Sarrah is leaving Sedona

Sarrah Wile, my two-time daughter (I was her legal guardian twice) is leaving Sedona to go to school in Asheville, North Carolina. Sarrah was just a girl when I met her, but she's become one of my closest friends in Sedona.
We've gone on vacations every summer for the last four years: to the National Poetry Slam in Albuquerque, N.M., in 2005; to San Francisco with Dylan Jung and Lou Moretti in 2006; to Montana in 2007; and to New York City, the Jersey Shore, Philadelphia, and Chicago with Danielle "Deeds" Gervasio and Alun Wile in 2008.
Until she leaves, I'll be posting my favorite photographs of her over the years.

At Mark's In & Out in Livingston, Montana.

In my grandmother's barn in Opheim, Montana.

Checking out downtown Idaho Falls, Idaho.

Last Chance Gulch, in downtown Helena, Montana.

Playing checkers with stones and pinecones in downtown Helena, Montana.

CFG is back

CFG returns to the slam scene in Northern Arizona ... bringing back all the flair he did in the heydays of the early 2000s.

Photo by Jessica Guadarrama.

Tasha

Tasha

This is one of my favorite photographs. Tasha was one of KuK's neighbors. She and her brother used to come over and play with KuK and Nikki. I was getting ready to leave with them, Kevin and Erin to do a photo shoot for my 2006 chapbook "Square Root of the Word."

Tasha put on these ears and was running around. I asked he to stop for a second so I could shoot the photo, and she changed her expression in a moment from a playful 11-year-old to this stern, piercing look.

I paired the photo with my poem "Nameless Daughter"

Nameless Daughter

she jumps on a trampoline
in a yellow sundress
barefoot and giggling
like every little girl
should be doing when they are 8 years old

she is my nameless daughter
and on nights like this one
I wonder where she is
what she's thinking
how much longer she will wait to see me
and what poems I will write
when her long dark hair
parachutes behind her
before she whiplashes back into the sky
I will speak a thousand poems in a moment
when see flies free

she is my nameless daughter
with tree branch bruises on her arms
grass–stained knees
sticky fingers of who–knows–what
and a way of telling stories with giggles
like my grandmother that gives me back
my 8–years–old eyes

she moves as though she is always dancing
and snuggles close to me on road trips
we speak a language her mother can not decipher
because the way she says "daddy"
has a hundred different meanings

she is my nameless daughter
and I am terrified to meet her
because I am not better than this
I am skin and flesh and bone
and the mistakes of my history
I am forgotten fathers
I am the lies to lovers
I am the nights when I should have been writing
instead of sleeping or drinking or fucking
I am all the days of my life
that I did not seize by the throat
and ride into the sunset

I am terrified to meet her
because this is the man I have become
and she deserves better
than this

she is my nameless daughter
and I am terrified to meet her
because I have known the men
who have held daughters in their arms
shattered by forces they could not control
I have known the men
who have tried to breathe back life
into hollow lungs
I have known the men
who would have given everything they had
just to stop the bleeding
I have known the men
who have had to bury a daughter
instead of being buried by them

I have seen the eyes of men
who have seen their daughters
for the last time
and their eyes can never be mine

she is my nameless daughter
she should not see the world I have
she should not learn the words I know
she should not live by the mistakes
of all the fathers before me
who did not know she was coming
she should have a father
who is better than the man I have become
in a world that is better than mine

she should have a world where everyone
is still 8–years–old
no one has last names
and the word "stranger" is meaningless

she is my nameless daughter
and I am terrified to meet her
because these are the only arms I have to hold her
these are the only lips I have to kiss away bruises
this is the only voice I have to scatter the monsters
from beneath her bed and out into the night
this is the only body I have to sacrifice
to keep her safe
she deserves more
because I am not enough

Uptight Yuppie Haiku

The full title is "Uptight Yuppies Desperate to Look Cool by Wearing Berets to 'Artsy' Jazz Clubs Haiku"

Despite your beret
we know you're not a "hip cat,"
you pretentious fuck

Haiku for Lori-Ann

For our dream lovers
we search, long for and lose hope
yet they still seek us

Kismet Haiku

We hunt perfection,
true love and our destiny ...
but it hunts us too

Becca's Serenity Haiku

Fight fate when you want
resist, rebel, deny love.
Destiny fights back

Bohemian Haiku

Bohemian life
poetry, music, artists
cash flows when needed

Prohibition Era Speakeasy Party

These are Gregg's photos. In all, there were between 70 and 80 people. Only about 10 were not in costume. Not everyone was photographed, obviously.
David and Dylan
Ashley Wintermute
Aaron and Michelle
Michelle
Richard, Sean, Robert, and Dylan
Molly, Kera and Deeds
Michelle and Bri
Fiona, Richard, Ashley and me
Ashley
Paula, Gitangelique, Daniel and Aaron
Michelle ... I think Gregg liked shooting photos of her
Matthew Horstman, Kelly Cole and Jen Valencia, and at the bar, Dan Seaman, Zach and bartender David Reed
Aaron , Brandon, Lou, Zach, and Michelle
Paula, Gitangelique, Aaron, and Daniel
Gitangelique and Aaron
Lori-Ann, Sean, Michelle and Dave Harvey
Zach, Aaron, Gitangelique, Michelle, Bri and Glenn
Aaron and Michelle
Daniel, Gitangelique and Aaron
Richard, Sean and Robert
KuK and Sean
Jen, Matthew, Sean and Zach
KuK
Me, Richard, Ashley and Ian.
KuK and Porengui
Glenn, Gitangelique, Bri and Matthew Horstman
Michelle, Sean, Porungui, Dave Harvey and Lori-Ann (that's her thumb)

CFG features at the Applesauce Spoken Word Theater

The Tres Muertas Gang secures booze for Prohibition Party

Why Slam Causes Pain and Is a Good Thing

Bob Holman was instrumental in the reopening of the Nuyorican Poets Café in 1987, and was its original SlamMaster .

Why Slam Causes Pain and Is a Good Thing
July 14, 1998
By Bob Holman

Because Slam is Unfair.
Because Slam is too much fun.
Because poetry.
Because rules.
Because poetry rules.
Because the poetry gets lost.
Because you cannot reduce a poem to its numerological equivalent.
Because it's poetry in everyday life every Sunday at 7:30.
Because I can do that.
Because everybody's voice is heard. Because Old White Guys as usual.
Because it's the opposite that includes the opposite.
Because do not institutionalize the anti-institution!
Because it's meant for middle and high schoolers so they get adrenalin poetry shots.
Because Pepsi and Nike have conflicting ideas about the team uniforms.
Because competitive.
Because Allen Ginsberg says, “Slam! Into the Mouth of the Dharma!”
Because Gregory Corso says, “Why do you want to hang out with us old guys? If I was young, I'd be going to the Slam!”
Because Bob Kaufman says, “Each Slam / a finality.”
Because Patricia Smith has more truth in her little finger than entire Boston Globe front page.
Because Marc Smith and because Chicago.
Because Nuyorican Poets Café and multi-culti.
Because rap is poetry, and Hip Hop is culture.
Because poetry an endangered species Slam revivifies.
Because three minute pop song.
Because the point is not the points.
Because audience.
Because heckling.
Because judges selected whimsically are instant experts.
Because the National Slam is summer boot camp for poets.
Because first six years only women win Indy Slam Champ Boot.
Because local heroes finally have national community.
Because democratization of art.
Because Dewey Decimal System of Slam Scorification to reduce possibility of Ties and Dreaded Sudden-Death Spontaneous Haiku Overtime Round.
Because Best Poet Always Loses.
Because Taos Heavyweight Poetry Bout Championship.
Because when in the course it looks like poetry is disappearing, the furious uproar of the Word will not be stilled.
Because performance is a see-through page, and the oral tradition a hidden book.
Because it's called Slam.

Nika's Haiku

Nika Levikov wrote this haiku in Russian back to me while in a chemistry lab.

Sontsa svetet
ya sezhu v nutri zdaneye
e honetsa spat

(sun is shining
i am inside a building
i would like to sleep)

Nika Haiku #3

Crush deepens with time
must find phrase for "awesomeness"
in Ukrainian

Nika Haiku #2

Flagstaff girl is board
so my words entertain her
and time seems to fly

"Freedom, Revolt, and Love" by Frank Stanford

Frank Stanford was a poet Nika Levikov told me about in Flagstaff. She was talking about the poets she had read and dropped his name. One of the problems in talking about favorite poets is that there are so many poets in so many genres that's it's impossible to know them all, or to judge their work accordingly. I try to read "good" poets and desperately try to be aware of them all. Invariably, though, when someone asks "have you ever read ... " we almost always have to say "no." It sucks because we look like flakes only pretending to be poets.

Nika sent me an e-mail today, which included this poem as a attachment. She said it is one of her favorites. I really enjoyed it, in part because it meshes with much of my romantic work which often deals with the dual factors of the play between love and death. A good death, while in love, is worth all the days before it.

Frank Stanford (Aug. 1, 1948-June 3, 1978) is best known for his modern epic poem, "The Battlefield Where the Moon Says I Love You." He committed suicide at age 29 after a reported argument with his wife over his infidelity. Three rounds to the chest, which can't be easy to do, especially after the first two shots. I digress.

Freedom, Revolt, and Love
by Frank Stanford

They caught them.
They were sitting at a table in the kitchen.
It was early.
They had on bathrobes.
They were drinking coffee and smiling.
She had one of his cigarillos in her fingers.
She had her legs tucked up under her in the chair.
They saw them through the window.
She thought of them stepping out of a bath
And him wrapping cloth around her.
He thought of her walking up in a small white building,
He thought of stones settling into the ground.
Then they were gone.
Then they came in through the back.
Her cat ran out.
The house was near the road.
She didn't like the cat going out.
They stayed at the table.
The others were out of breath.
The man and the woman reached across the table.
They were afraid, they smiled.
The other poured themselves the last of the coffee.
Burning their tongues.
The man and the woman looked at them.
They didn't say anything.
The man and the woman moved closer to each other,
The round table between them.
The stove was still on and burned the empty pot.
She started to get up.
One of them shot her.
She leaned over the table like a schoolgirl doing her lessons.
She thought about being beside him, being asleep.
They took her long gray socks
Put them over the barrel of a rifle
And shot him.
He went back in his chair, holding himself.
She told him hers didn't hurt much,
Like in the fall when everything you touch
Makes a spark.
He thought about her getting up in the dark
Wrapping a quilt around herself.
And standing in the doorway.
She asked the men if they shot them again
Not to hurt their faces.
One of them lit him one of his cigarettes.
He thought what it would be like
Being children together.
He was dead before he finished it.
She asked them could she take it out of his mouth.
So it wouldn't burn his lips.
She reached over and touched his hair.
She thought about him walking through the dark singing.
She died on the table like that,
Smoke coming out of his mouth.

Housewarming party, Friday, Oct. 10

Prohibition Era Party
275 Willow Way, West Sedona
Friday, Oct. 10, starting at sunset

Looking for a copacetic juke joint? Everything is Jake because our speakeasy is the real McCoy. We're putting on the Ritz. Flappers and molls, show off your gams. If you're Joe Average, dress like Joe Brooks. Bring your own hooch or panther sweat (BYOB). Remember the password: “Whoopee in the struggle buggy with a tomato” or you can scram. Housewarming for Molly Berg, Christopher Fox Graham & Lori-Ann Rella

Costumes requested but not required. We will have live music. Musicians are welcome to bring instruments, too. David Reed, The Zen Cowboy, will tend the outside bar. The famed KuK may also be present ....

Nika and the Yavapai College Poetry Slam

I went to the Yavapai College Poetry Slam on Sept. 26. I had spoken to Paula Blankenship with the college a few months ago about her slam. I had agreed to perform whenever she wanted.

The night before I had gone to Flagstaff with Manifest Destiny and my soon-to-be new roommate, Molly Berg, to Mia's Lounge. We met up with Nika Levikov, a severely cute and unbearably intelligent Flagstaff girl that Manifest and I met on Wednesday. The whole night Manifest and I flirted back and forth with Nika. It's not that often that a someone I meet can keep my mind on my toes with questions. She made me belabor my responses.

I'm attracted for certain, but wary. I have an unbearable insecurity about intimacy. For the most part, I've sworn off relationships because of my bad run in Sedona. With few exceptions, the women here are 1) already married or in relationships; 2) woo-woo or crazy; 3) enduring their third divorce before age 30; 4) under 18 but trying to pass as 25; 5) tourists with only a few days in town. It's just been safer to not engage with anyone on a romantic level. Perhaps I'm over-thinking it, but such is my nature.

In any case, I really like Nika, but I have no idea about her status. I'll flirt and see where that leads. If she has no interest beyond poetry, I am content. If she is interested, I am content to pursue wherever that leads. Relationships and friendships with me tend to settle to level that they are destined to.

In the interest of full disclosure, I hope she follows the link in my e-mail address and discovers my blog link to read this; there's no point in playing games, and she should know what I'm thinking.

Manifest Destiny stayed in Flagstaff at Nika's. He called on the 26th to say he was staying in Flagstaff for another slam at Applesauce and would head down to Phoenix with one of the poets.

I called Apollo Poetry and Sean Mabe about the Yavapai College Poetry Slam, which started at 7 p.m.

SLAM:
Band
1) Set draw, 5 max.
Band
2) Set draw, 5 max.
Band
3) Set draw, 5 max.
Band
4) Set draw, 5 max.
Scores

The format was untraditional. The YC people hadn't hosted a slam before, so the didn't conform to traditional rules. They had scores of scorepads so anyone could judge. We didn't quite understand the "rounds" so we initially only signed up for the first round. Once Blankenship and Terrence Pratt explained the format, we signed up again, Sean and Apollo in round 3 and all three of us for round 4.

I opened with "We Call Him Papa." I had the piece perfectly memorized from the FlagSlam, so it was an easy opening. I also wanted to test it with the crowd, which was rowdy from the band sets.

Apollo and Sean opened with peace poems, also to gauge the audience reaction.

For round three, Apollo hit "Rusty," one of my favorites. I think the poem's weakness is that it has several strong endings, so listeners aren't sure where it ends. It's kind of like watching "The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King." I personally think the line "... but you just saved mine," is the strongest.

Sean picked a poem to mock Sedona. It was also a test run for curse words. He tripped up a lot, but it was a funny poem, especially for a Cottonwood crowd who may not necessarily think of Sedona fondly.

For the fourth round, I picked "Peach," mainly because Apollo hadn't heard it, and I don't often read for him. My other options for memorized, ready-to-slam poems were "Three Minutes for Dylan," "Spinal Language," "They Held Hands," "In the Corners of This Room," "A Poem About Clouds," "Manifesto of an Addict," "Breakfast Cereal," and "Coming Home."

Sean followed my with Saul Williams' "Ohm," which he performed flawlessly. Apollo followed with a poem whose name I did not catch, but whose performance I really enjoyed.

I wound up winning, which came with a nice trophy. Two slam victories in three days. I guess I'm back.

Nika Haiku #1

Text from Nika Levikov: A writer at a loss for words? Come now. I expect something unique and original within the next 5 min.

Christopher Fox Graham's reply:

Nika’s Haiku:
Dancer ties my tongue
smitten by texting fingers
and a deadline too

FlagSlam, Sept. 24

Last night, I slammed in Flagstaff.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I plan to feature later next month.