on place reflecting the values of locale over genetics and cultural heritage that will result in regional values overtaking the super-nation or global values and result in perpetual animosity, violence and war until a new frontier, new worlds made habitable by new technology, becomes available until the human race reduces itself back to the stone age through global disease or catastrophic world war, or simply becomes extinct.

The converse is a personal sovereignty wherein the overarching rules each individual is permitted to behave obeying those few basic rules of the tribe, now the species as a whole: provide for the species, do not kill members of the species, provide for and protect the next generation, and proportionately punish those who violate those rules necessary for the species survival. The advantage of this structure is that as the species encounters new technologies and new environments and later new worlds to colonize, the members of the species will be able to adapt and keep extinction at bay until it can find success then equilibrium with the environment.

Creating A Temporary Psychological Frontier Through Artistic Expression, Bohemian Lifestyles, and Becoming a "Cultural Rebel"

This adaptation begins earlier, and can be seen in American culture now. The borderlanders, the underground, the outlanders are those who see the laws and governance as inherently flawed as those rules are based on a time and place that is no longer applicable. They break the rules that do not harm to individuals involved. They slip beneath the radar of the system and learn to function and succeed as outlaws in the frontier beneath the social strata.

The overarching norms of the mainstream which, in America are capitalism, the pursuit of wealth and financial security are rejected and ignored.

These individuals have found that rejection of these has not lead to poverty and destitution, but rather to a particular lifestyle that is as distinctly liberated as the frontier of the West used to be 100 years ago. They have found that one can live, not just sustain, but comfortably live, without life insurance, investments, homeownership, nine-to-five employment, 401Ks, taxes, and pensions. They take little from the system and seek one underlying distinctly American value, perhaps more at our core more than any other to be left alone in peace.

"The Borderlanders":

The quintessential borderlander creates art, works for a living, contributes to his or her local community economically, politically or socially, raises children and/or benefits the offspring of other economically, politically or socially, occasionally indulges in minor vices which are still seen as negative by the elitist power structure, travels, experiments with their art, lifestyle, body, and morality, and spreads of living liberated within the society as ideas via a network of like minds.

They reject the system that restrains them by disobeying the rules that don't apply and communicating a new set of individualized values through art, but it in literature, music, visual art, or other mediums.

The goal, whether known or not, is to impart a value system of equality in members of the species so that as the species reaches the crux wherein it must decide to become bland and homogenous and face perpetual regional warfare, or embrace individual sovereignty.

The mainstreamer takes what is given, buys what they are fed, serves in the system and fights and hates what they are told. The mainstreamer is too complacent, too afraid, or too uninspired to see anything but what the system serves. They work hard but economically, politically or socially deposit their gains into a system that seeks to do the same to their children, in the often vain and intense vague hope that they will work up the ladder to a place of power and authority which seeks to feed on the masses for its power. It is a parasitic mind consuming a living corpse that maintains equilibrium as long as those in power dont get too hungry for more and as long as the body doesnt get too small or weak. Eventually, the system will tip one way or another and result in a totalitarian despot or open rebellion.

Draining troops from the mainstream is a social rebellious element that has been growing in strength for decades and presents a problem for the elite. As long as the masses have their bread and circuses, they are easily controlled.

The Threat of Political Rebellion

However, if the rebellion stirs the pot, shows those in the system that they don't need the system to be comfortable, creative and productive, the elite loses power. As power diminishes, the elite weakens, gets frantic, and uses its power to hold on to it. In time, this will lead to conflict. Either the elite will openly confront the rebellion and force the mainstream to choose, which will essentially cause it to fragment into factions, or the elite will lose its power and dissipate, or the elite will destroy the rebellion and reassert its power.

In other cultures and in other times, the elite has had forces in position to maintain power. At various times in human history, armies, the church, secret police, federal investigative agencies, fear or invasion, and the numbing powers of drugs, entertainment and television to kill or assimilate the outlaw borderlanders or cause the mainstream to turn against them.

Globalism Accelerates the Psychological Frontier

However, with the advent of new information technologies, the freedom of movement nationally and now internationally, the diminishing threat of invasion by enemies or outsiders is creating a structure wherein the concept of "us" is no longer a cultural, national or nation-state concept, but becoming one of a global community. It's hard for members of a nation such as the United State to hate members of another when its legal system openly and legally accepts everyone from anywhere to become one of its citizens. To become an American, equal to each every other American, all an imigrant need do is repeat the Naturalization Oath, and then they have as much right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness as the dead white men who first penned those words.

As the enemy outside fades, the elite targets trouble-making nations to instill fear and keep power. Within, the elite targets anything outside the norm that is still not accepted by the predominate culture, such as those with differing social morals, practicing different sexual orientations, speaking different languages, wearing foreign dress, with different religious and cultural heritages, etc.

However, the borderlanders, in their quest for the frontier, the different, embrace and assimilate these outsiders. First as social tourists experiencing something new and different, second as like minds also ostracized for being difference from the mainstream, and third because borderlanders come from these outside groups a readily as from the mainstream.

The Borderlanders are Destined to Congregate

The borderlanders come from urban areas of large cities where the rules of the mainstream are least applicable because of the removed applicability and general obsolescence from the reality of the environment; or from suburbs and medium cities where complacency has created an structure of indifference to all but the most severe crimes and punishments; or from isolated small towns wherein a small minority has had influence to the art of the borderlander network; or art-centered towns where the artistic expression of borderlanders is more common and accepted than the mainstream itself.

Potential borderlanders in small towns where the population is stable and content, economy is healthy, the government is representative and adaptive, and art is conservative, have little complaint and generally no need to rebel against the local elite. However, regional or national issues can easily tip the scales one way or the other.

"Outlaw" Artists Will Create Enclaves

The outlaw artists seeking expression, the borderlanders, will seek out those places where they are accepted to create and to bend and break obsolete rules without consequence.

While the borderlanders have held onto pockets of their genesis the urban areas, suburban enclaves, and pockets art-centered towns are the future, the new frontier, where the borderlanders, social outlaws and art rebels can more free express, experiment and share.

They will congregate, agitate and adapt their unique regionalism into the locally predominate culture.

The Inevitable Conflict

While the timeframe could be years or decades, the elite will continue to fight and hold on to the mainstream and seek to destroy these outposts until the borderlanders either change the mainstream or the elite brings economic, political or social conflict in its final throes before it either collapses in the unrest it has caused but suppressed; or the elite assimilates the image of the borderlanders and feeds it to the mainstream in a package the elite can control; or the borderlanders face extinction and retreat back to pockets of isolation where the process can continue until it again finds a frontier to weaken the elites power hold again.

In the corners of this room

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

books are no longer necessary
define beauty … watch her
what is art? … watch her
is there a god? … watch her
speak to me a radiant poem about a sun rise …
watch her and the poem
will spill from lips like breath

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

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

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

Coffee and Cigarettes in Sedona

A Blind Man Misses the Sun

Tracing small town streets
she inches along in the shadows
filling thoughts between left turns
and Long Island Iced Teas
the barkeep serves me my regular
and I can't keep these hands
from paper confessions

there are as many miles between us
as days until I see you again
only patience or a Visa ATM could shorten either
but late night phone calls beneath starlight
don't require oil changes
and the days, well,
the days I use to cover pages in chicken scratch
to pave the way back to my front door

I miss you like a blind man misses the sun
can feel it on his skin
but can't reach out and see its believers
glowing their convictions for us to see

the drink is settling in
for a conversation with my liver
and these cigarettes are burning holes in my lungs
opening up the rest of me to pour out
reasons why I miss the nuances of your smile

three hours a night when reception is good
and with full batteries
and a generous calling plan isn't sufficient
I want your voice to swallow me
30 hours a day

My ears are starving without you to feed them
they're holding out for the sushi of your stories
rather than the convenient store fast food
of the movie extras
who want to discuss the weather
and the "blah, blah" bullshit
to pass the time

give me your 1 a.m. brilliance
scribble your magic tricks on postcards
and mail them daily

you are a Doors concert
in a sea of garage band wannabees
let me crowd surf to your lyrics
while the rest of the world buys
black T-shirts and CDs burned on iMacs

you make me want to speak profoundly
write like statesmen scribbling their
final speeches en route to their own funerals

king my prose with your hands
so I know I'm not wasting my time
bless my common verses into royalty
turn my ink-blood blue with your sincerity
and we'll build fiefdom of words

my neighbors at the bar
discuss police reports and margaritas
let me never be that dull
fill my lungs only with honest words
only faithful stories of you and I
visiting countries whose names people only know
from geography classes
we'll never follow these people
toward their easy separation of heartbeats

in my last days, wrinkled and endlessly forgetful
I will recall a girl
who danced like a magic trick
that David Copperfield would envy

I flip through my wallet
slip out a card to pay for my truths
the barkeep gets 20 bucks on a $12 tab
and I get six pages of poetry
the gods made alcohol so poets could be free

return to me and I am yours over miles and time
and every morning I will ask "how did your sun rise?"
mine will always rise slow and brilliant
tell me what haunts you
and I will do the same

the barkeep pours his last drink
and I try to remember things to dream, but
they slip out and leave me waiting for you

Pixels, electrons, 26 letters

She is a world away
seeing a country I only know through geography and Renaissance Lit.
and I scribble poetry in dark bars
eight hours behind her
wondering what the future holds
for her, it’s dawn
while I’m on the end of another day

pixels, electrons and 26 characters
are no substitute for sound and skin
but somehow fold together our two points
close enough to embrace warmth
so our absence isn’t so unbearable

I want to talk for hours
and not say a thing
just dance in the music of her language
forget all the syllables I’ve learned since infancy
learn them anew in her dialect

I wish I knew now what dreams she’s adventuring in
the roles or names she’s playing
and whether I have any part in them

I imagine her tousled hair
gracing a pillow heavy in my envy
while visions of her happy days play in reverse
the prayers I’ve spoken to stars
slipping in as time permits
they’ve promised me they would courier them to her
if I stayed faithful to the Word
a bargain sworn on desert moonlight

empty words are all I have to offer
coupled with heartbeats harmonizing with hers
lovers, I’m told, share thoughts
ignorant of distance and time
so I’m sure that as she wakes and greets the dawn
she wishes my arms were wrapped around her
whispering nothing of import
but that we could share the same space somewhere
in the undiscovered country between waking and dreaming
we are its citizens
holding passports in two countries
still living in the glory of their ancient histories
speaking its secret language to each other
when time permits

words are such silly creatures
they way they try to own thoughts with sound and ink
we should exile them to forgettable realms
curse their grammatical arrogance
for trying to encapsulate our passions
I wish that our silence could speak
voice all out desires of touch and language
caravan them across the seas
bear them into foreign ports
and traipse the roads to your doorstep
for you to interpret as you will

After Days Like These

After days like these

I want nothing but the sanctuary of your arms

to wrap me tight in your secrets

remind me that in this world clay

only your breath moves ocean tides

only your heartbeat counts time

and these stories and names are characters

I will remind my self in the autumn of my life

as I scribble down the whos and whats of my days

in silly recollection of comic book tales

you are the reality

your arms are the pages

that hold these chapters tightly

in the anticipation of my explanations

know that these paintings of pasts

can be whitewashed if it makes the story move smoothly

brings smiles to your face

that I can remember as the synapses fire for the last time

I yearn for you

for whatever that word is worth

for whatever that means in the grand scheme of things

you are the realism which this impressionism

of days in your absence strives to replicate

they are names and dates and numbers and fates,

but you, your are my reader

the audience with merit that judges the value of what I have seen

interprets and understands the reasons why I transcribed this particular moment

and not the thousand others I could have written

your arms are calling me home

to the caverns of your heart

wherein I can find the comfort of your breath

and forget my name

instead listen to the echo of how my words

reverberate off your answers

and eradicate the transitory meaning of these moments

call me home from any country

and I will forge passports

bribe any boarder patrol

to get me from these shores to yours

into the depth of your eyes

into earshot of your laughter

pave the way from my door to yours

and I will pay my passage with these stories

and leave myself broke and barefoot on your doorstep

for you to welcome me inside at your convenience

there, I will wait for my postcards to arrive in chronological order

to repeat them for you

to keep us warm by the fire

until it grows dim and fades

leaving us to drift off to sleep wrapped around each other

tighter than sin and salvation

or dreams and daylight

until the morning wakes us redeemed with new horizons

and unimagined countries renamed with our histories

open wide your arms as a beacon

and I will find my home

to you

Copyright 2005 © Christopher Fox Graham

Name the Furthest Star

inspired by Danielle Gervasio

I surround artists seeking to know myself
art translates the ephemeral into substance
that one can swallow, decipher, translate
into the emotion of movement

musicians do it with vivacious notes
poets with lines heavy in the metal declaration of purpose
dancers in the movement of skin through space
artists with the touchable, the tactile feeling
of inanimate given life
that might outlast the fading drops of DNA
in slowly rotting flesh falling from bleached bones
instigated from an instant when its parents
ignored the strife of eons
and loved the other without condition

these translators of purpose speak
with the talents I know I don’t possess,
allowing me to ride their wave closer
toward understanding the dichotomy of logic
and impassioned failure
they have the words I wish I could speak
the fingers with which I could pluck the strings
and call down the angels to sing against the silence
the palms which shape stone
and colors into their mind’s eye
of the way things ought to be

I catalogue their brilliances
to show the citizens of the world their potential
and write them in poems so I don’t forget, either

my life is like that:
moments with dates on paper
so that I remember the genius poured from others,
with more lifetimes than I can inhabit, into my hungry skull
it’s a chase for God through the mythology
of footprints that generations now faded to dust
have left us in stories of genetic memory
like the color of eyes of the midwife
that first held you, now hazy in the mists
from which we drew animals in the air

the stories of those who first spoke
echo still in the stories we tell through the details
clouding the archetypes we identify universally
they have gotten more complex
to challenge us to find them still
footsteps lead from those first days
through our mundane struggles to the children ages and ages hence
who will inhabit the stars we will always dream of

artists will forever name the furthest star
the same word as their deepest lover
and strive to reach them both in futility
the artist lives between their lover and the dream
using their body as an instrument to translate them both
into something strangers can feel as electricity in their blood
so that as they lay in the final throes
they can know these days of insignificant moments,
of blind aimless wandering,
of wasted pages and stories,
of unattained dreams,
of lovers’ touches,
of the mistakes and losses that define our struggle,
that somewhere in the jumbled mess
they said, made, bore, or breathed into being
something that touched the pilgrims still journeying
to the stars they will never reach

Ready to Rock the open mic in Sedona? Do it Every Thursday.

Attention poets, poetry lovers, spoken word wizards, MCs, hip-hop warriors and page poets who want to burst open on the stage. Starting at 8 p.m. every Thursday, open mic poetry returns to Sedona.

The venue is Prism’s Cafe at Izzy’s Place next to The Whaz in Uptown Sedona, located at the northwest corner of the intersection of Jordan Roads and Apple Drive. From West Sedona, take Hwy. 89A into Uptown Sedona, take the first left after the stoplight, and go two blocks. Izzy’s place is on the left. From Flagstaff, take the right after you enter Uptown.

Prism’s Cafe at Izzy’s Place already houses one of three NORAZ Poets book partnerships, showcasing the printed work of NORthern AriZona poets.

The night kicks off at 8 p.m. and will run at least until 10 p.m. It will run later if it needs to - until poets start dropping like flies, until they run out of words, or until sunrise. Bring your poetry, bring others' poetry, bring other poets, and get set to rock the mic.

As always, your host will be the every lovable Christopher Fox Graham and his consummate side-kick Erik John Karpf.

Prism’s Café
355 Jordan Road, off Hwy 89A.
northwest corner of Apple and Jordan roads.
Uptown Sedona
928.282.0064

Team NORAZ 2005, NORthern AriZona's National Poetry Slam Team

The 2005 NORAZ National Poetry Slam Team Twenty-two slams. Ninty-five poets. Sixteen semi-finalists. Two semi-finals. Five National Slam Team members. One Grand Slam Champion. One night. One final battle. One team. This is it, people. The war began with linguist broadsides fired in Prescott, Sedona, and Flagstaff in September 2004. Verbal battles waged in NORthern AriZona throughout the fall, winter, and spring. Twelve battles fought at Flagstaff's FlagSlam, seven clashes at Prescott's M.A.D. Slam, and three at Canyon Moon Theatre's clashes Sedona Slam. Warriors fell. Victors rose. Rivalries formed. Alliances were created, broken and renewed. Now, sixteen of the best poets the Southwest have to offer break in two groups for a battle that few have seen before. Two semi-finals will select the top five from each for a final battle royale at the best venue in NORthern AriZona - Flagstaff's Orpheum Theatre. Hearts will be broken. Heroes will rise. And from the final battle … … a team will be forged. Eleven poets will return home, knowing that they gave it their all. Five poets will comprise the 2005 NORAZ National Poetry Slam Team. And one poet, the hero of heroes, will be crowned the 2005 NORAZ Grand Slam Champion, the greatest slam poet that NORthern AriZona has to offer. The verbal war is raging. Word warriors take their places. Let the final battle begin….

First Semi-Final, Canyon Moon Theatre, Sedona, on April 1, 2005
Feature Poet: Danny S. Solis has been called the Poet Laureate of Albuquerque, is a two time 'Burque Poetry Slam Champion, two-time Asheville, and Southeastern Regional Individual Champion, a four-time Boston individual Slam champion, a champion of the Taos Poetry Circus Open Slam, and a member of the winning duo in 2000 Taos Heavy Weight Tag Team poetry bout. He has been a part of two National Championship Poetry Slam teams.

The final scores of the semi-final, finally semitasticallitious:
Semi-Final Champion: Logan Phillips, #7 seed, 88.4
2nd: Sharkie Marado, #12 seed, 85.0
3rd: Aaron Johnson, #1 seed, 84.2
4th: Al Moyer, #3 seed, 82.0
5th: Ryan Guide, #14 seed, 80.1
6th: Kimmy Wilgus, #16 seed, 79.5
7th: Justin Powell, #8 seed, 79.4
8th: Sarah Knurr, #19 seed, 73.4
David Rogers "Doc" Luben, #9 seed, was unfortunately unable to attend the slam and will not compete this year for the Team NORAZ.

Breakdown:
Round 1
Sarah Knurr, "Finding a Home," was inspired by my awkward history of answering the question "where are you from?" when people ask me. My difficulty is that I have never stayed in one place long enough to call it home and feel any attachment to it. This poem was a brief summary of my traveling childhood and how I now have a place to call home.
22.3, 8th, -7.3
Aaron Johnson, "Balloon Boy," When Aaron was in high school, he had many peculiar ways of making money. Through selling balloons at a baseball field, Aaron learned the difference about making an honest living versus a life of crime.
26.3, 4th, -3.3
Ryan "Guts" Guide
25.6, 5th, -4.0
Al Moyer, "American Dream," Somebody suggested that I write a piece about the thing in my life that I was most ashamed of, though I hate to say it, the period of my life that I knew Taiwan was my lowest. This is my tribute to a guy that I've learned not to regret, and who taught me a lot of lessons about what's real, and what's only wishful thinking.
25.1, 6th, -4.5
Justin "Biskit" Powell
24.7, 7th, -4.9
Sharkie Marado, "Cinderella"
27.5, 2nd, -2.1
Kimmy Wilgus
26.4, 3rd, -3.2
Logan Phillips, "La Viejita de Sonora"
29.6, 1st

Round 2
Logan Phillips, "Worth Words"
29.5, 1st
59.1, 1st
Kimmy Wilgus
26.5, 7th, -3.0
52.9, 5th, -6.2
Sharkie Marado, "Dear Perpetrator"
28.1, 4th, -1.4
55.6, 2nd, -3.5
Justin "Biskit" Powell
27.1, 6th, -2.4
51.8, 7th, -7.3
Al Moyer, "Say Anything," After the first time I met a woman, I found myself back in my room just wondering what if I just ran to her window and started screaming a love poem at her? From there, this just basically became my dedication to the larger-than-life love scenes that we see in movies, but never actually experience.
28.3, 3rd, -1.2
53.4, 4th, -5.7
Ryan "Guts" Guide
27.2, 5th, -2.3
52.8, 6th, -6.3
Aaron Johnson, "Make Love," This poem explains first-hand how American families cope with domestic abuse. Aaron applies a little art history to the poem, in order to explain why violence is a taboo conversation piece. This poem has been published in the Daily Sun, The Noise, and in FlagLIVE.
28.5, 2nd, -1.0
54.8, 3rd, -4.3
Sarah Knurr, "Chaos Rhyme," was originally entitled "Destruction Chant" and was only a few lines long. I composed it to play an important part in a role-play duel I fought some months ago. The character who chanted it was mage and the chant was calling on her various powers for aid. It never seemed complete to me though so I expanded on it.
26.0, 8th, -3.5
48.2, 8th, -10.9

Round 3
Logan Phillips, "What He Dreams of in his Coma"
29.3, 3rd, -0.1
88.4, 1st
Sharkie Marado, "I Want a Man"
29.4, tie for 1st
85.0, 2nd, -3.4
Aaron Johnson, "Plague of Vague," Aaron Johnson created this poem as a blossoming poet. Another poet criticized Aaron for writing prose instead of poetry. As a response, Aaron challenges other writers, with humor and critical thinking, to write poetry that inspires change.
29.4, tie for 1st
84.2, 3rd, -4.2
Al Moyer, "Blood Stains," A female friend of mine, who was very dear to me, is the inspiration for this. It's a true story, beginning to end. I got a call in the grocery store, she told me she had cut herself, and I dropped my groceries and went to her house. I sat there and placated her while she poured her heart out to me (both figuratively and literally). That very last exchange between us in the poem is exactly what happened.
28.6, 4th, -0.8
82.0, 4th, -6.4
Kimmy Wilgus
26.6, 7th, -3.0
79.5, 6th, -8.9
Ryan "Guts" Guide
27.3, 6th, -2.1
80.1, 5th, -8.3
Justin "Biskit" Powell
27.6, 5th, -1.8
79.4, 7th, -9.0
Sarah Knurr, "I am American," is a little more complicated than the other poems I performed at semi-finals. The poem was written out of the pride I have in my country and it is meant to hide its true message that we are losing our cultural identity. This poem was meant to remind people.
25.2, 8th, -4.2
73.5 8th, -14.9

Key:
Poet, Poem
Poem score, poem's rank that round, points back from top score that round
Cumulative score, cumulative rank, points back from top poet


Second Semi-Final, Studio 111, Flagstaff, on April 12, 2005
Feature Poet: Jack McCarthy, a working guy from the Boston area who’s been writing poetry since the mid-1960s. Jack McCarthy has been a member of the 1996 Boston National Slam Team, the 2000 Worcester (Mass.) National Slam Team, and been an Individual Semi-Finalist at the 2000 National Poetry Slam held in Providence, R.I. He has been honored as “Best Love Poet” at the Boston Poetry Awards, and “Best Spoken Word (Male)” and “Best Humorous Poet (Male)” at the Cambridge (Mass.) Poetry Awards.

The final scores of the second semi-final, in all their finery and pageantry:
Semi-Final Champion: Christopher Lane, #6 seed, 88.2
2nd: Eric Larson, #5 seed, 86.8
3rd: Meghan Jones, #4 seed, 85.8
4th: Christopher Fox Graham, #2 seed, 85.7
5th: Rowie Shebala, #18 seed, 83.3
6th: Greg Nix, #11 seed, 82.8
7th: Lindsay C. Chamberlain, #15 seed, 82.4
Patrick DuHaine, #10 seed, was unfortunately unable to attend the slam and will not compete this year for the Team NORAZ.

Breakdown:
Round 1
Christopher Lane, "a letter to the passer by," is a character piece of a homeless guy from the northeast tired of capitalism by reflecting on the power of music.
28.6, 2nd, -1.1
Meghan Jones, "Where's your Microphone?" A call to arms to woman writers. Personal and social commentary on how far women have come - and how far there is still yet to go.
28.3, 4th, -1.4
Greg Nix, "An Open Letter to the President of the Democratic National Committee," Probably what inspired this was me sitting around on a Saturday, thinking about what I would have said to Howard Dean when I heard he was accepting the Committee Chair position. After watching the Democratic Primaries last year, and the way the Clintons and New England elite screwed him in the media, wouldn't support him – the truth of the DNC shows itself. They want him to save their asses, but they don't want to support him. I fully believe the DNC and Party are lost in their own corruption and might as well join the GOP because their differences are only skin deep.
25.8, 7th, -3.9
Rowie Shebala,
27.6, 5th, -2.1
Lindsay C. Chamberlain
27.1, 6th, -2.8
Christopher Fox Graham "Spinal Language" A poem about tattooing my vertebrae like a living Tower of Babel, a vehicle through which all human languages could find a common home.
28.4, 3rd, -1.3
Eric Larson, "Wedding Party vs. the Elk," This poem was inspired by a real event, I was the minister of my friends wedding at the canyon and We did make a last minute dash to get beer in Tusanyan. And we DID encounter an elk in the middle of the road. All the internal thoughts are, however, artificial. I had time to go "*bleep*!" and swerve. It was later that I Elaborated on the events and created the poem.
29.7, 1st

Round 2
Eric Larson, "You Can't Sell Love Poems," This was mostly an ego driven piece written when I was in love and was partially boasting and partially wanting the rest of the world to be as happy as I was. I wanted it to be kind of like a corny game show host personality, because, well, love is corny. Wonderful, but corny.
28.1, 4th, -1.9
57.8, 2nd, -0.8
Christopher Fox Graham "Three Minutes for Dyllan," on Dec. 6, 2004, an 8-year-old boy in Cottonwood, Ariz., hanged himself. As copy editor of the Sedona Red Rock News, having to edit the story and write the headline was of my most painful duties I have had as a journalist.
28.9 with a 1.5 time penalty, 27.4, 5th, -2.6
55.8, 4th, -1.8
Lindsay C. Chamberlain
26.7, 6th, -3.3
53.8, 7th, -4.8
Rowie Shebala,
26.6, 7th, -3.4
54.2, 6th, -4.4
Greg Nix, "I'm Not a Poet"
28.6, 3rd, -1.4
54.4, 5th, -4.2
Meghan Jones, "Patches," a breakdown of parts of my body and my personality based on who inspired me to be such or have such and how that has affected me
28.7, 2nd, -1.3
57.0, 3rd, -1.6
Christopher Lane "for jessica," also a character piece but was born from an article i read in the arizona republic(an) about a 4-year-old girl, adopted by her foster parents. one night she was given too much water to drink because the parents child psychiatrist told them to give her what she sneaks in excess. consequently, they made her drink too much water to where there was an extreme imbalance of sodium to water in her body and her brain swelled, killing her. this poem is for all those who make it and don't make it, out of abusive parental relationships.
30.0 (a perfect 50.0), 1st
58.6, 1st

Round 3
Christopher Lane, "akasha," for the greatest person in my life, my loving wife. it's really about the first time we went out and how i knew i wanted to be with her for the rest of my life
29.6, 2nd, -0.3
88.2, 1st
Eric Larson, "Plea," This was a response to my having a long series of 'she done me wrong' poems, almost becoming known for that as my signature. These came after the relationship that was responsible for "You can't sell love poems" ended rather suddenly and poetry was my main method of dealing with it. Anyhow, one day, I realized I was over it. I was a little concerned, what would I write about now? I needed another relationship, preferably a rocky one with an unballanced woman, to give me new inspiration. Thus "Plea" was born. Think of it as a really messed up personals add.
29.0, 4th, -0.9
86.8, 2nd, -1.4
Meghan Jones, "If you wanna hang out you've gotta take her out,..." Anyone get the Clapton reference? This started out being a piece on hot summer night living in Phoenix, but took it's own turn into a bad, one-long-cocaine-binge relationship that revolves around late night Denny's visits and his addiction.
28.8, 5th, -1.1
85.8, 3rd, -2.4
Christopher Fox Graham, "The Peach is a Damn Sexy Fruit," the stupidest poem I have ever written, it is also one of my favorites. I don't know where that voice comes from, but it still makes me laugh.
29.9, 1st
85.7, 4th, -2.5
Greg Nix, "King George's Blow Job," I think the line that sticks out in people's thoughts is "...I imagine laying there, watching all that spitty jizz..." because its the most descriptive and disturbing to a number of people. Truth is, ever since the Iraq War started, it has felt as though I've gotten a load of spitty jizz spit in my face every day. It blows my mind that the media and GOP almost impeached Clinton (who will go down in history as one of our greatest presidents) over a *bleep*ing blow job. Then this *bleep* spoiled *bleep* gets away with murdering thousands of our citizens and hundreds of thousands of others in this worl (yes, i call it murder because it is) and not a godamn roar of outrage is heard on the news. *bleep* him. When he passes on in to the next life, I fully plan on pissing on his grave in my middle age.
28.4, 7th, -1.5
82.8, 6th, -5.4
Rowie Shebala,
29.1, 3rd, -0.8
83.3, 5th, -4.9
Lindsay C. Chamberlain
28.6, 6th, -1.0
82.4, 6th, -5.8

Key:
Poet, Poem
Poem score, poem's rank that round, points back from top score that round
Cumulative score, cumulative rank, points back from top poet





Grand Slam Finals, Orpheum Theater, on April 23
Round 1
Christopher Fox Graham, "They Held Hands"
24.7, 5th, -2.2
Al Moyer"Pennyroyal Tea," A friend of mine wanted an abortion, but couldn't afford it. She asked me for help, and I reluctantly made her a pot of pennyroyal tea. This piece is all about watching her, and debating the morality of the situation.
19.9 (after -1.0 time penalty), 10th, -7.0
Logan Phillips, "¿Sin Voz?"
26.9, 1st
Meghan Jones, "Ceramic Grass Skirts," written, essentially, because my mother told me I write too much about other people and their relationships with me and not enough about me. Touches on why I write as much as I do and a brief history of my childhood from a writing perspective.
24.5, 7th, -2.4
Aaron Johnson
24.7, 5th, -2.2
Mr. Lane
26.5, 2nd, -0.4
Sharkie Marado
25.2, 4th, -1.7
Ryan "Guts" Guide
21.3 (after -0.5 time penalty), 9th, -5.6
Eric Larson, "Entropy." This is sort of an all-inclusive political rant about all that I think is wrong with the world and our country in particular today. It kind of happened in one burst with only a few modifications and cuts for time. Also it fullfilled a long held ambition to have a Planet of the Apes reference in a poem.
25.3, 3rd, -1.6
Rowie Shabala
23.8, 8th, -3.1

Round 2 was in reverse order of first round.
Rowie Shabala
24.0, 7th, -4.4
47.8, 7th, -7.1
Eric Larson, "Genesis." The idea for this poem was a satirical re-telling of the begining of the universe and life on earth as told in the first lines of the Bible, but from a modern scientific viewpoint. And I wanted to try an audience response poem.
23.8, 8th, -4.6
49.1, 6th, -5.8
Ryan "Guts" Guide
22.7, 10th, -5.7
44.0, 10th, -10.9
Sharkie Marado
23.8, 8th, -4.6
49.0, 8th, -7.2
Mr. Lane
28.4, 1st
54.9, 1st
Aaron Johnson
26.1, 6th, -2.3
50.8, 4th, -4.1
Meghan Jones, "Blank; a love poem," I know, induce vomiting here. With particularly witty comparison to a person being like vowels in an alphabet, necessary but not the entirety.
26.2, 5th, -2.2
50.7, 5th, -4.2
Logan Phillips, "The Boy's Pockets"
27.2, 2nd, -1.2
54.1, 2nd, -0.8
Al Moyer, "When I Grow Up" - This was one of the first "slam" pieces I wrote. Right after I graduated high school everyone was asking me what I wanted to be, and I realized that all of my answers were based on the pay for that job. It's all about me realizing that I still want to be all the things I wanted to be when I was a kid, and that I should want to be them for the honorable reasons, not because of the money.
26.7, 3rd, -1.7
45.6, 9th, -9.3
Christopher Fox Graham, "We Call Him Papa," a eulogy I wrote and read for my maternal grandfather, Frank "Buster" Redfield who died Oct. 31, 2004.
26.7, 3rd, -1.7
51.4, 3rd, -2.5

Clearing poet, Greg Nix, "Not a Poet".

Round 3
Mr. Lane, "Akasha"
27.4, 3rd, -0.4
82.3, 1st
Logan Phillips "Silverfish"
27.3, 4th, -0.5
81.4, 2nd, -0.9
Christopher Fox Graham, "Coming Home." Daniela asked, "what are you thinking about," and this poem happened in the three seconds before I asked for a kiss.
27.5, 2nd, -0.3
78.9, 3rd, -3.4
Aaron Johnson
27.0, 6th, -0.8
77.8, 4th, -4.5
Meghan Jones, "Ironically, Meghan won her battle against the watermelon, but it was close. Damn close," I like long titles. A comment on how being honest in writing is not necessary and sometimes is better than telling the truth. As a side note, also comments on the stereotypical "hipster poet" and the addict centered society.
27.1, 5th, -0.7
77.8, 4th, -4.5
Eric Larson, "Alpha Male." I first thought of this poem before I had even seen my first slam. Its become almost infamous and is probably the poem most often mentioned to me by poetry fans. Most people get the double irony in that I am in no way the Alpha Male, and yet, I like many men do act in (some of) these ways from time to time. The first step is admiting you have a problem.
26.5, 7th, -1.3
75.6, 6th, -6.7
Sharkie Marado
26.1, 8th, -1.7
75.1, 7th, -7.2
Al Moyer, "...tied to a tree," A good friend of mine told me he had a terrible dream about being tied to a tree and bludgeoned with rocks for being gay, a Matther Shepard-sort of hate crime. This is my tribute to him, and a warcry for equality.
27.8, 1st
73.4, 8th, -8.0
Rowie Shabala
25.2, 9th, -2.3
73.0, 9th, -8.4
Ryan "Guts" Guide
Disqualified in perhaps the most outrageous demonstration of his moniker "Guts," Ryan "Guts" Guide brought three other poets on stage, Dom Flemons, Kimmy Wilgus andJustin "Biskit" Powell, and both Ryan "Guts" Guide and Ms. Wilgus disrobed. In one fell swoop, Ryan "Guts" Guide broke three slam rules, solo poet (no group poems), no props (the nudity and Dom Flemons' hair), and original poetry (co-written by Kimmy Wilgus). Host Nick Fox stopped the poem after about three minutes.
It was awesome.
44.0, 10th, -37.4

Clearing poet, Sarah Knurr, "What it Means not to Speak". I wrote it there at the Slam, so I am really not sure what was going through my head at the time except that I was thinking about all the judgemental people in my life and how, as I child, I was too afraid of being a disappointment to share my true opinion and how that helped form who I am today.

4th place slam-off. In a one poem death match for fifth place.
Aaron Johnson
28.0
Meghan Jones, "Annie," a comparison to an eating disorder as an actual person and how this affects someone.
28.1

2005 NORAZ National Poetry Slam Team 2005 NORAZ National Poetry Slam Team: Mr. Lane 82.3, 1st Logan Phillips 81.4, 2nd, -0.9 Christopher Fox Graham 78.9, 3rd, -3.4 Meghan Jones 77.8, 4th, -4.5 (won in Sudden Death Slam-Off, 28.1) Aaron Johnson 77.8, 4th, -4.5 (lost in Sudden Death Slam-Off, 28.0) - - - - - Eric Larson 75.6, 6th, -6.7 Sharkie Marado 75.1, 7th, -7.2 Al Moyer 73.4, 8th, -8.0 Rowie Shabala 73.0, 9th, -8.4 Ryan "Guts" Guide Disqualified for last round poem 44.0, 10th, -37.4

2005 NORAZ National Poetry Slam Team wins the state tournament at the 5th annual Arcosanti Slab City Slam
The Arizona State Championship title has returned to NORthern AriZona. The NORAZ Poets won the Arcosanti Slab City Slam on April 28, by 16.5 points.

"That's two touchdowns and a field goal," Christopher Lane, NORAZ Poets executive director and Team NORAZ member, said.

The fifth annual Arcosanti Slab City Slam featured 10 teams from all across the state. The NORAZ Poets included three teams of four poets each. Team NORAZ, Team Prescott, Team FlagSlam, faced off against Team Tucson, Team Arcosanti, The Loose Nuts, Hangover Express, a third Phoenix team, The X-Hosts, a team of slam hosts from the East Valley of Phoenix and Team NORAZ's cross-state arch-rivals Team Mesa Nationals, who has won the last four This year's Mesa team includes Brent Heffron a member of the 2004 Team NORAZ.

The championship team consisted of 4 of the 5 members of Team NORAZ:
Christopher Lane, of Sedona
Meghan Jones, of Flagstaff
Christopher Fox Graham, of Sedona, and
Logan Philips, of Flagstaff.

Team Prescott:
Eric Larson, of Prescott, and a member of 2004 Team NORAZ
Patrick David DuHaime, of Prescott
David Rogers "Doc" Luben, of Prescott, and
Greg Nix, of Flagstaff

Team FlagSlam:
Aaron Johnson, of Flastaff, the fifth member of Team NORAZ
Kimmy Wilgus of Flagstaff
Rhett Pepe, of Flagstaff
John R. Kofonow, Slam Master of Flagstaff

The tournament consisted of all 10 teams competing in two preliminary rounds.

Christopher Lane, kicking off the slam with "if this poem," starting in the middle of the crowd and moving to the microphone as he performed. At the end of the first round, Team Mesa was ahead by a slim margin. But Meghan Jones' poem, "Where's Your Microphone?," a plea to the women poets in the crowd to become slam poets started off the second round with Team NORAZ in the lead, and the margin of victory only increased. Christopher Fox Graham's "We Call Him Papa" and Logan Philips' "The Boy's Pockets" cemented their lead.

As round two rolled around, Team Mesa came in fierce in the first slot. Team FlagSlam was in the third slot, followed by Team Prescott, and Team NORAZ in the sixth slot. Logan Philips started off with "Worth of Words," followed by Meghan Jones' "Patches", Christopher Fox Graham's "Spinal Language" and closing out the last round of the bout with Christopher Lane's "poetry is still."

The final bout would be the top 4 teams: Team NORAZ, Team Prescott,, Team Tucson and Team Mesa Nationals.

The night's poetry feature was Luke Warm Water, an activist, poet, epidemiologist an enrolled member of the Oglala Lakota (Sioux) Tribe, born and raised in Rapid City, S.D. Author of John Wayne Shot Me, Luke Warm Water, has performed across the United States, England and Germany, in 120 venues within the last 4 years. He was preceded by 2005 NORAZ Poets semi-finalist Rowie Shebala, of the Navajo Nation.

Team NORAZ now had a comfortable lead of 12 points. The finals bout was a "feature" round for the team. Christopher Lane performed "for Jessica…". Christopher Fox Graham brought out perhaps the most anticipated poem of the night, "The Peach is a Damn Sexy Fruit." Meghan Jones, made the night a hot one with the sensual, sexy "Honey." The line "caramelize me," melted the audience in their seats. To top out the night, Logan Philips performed his last poem.

In the end:
Team NORAZ 339.4
Team Mesa Nationals 322.9
Team Prescott 320.9
Team Tucson 315.6

The night ended with a bronze pour at the Arcosanti Bronze Foundry where the Arconauts created the 40-pound bronze trophy, followed by a fire performance by Flam Chen, and a huge after-party that rolled until dawn.

Note that NORAZ Poets, not just Team NORAZ won the tournament. Of the 40 poets who competed, 13 of them were NORAZ Poets. We are a community of poets, not just a team, and not individuals. The victory and the trophy represents our strength as a community, unified in our diversity.