Beware of the pink bunny ninjas!

Some images just scream out for a flyer to be made of them.

What Are Your Words Worth?

These are all poets who spent time in prison because of their poetry. Flora Brovina (Kosovo), Irina Ratushinskaya (Russia), John O’Leary (Ireland), Myo Myint Nyein (Burma), and Armando Valladares (Cuba).

Two new CFG2012 election posters

Not sure which of these I like better. I like the text of the first one, but having a good haiku is nothing to shake a stick at.

My destiny is mayorship

We can not fight our destiny. Mine is to run for elected office. It might also be to face impeachment, but such is life.

CFG2012 committee gets in gear

The election heats up. Yes, it's 3 1/2 years away. So what? I plan on winning the procrastinators' votes.

Art makes you famous

You know you've become famous in a small town when you're included as a in local art. In this Brian Walker mural now hanging at Java Love Cafe in West Sedona, there are several local arts figures, everyone from Brian Walker himself as an elephant, my ex-semi-quasi-current-roommate Lori-Ann Rella as herself and a panda, Tyrell, Gianni, Angel Mike, Jesus and Streetwalker Jesus, Gandhi, Lou Moretti as Charlie Chaplin, etc.

I stand out with my 2012 mayoral campaign sign, American Spirit cigarette and Red Star Communist hat.

Old bar poetry

An older poem I found scribbled on a notepad, probably written at Szechuan Martini Bar. Chris Bailey must have been barkeeping ....

Watching the to-and-fro dance of barkeeps
knowing too intimately the intoxicating brilliance
of slurred words and slow eyes
We are such fools with our poisons
paid for at these neon tombs
alcohol apothecaries promise honesty
in concoctions named for pop culture references

Light up another deathstick
get something on draught
and talk to me of God
you have my undivided attention
if you buy the next round

The barkeep knows me by name
because I tip well and order simply:
local brews and screwdrivers

I laugh when he does
at the kids with fake IDs
who can't get the months right
or spell their last names
and the barflys who raise hell
just like last week
and the tourists with the new names
for the same blend of liquids
all asking the same questions
he answers differently every time

I don't listen unless the musician is orginal
if I can here it on vinyl
I don't want your version
Tell me your stories
make me wonder about the world
no which album you're covering
and I promise never to scribble down Jabberwocky
and claim it as my own
I don't come here to meet people
just old friends
share a pitcher and here a tune
jive to a poem that ripples the untouched drinks
Remind me that I'm human
and the next round is on me
remind me that it's good to bleed sometimes
why heartbreak builds character
why poverty with joy
enriches more than lotteries
show me that I'm not alone in my rage
against the futility of words
why old lovers, gray-haired and slowly dying
are worth envying
more than night clubs and blind loins
kiss my ears with long, slow lyrics
punk rock kýrie eléisons
written on buses on over cheap wine
while the smell of long-lost lovers
drowned you in memories
show me the lives I could have lived
had I not been born this man
Own my imagination
I give you passage to take the helm
teach my student ears your scripture
Show me that my debts are unpaid
unless I move another
Reteach me that we are all poets
yearning to speak free

She tattooed me

I love Becca because she's my punk rock dream girl. Two weeks ago while drunk at a house party in Flagstaff at 4 a.m., she graffitied my shoes.

What seems apropos is that I feel somewhat punk rock wearing these shoes, but Becca always bests me. No matter what crazy story I have, hers always seems more awesome, more natural, and more sincere. Having her graffiti on my most punk rock of my punk rock shoes feels like she's welcoming me into her fold.

The older we get the closer our two paths seem to merge. Unusually it's me bringing her as a Parvalus into my traditions, cliques and social circles; it feels welcoming to be on the receiving end as an Erus.

The Sex of Sax

Flamenco riffs
and the sex of sax
evaporate off dancers
drunk on volume
hips make love to harmonies
enviously ogled by Guinnesses
in the shadow of flat-brimmed hats
while wood block keeps the beat
the prayers depress against glass
downing draughts fresh from the tap
while lovers old and new
handshake eager glances
in sweaty anticipations
funk swaggers in
knowing it attracts
every belt buckle to join
leave your skinny ties at the door
and spin a stranger
beneath low lights
absorbing the aroma of saucy Merlot
a Cabernet who talks too much
a dirty martini
who’s talked of leave town for years
black leather bedecked paisanos
sweep young ladies to the floor
recollecting the world’s wayward memories
of a time before world wars
when Sicilian and Genovese clubs
brought forth fast-moving feet
into a new incarnation
of hippies born too late to know this
Español flows wine-soaked from an Anglo’s lips
and all the while,
the sax wails its sex lamentations
and old men serve attention without intention
as they wish they could do in younger days

My Best Day in Months

Manifest Destiny and I spend two days in Flagstaff last week. Two days of poetry, booze, conversation, wandering and passing out at odd places. The best part of it all was spending 11 hours with Becca Allen who, incidentally, looks far less goofy in person than on my camera phone.

My Best Day in Months

when I said it was my best day in months
I meant it
despite the drunken stumbling
the late-night cold
and breaking a lock to a public building
an hour before dawn
just to find a place to sleep

it was a good day
because so much of it was with her
swallowed in the warmth of her smile
as she tripped over herself
like always
unable to keep herself upright
I admire her clumsiness
because of its familiarity
the way she could hardly
keep her feet beneath herself near me
our twin orbits
pulling each other's equilibriums off-kilter
so we seem to slide into each other
as we have in the years of our courtship
that's what I call it anyway
she'd say were lurching toward insanity
as we bicker and part ways
for months at a time
only colliding together
when she chooses to miss me
never soon enough
never often enough

it was a good day
because for a few sweet hours
I felt hers
sprawled out her bed
as she picked up her laundry
or became familiar in her shower
with all the solutions and cleansers she uses
or as she gave me 9 gigs of music
knowing my lacking taste
I felt hers
for the first time in years
I would those moments last for years
if I had the power
but lacking anything beyond memory
I catalogued all the moments
as best I could
knowing I'd pen poems like these
for each one worth remembering
taking snapshots every few seconds
whenever she flashed a smile
over her boyfriend's shoulder
yes, he was there, too
oblivious to the details of our history
the living-room floor half-nude wrestling
the wine-fueled sleepovers
when you drank too much
and I forgot my name
the first time we fucked
mid-party with 70 friends
watching our foreplay
she kept her mouth silent
and I offered no insight
into our closeness
she consistently called me "friend"
though I interpreted it as "lover"
and hoped no one understood our dialect
with the same fluency

it was a good day despite the broken heart
of seeing her happy
with someone who wasn't me
but all my sins
made this inevitable
someday, when someone mistakes
all my poetry too seriously
my sins will become infamous
in the annals of romance
catalogued and cross-referenced
but for now,
my sins are still unfinished
I have dozens more love affairs
to trainwreck into oblivion
more relationships to ruin
more unkind words
spoken at just the wrong time
to demolish some sacred moment
my love is nothing if not entertaining
to those not caught in my crosshairs
with friends like me
who needs enemies?
so I can’t blame her
for choosing a better option
than what I could muster at the moment

it was a good day
one that made me want to be a better man
for a thousand different ways
I can't express to her with my succinctness
but it drained me of illusions for days
as if I could see the future
just a few moments ahead
and more aware of the beauty around me
the small things I used to embrace
years ago when I called myself "poet"
for the first time:
the flight of dragonflies
making love in the morning
the heady residue
in a pint of beer
the echo of small talk
in a crowded bar
as I scribbled this down
the feeling of being crestfallen for far too long
I've never felt this broken before
not this broken for this long
with no seeming way out

I needed to fall
have my wings clipped
suffer for my vanity
my unwillingness to forgive
my pride, which will one day
damn me to a sudden death
I want to live a cliché life sometimes
the 2.5 kids, housewife,
boring but steady job
and a dog bearing slippers
with all my potential poetry
locked in the closet of my mind
and no recollection of artistry
because this life is too hard
the loneliness, the hangovers
the desperate lurch from paycheck to paycheck
breaking me beneath its boot heel
wondering if today I'l pay for food
or car registration --

but I have to quantify this pressure
lest my mother again mistake these complaints
for suicidal thoughts
and I get another late-night call
to explain that poets only kill themselves
when they have nothing else to write
not when they're writing it all down --

I have no recourse but to endure
pray for better days
to celebrate surviving poverty
and I hope she's there
with open arms when I rise up
eager to hold me again
and recall this as just one good day
after so many piss-poor ones

this was a good day
because she was in it
and tomorrow is another chance
to see her again

Results from the Old Town Poetry Slam

Results from the Old Town Poetry Slam, held Saturday 11 April 2008 at the Old Town Center for the Arts in Cottonwood, Arizona.
Photos byJon Pelletier/Verde Valley News

Invocation: Christopher Fox Graham "Welcome to the Church of the Word"

Sacrifice poet: Shama

- - - - - Round 1 - - - -

Manifest Destiny, 3:42, 23.8 after 2-point time penalty
The Klute, 2:39, 25.5
Mikel Weisser, 1:16, 20.3
Carl Weis, 3:11, 23.6 after 0.5-point time penalty
Fun Yung Moon, 3:03, 27.1
Sevan Aydinian, 2:33, 28.1
Tufik Shayeb, 2:49, 26.0
Bill Campana, 2:15, 23.9
Than Ponvert, 0:48, 17.5

Clearing poem: Christopher Fox Graham, "Staring at the Milky Way with One Eye Closed"

- - - - - Round 2 - - - -

Than Ponvert, 0:22, 18.5, 36.0
Bill Campana, 2:15, 23.9, 47.8
Tufik Shayeb, 2:45, 26.4, 52.4
Sevan Aydinian, 3:26, 29.0 after 1-point time penalty, 56.1
Fun Yung Moon, 1:48, 25.6, 52.7
Carl Weis, 3:57, 20.8 after 2.5-point time penalty, 41.4
Mikel Weisser, 2:08, 19.0, 39.3
The Klute, 2:39, 27.7, 53.2
Manifest Destiny, 3:05, 27.0, 50.8

- - - - - Intermission - - - - -

Clearing poem: Christopher Fox Graham, "She Wants a Poem About Clouds"

- - - - - Round 3 - - - -

Sevan Aydinian, 2:57, 29.7, 85.8, first place
The Klute, 3:22, 27.6 after a 1-point time penalty, 79.8, fourth place
Fun Yung Moon, 2:57, 27.8, 80.5, third place
Tufik Shayeb, 3:10, 28.4, 80.8, second place
Manifest Destiny, 2:20, 28.6, 79.4, fifth place
Bill Campana, 4:00, 22.5 after 3-point time penalty, 70.3, sixth place
Carl Weis, 3:23, 21.4 after 1-point time penalty, 62.8, eighth place
Mikel Weisser, 3:12, 25.5 after 0.5-time penalty, 64.3, seventh place
Than Ponvert, 0:45, 26.1, 62.1, ninth place

Benediction: Christopher Fox Graham, "Imagine a Religion"

Victory poem by Sevan Aydinian

Slam staff
Scorekeeper: Alun Wile
Host: Christopher Fox Graham
Organizers: William Eaton, owner of the Old Town Center for the Arts
Christopher Fox Graham, Sedona 510 Poetry

Easter benediction

I wrote this poem for and about Random Acts of Coffee. As the curtains opened at the Old Town Poetry Slam that I hosted, I stood with my confirmation Bible, a t-shirt bearing a praying mantis with its arm crossed above the word "atheist" and read this:

"Welcome to the Church of the Word"

In the beginning,
there was darkness
then spoke the Word
it was noun and verb
a subject and its action
a declaration of self-aware existence

whatever you may believe in or don't,
the universe spoke the first poem:
"I am"
and the art of existence detonated in a whisper
stretching its arms and legs across billions of light years
to the edge of the cosmos
leaving us in its wake to interpret
"I am"
is simple creation
it is cause from nothing
it is sound and fury
we spoke the same words
when we danced in half in our mother's womb
the words "am" and "i," waiting for a poet to pronounce them
you were that poet
and you answered with conviction, with sincerity:
"I am"
and your cells detonated in a whisper
stretching your fingers and toes into the poem you are now
comprised of 100 trillion cells,
each holding a different word,
and waiting for you to assemble them into your life story
begging you to speak

welcome to the church of the word
we are here to worship poetry
not what the words on paper
divorced from life and breath
not an abstraction
not the poet
but poetry
it is scripture that changes
with every voice on this microphone,
that builds a different temple in each of your minds
your interpretation becomes your own rabbi,
your own guru,
your own shaman,
your own saint

those of us who spit verse on this microphone
are just believers like you
who feel so moved by the word
we can no longer hold it in
who value notepads more than money
and holy ink more than heaven
because it is the word that will save our souls
now when we can relate our experiences
not when we die

every poem we write
is an echo of "I am" declaring itself in a new way
welcome to the church of the word
here, the only sin is silence
here, the only salvation is speech

understand you are blessing the generations
to come after you
the word does not promise immortality
but it does promise eternal life
teach a child the sacredness of poetry
and they will teach a child the same
influence the next generation
and you will live forever

welcome to the church of the word
by being here, you are converts
when you leave here, you are evangelists
when you return,
we hope you will want to join us
and preach your story
to enjoy life everlasting
welcome to the church of the word

Staring at the Milky Way with One Eye Closed

Staring at the Milky Way with One Eye Closed
26 Sept. 2006-15 May 2007

Staring at the Milky Way with one eye closed
details in the clouds of shapes elude pinpointing
the brightest ones egotistically outshine their humble siblings
burning their age-old sociology over distance and time
only now reaching my half-blind awareness

if I lay still for an hour
the whole sky rotates enough for me to feel
the morning hours away
but for now, the night holds sway
that dark Earth below holds its secrets
coyotes yelp in their hide-and-seeks between the lights
marking the miles between irrelevant cities

I haven’t seen shooting stars in months
and the eager sky readily supplies signal flares on the periphery
as if they lamented my absence too
but in the tender brilliance of falling stars
sending goodbyes to satellites
stereoscopic disability flattens everything into two dimensions

denied depth, the hazy constellations stand near enough
to reach out and reorder as if i spilled them on velvet
i reached up with both hands
and gazed at each one through my fingers
and pretended i was god,
and I remember feeling this childlike before ...

although the days tick by in perfect chronological sequence
the specks above tonight measure the same distance apart as always
and the constellations remain impervious
to our rearrangements, reinterpretations and renamings

you see, I learned all their names once
at the same time I was structuring the proper order of the alphabet

my father, raised in a family too poor to afford telescopes,
would relate the stories of each one as we lay on the roof
cheaper than television
we shared the stars

he explained how geometric shape of hunter, virgin and beast
came to rise from earthly mothers
into Greek mythology
and into the heavenly bodies
we still use to find our way home

what stories he had heard at the same age I was
and remembered until he had a son
and which ones he manufactured at the moment
to keep my childish attention skyward
I’m still uncertain because I lost him years ago

but taken from this soil
and raised into the cosmos for a night
I sailed on the satellite of his voice into the exosphere
as he surreptitiously showed me
how all science fiction writers came to dream their space opera epics
see, their fathers instilled in them
the dream of sailing between
the Dark Side
and the Light

but the distance between stars is not measured in parsecs
but in the imagination of a boy thinking his father is godlike
because if you tilt your head ... just so
and remember that even angels
paint connect-the-dots pictures
the clump to the right in the shape of an arrow
with the semi-circle that arcs out from the side
really does look like a hunter
if you believe the man who tells you it does
and when he asks
if you can see it
for the first time in your young life
the way you see the world actually matters to someone
because it means he's doing the right thing

"Yes, dad, I see the hunter,
it chases through the clouds and gases
hiding in the shadows and staying downwind of his prey
you can tell by the way the Milky Way
is drifting to the Southwest tonight"

and in the stars I had my father
he told me the stories of the placement
and calculated the precise mathematics:
"These two stars will always be the distance between two fingers."
"That constellation is always the breadth of one palm,
if you stretch out your thumb to touch that star first."

the measurements in the heavens never change
because they give us a path home
despite the distance we grow from it
I wish I had known that then,
because I would have told that boy
to place his father somewhere in the heavens
so that he would forever know
the number of steps it takes to find him

but this rotating world
hides the stars behind the sun for half a day
and in the daylight
my father found a place to hide from me
so now I can't even find him in the night

I still have the stars and the stories
but the man who taught them to me
disappeared into them both
so never ask me again why I don't believe in God
look to the stars,
find him,
sketch out what points define his shape
and point him out to a boy still on a rooftop
tell him you can see god
in the geometry of random placement
because to me, today
those shape are just specks
I know anyone can rename the constellations
the measurements above never change
but we don't learn from their loyalty
how to live

so if you find a man who looks like me
with twenty more revolutions on his face
lying on a rooftop, measuring the distance between stars with his fingers
tell him to stop counting
because the mathematics of the constellations never change
no matter how many satellites we send up to double-check
it's the people down below who grow apart
and most never find a way back home

but sometimes there are boys
who remember they way fathers could be godlike
when they were too young to know any better
and on some nights like these,
when that boy, now this poet
gazes skyward with one eye open
he imagines that his father is alongside him
and for a while,
before his vision gets hazy
a certain mass of glowing dots
really does look like a hunter
heading back across the heavens
to teach everything he knows
about hunting stars
to his son

NORAZ Poets is dead?

I've been told that this has been the Web site for a while now. Is the the last vestige of NORAZ Poets dead?

Good riddance.

Poets compete for grand prize at the Old Town Poetry Slam

The art of competitive spoken word explodes with the Old Town Poetry Slam — a high-energy poetry slam starting at 7:30 p.m., on Saturday, April. 11.
Twelve of the region’s best performance poets will compete for a grand prize of $100 at the Old Town Center for the Arts, 633 N. Fifth St., Cottonwood.
The Old Town Poetry Slam comes on the heels of the Old Town Shootout in December in which four Arizona poetry slam teams competed in one of three statewide regional competitions.
April’s poetry slam is open, meaning any performance poet is welcome to compete. Poets need at least three original poems, each no longer than three minutes.
The Old Town Poetry Slam will be hosted by Sedona poet Christopher Fox Graham, who has represented Sedona and Flagstaff at four National Poetry Slams. To compete, poets need to register via e-mail to foxthepoet@yahoo.com. Slots will be determined on a first-come, first-serve basis.
Founded in Chicago in 1984, poetry slam is a competitive artistic sport. Poetry slams are judged by five random members of the audience who assign numerical value to individual poets’ content and performance. Poetry slam has become an international artistic sport, with more than 100 major poetry slams in the United States, Canada, Australia and Western Europe.
Tickets are $10. For tickets or more information about the Cottonwood poetry slam, call the Old Town Center for the Arts at 928-634-0940.
Additional ticket outlets include Green Carrot Café, Jerona Café and the Desert Dancer in Cottonwood; Golden Word Bookstore and Crystal Magic, in Sedona; The Worm bookstore in the Village of Oak Creek; and The Sage Post, in Jerome.

Letter of Advice to My Son

Letter of Advice to My Son
First published Feb. 21, 2005

Spit the verse in you; the music will subside.
Life has a volume knob if you know where to look.
Bleed away the bullshit. Kill it with a 40, or a pack of cigarettes
Stand bare naked before a bathroom mirror and count your scars.
Name them in chronological order.
Invent new histories for them; they won't care.

Pretend into fact: dive bar fistfights, whores with forgettable names.
Make new your old skin and become a rough-and-tumble drunkard in your imagination.

Learn to sneer like an old west cowboy played by John Wayne or Clint Eastwood
Name your dead horse. Work him into random conversations.
Sit alone in the desert and remember the long rides.
Weep for him and let the desert swallow your tears.

Cut your skin deep, so you won't fear pain.
Watch yourself bleed.
Understand that that time
is doing the same thing to you.
Then let it heal and forget.

Fuck without fearing it
Don't call the first three.
They will haunt you appropriately.

Then, only fuck for love
Only lonely nights, remember. them all
You may love hundreds
or just one for decades
but sin or death will take them all in time
leaving you with only cherished moments
so cherish all the moments
as if they will be your last

Face the city alleys
Know their darknesses:
and the difference between a stray cat
and a street gang.

Forgive your fathers.
Let them teach you how not to live.
Where they failed, do not.
Know that their sins were simple:
they did not see you coming
teach your son better
accept that you will fail
but he may forgive you
for your effort

Some men deserve to die; you are no exception

Fear the indifference of good men more than evil

Know that fools no different than you built all institutions.

Embrace solitude. It will save you on the lonely nights.

Accept no story as fact unless it happens to you.

Once a year, lay down in a gutter to learn how to sleep there if need be.

Suicide can be rational
men are not.

Watch sunsets prayerfully, to learn why we first worshipped the sun and the moon.
Count stars nightly - know that some will die tonight and never shine again.

Name constellations in your honor. Invent their mythologies

Learn to lie well.
do it sparingly, but be dedicated
Confess to no one
Honest lies become truth in time.
Not all lies are sins
Learn the difference

never admit to being an artist
they are pretentious
if you are an artist
history will take care of it for you

change jobs constantly
stagnant waters are poisonous

Be blunt with allies
for their loyalty comes through self-reflection
be relentless with enemies
for they will do the same
know that honesty turns friends to foes too often
and deception keeps the peace
build yourself an army
so when all is lost
you have ground to go to

serve your community selflessly
it will repay in kind
Know it can turn rabid
flee when necessary
mobs cannibalize leaders

Resist authority always
Obedience must be earned

Governments replace anarchy, but they are not free from it

Love your nation and your tribe
never call yourself a patriot
you are better than that.

Admire the pageantry of humanity
but do not believe it
we all wear silly hats

Converse with lunatics
they have much to teach
speak their dialects

Women are sacred, always.
Men are expendable, always.
Without women, our tribe is lost.
So raise your daughters to be warriors.

Breed intelligently
you owe it to your grandfathers

Know that your honor and your pride
are the only gifts you give yourself
and the only things no man can take from you

Death is evitable
embrace this
die nobly if you can
we are meat puppets
be sure not to spoil

Words can kill
use them wisely
Speak honestly and slow
Enunciate with conviction.
Your words will bind you when all else is lost.

Poetry is the captured sincerity of a moment
you live for only a moment
live poetically

Lori-Ann Rella plays Valentine’s Day show

Sedona guitarist Lori-Ann Rella will perform at Oak Creek Brewing Co. on Saturday, Feb. 14, from 6 to 10 p.m.

Originally from West Orange, N.J., Rella started playing guitar at 19. She has since taken herself on a musical journey around the world from the East Coast to Nepal.

Since being in Sedona, she has gotten herself a black eye, a switchblade, a tattoo and a rebel boyfriend. Rella is looking forward to seeing what the future holds for music and mayhem, she said.

Rella returned to Sedona after a three-year hiatus, and has been playing around Sedona and Northern Arizona since making her debut performance in front of a crowd at Applesauce Tea House in November. Rella is currently working on her debut album.

Rella is known for her intimately sincere original lyrics, heterochromatic eyes, instrumental dexterity, Jersey attitude and diverse stylistic range. For more information or to hear Rella’s songs, visit www.MySpace.com/LoriAnnRellaMusic.

Oak Creek Brewing Co. is located at 2050 Yavapai Drive, West Sedona. For more information, call the brewery at 928-203-9441.

Reading "Spinal Language"

I just found this analysis of "Spinal Language." I appreciate anyone who takes the time to analyze anyone of my poems.

SPINAL LANGUAGE
(For Christmas)
give me a tattoo
deeper than skin
on the bones of my spine
onto the surface of every vertebrae
in every human tongue
tattoo their word for “poetry”
so that no language feels foreign anymore;
so that each human voice
can speak a word in me

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

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

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

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

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

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

imagine

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

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

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

Analysis by Inziladun from deviantART
I share your fascination and your awe of human language. It is something which strikes very close to home for me, and so this piece holds a special personal significance. Your use of language even within the piece is fascinating and alluring, you create images and feelings that all amount to a magnificent metaphor.
I read this piece months ago, and have only now worked up the courage to critique it. I hope you do not mind the length.

The opening line, (For Christmas), really begins the whole theme of solidarity and union of humankind by referring to a common and widespread celebration which advocates love and adoration of people for one another. It does not necessarily represent the exact holiday of Chistmas, it is more like a representation of any great celebration which brings people together in joy. The idea of Christmas here, more concretely perhaps, gives the concept of presents, of gifts. And I think by this it is meant that it would be a gift indeed to have the people of the earth be united thus through language.
With tattoo I am personally reminded of a kind of skin-deep, matieralistic set of Western values, which praises outer beauty and wholesomeness above the inner. But you immediately dispel this thought, with the words deeper than skin . And the idea of 'tattooing' words in all languages on your spine, an idea that is repeated throughout, truly strikes a chord: the spine is most commonly associated with pain and with injury, and so the idea of sticking a needle in it raises this idea. But this idea again is dispelled by the idealism of tattooing the word for "poetry" in every human tongue; it is an aesthetic and amazingly romantic notion. Poetry, in a way, is the truest form of linguistic expression because it is designed to raise emotion on a whole different level; it can even be said to be the soul of language. And what I think is meant by the repetition of this concept of tattooing of the spine (by the way, isn't the word vertebrae plural?) is that both the conscious and subconscious of each human person is alledgedly given this universal awareness; the spine relays the reactions of the brain, and is a veyr central part of our nervous system. This is a fact known to most, and it is that which I believe you play on here, fantastically well. The pain mentioned before gives the concept an air of seriousness and sombreness, and the mind-related connotation really delivers the ultimate meaning. It is like a sudden shock of understanding, and it's a wonderful feeling.
My very favourite lines of this entire poem, I think I might be so bold to say, are: so that each human voice / can speak a word in me. This rings of one of the greatest lines in poetry ever, it is something that I can imagine being quoted by future generations and repeated in awe. There really is something inherently awing and beautiful in the idea of being able to communicate in every language in the world; perhaps it is what would ultimately link humankind together. With a common language, nations and cultures could understand one another and be apart of one another. In fact, I was surprised to find that you did not mention or even refer to the Tower of Babel, the myth of which would tie into the themes of the piece excellently.

The second stanza truly illustrates the heart-warming theme of worldwide solidarity and union; the anthropomorphism is utterly brilliant, and highly fitting since the whole idea of solidarity is linking human people. Language is only the mode, it is the means but not the end.
Let Arabic and Hebrew / sit side by side without throwing stones: the concept of throwing stones is a biblical reference, and also a judicial and factual one since stoning was and still is a legal penalty in some countries. Without throwing stones is another kind of reiteration of the theme you mean to convey, of warring nations ceasing their fighting and ending violence.
By using the word 'Cantonese' instead of 'Chinese' you make the reference individual and uniquely respective, instead of generalizing both Cantonese and Mandarin under the generic word 'Chinese'. Indeed you never do generalize in this piece, you mention each language and each element as a singular and real entity instead of blaketing them, and I commend you for it. The word characters is great here, because both Hindi and Cantonese use different written characters and yet you want them to link hands and become one, despite their difference. You indirectly create the image of some flowing, wonderful script, which entails all human languages in one; it's quite astounding.
The hammock of the fourth line connotes rest and peace, which is just what you are advocating. The touching of lips and resitng of heads of the last lines are very sensual and personal acts, and really make the entire 'process' being described a degree more heightened.

The next stanza is a collection of synonyms really, and you encompass all the speaking world and the origins of speech in this. Asia, Europe and Africa are represented, three of the world's continents; and though 'Aboriginal' does sound like a reference to Australia, it can just as well refer to the original inhabitants of any country or continent. You leave nothing out, though it may seem that you do.
I don't see why you have broken up these four lines from the following, longer stanza. It does keep the layout clear, but it's a small jump on the part of the reader which dones't really serve any purpose. I suggest, if I may, that you change the comma at the end of the fourth line to a period, and begin the next line with a capital letter; and remove the space from in between.

An organic barcode written in Braille, another brilliant line and really the most complex imagery yet presented in the poem. There is a kind of irony to the wording here as well: while organic barcode represents a kind of permanent reminder of sorts, the tattoo described earlier which enables this person to unite mankind, and thus is a very positive thing, the idea of a barcode on its own isn't quite as positive. It is like a label, a pricetag, which connotes conformity and lack of individuality. But uniting mankind through language would not destroy individualism, it would just eradicate the negative effects of it (i.e. barriers between types of people).
Readable by the worms that will one day convert me back, though not a very appealing image, is a foreshadowing to the later lines where the earth is made able to feel the "weight of the words". But this line opens the opportunity for an amazing concept; the "religion of dust and ash". Religion is another thing which separates humans from one another; but perhaps you are tring to say that even that barrier can be eradicated through language, because all religions are really the same, just working with different language games.
The concept of a religion is repeated with the word cult a line or two later, and you clearly contrast the two; our former 'religion', where perhaps we recognized the ethereality of all things, is presented as a vanished ideal, and the 'Cult of Flesh and Blood' is an obvious reference to materialism and the brand-driven world of the modern West. And the words brought us out from clay is an image of being pulled out of one way of life and existence into another. But despite the general negative air you give to this cult of flesh, the final line of this stanza is among the most beautiful in the whole poem. To play brief characters in the rain; at first this created the image of a person dancing in the rain, and as he waves his arm rhythmically he etches symbols and letters onto the air, but those characters are 'brief', and so they vanish with the falling drops. But another interpretation, one which I think you meant to convey, is that the word character actually means a human person, but the element of fictitiousness is very poignant here. It is as though you've saying that materialism brought us out of the clay, where we were one and where we were free of strings, into a world where facades and made believe were what the world was perceived through. These characters, these dolls of ours, are 'brief' because they do not survive society. It's a very powerful thought indeed.

At the word taste in the next stanza I was alerted to the fact that I have only skimmed the sensory imagery you've used thus far. And I see now that most of it has, understandably, been auditory. Playing brief characters in the rain involves the sound of rain, and perhaps of laughter, and so forth with all the other images. But the Braille of before represent touch, the morse code represent a different kind of sound, and the tattoo is a visual symbol. Let them taste the flavor of our words is really the first instance of gustatory, that is taste-related, imagery. The word consume in the second line is a litle pun on the idea of eating, consuming food; but here the idea is to overwhelm it and transmit it back to the earth.
The whole idea of the earth 'remembering' or not forgetting humankind, after we are gone, is very interesting indeed, and quite humbling. Though who are we to say that we won't take the Earth with us when we end ourselves?

This next stanza really is wonderful, and your use of morse code is a wholly valid but amazingly original take on language. I actually looked up those Morse letters, and I was thrilled to find you had actually written "poetry" with it. The visual effect the sudden line of this code creates is subtly powerful, it is a sharp and clear sensation of realization. A lot of great poems, like Eliot's The Waste Land , feature words or phrases in different languages (Italian in that case, as I recall) which flavour the poem and give it a new dimension. That is what the Morse code here does, but in a completely new way.
The importance of hips and the lower part of the body is emphasized here; the hips are normally associated with jovial movement and dancing, but perhaps more concretely than that they symbolize childbirth. 'Hearing something in your hips when you sleep' is a concept which vaguely reminds me of a pregnant woman, who carries a child within her, and perhaps experiences things through it.
The phrase virus of comprehension is practically an oxymoron, because you ask it to spread across your bones; and 'comprehension' in this case is a highly positive element, because comprehension is what language is mostly about, making oneself understood.
The rest of this stanza introduces an extremely important idea; that language is not only spoken language, it is every form of human communication. You emphasize this beginning with so if I lose my voice, and the tapping of fingers and pounding of drum is described and explained as a language, the language of rhythm. It seems that there is a trend with your final lines of stanzas, they all end on a highly dramatic and absolutely beautiful note (pun intended). You slowly build up to the idea of blood, one's lifeforce; first with rnythm, then with beat, then with heartbeat and finally with to speak with my blood. This is a wonderful and even epic concept, but in a minimal way; like an implosion of meaning.

Having imagine be a monometer is a very sound decision to make; because the rhythm and scheme of the piece is freeverse already, the inconsistancy does not stick out to its disadvantage. Rather it puts an emphasis on the meaning and on the tone of the word. Imagine could be what the speaker in the poem sighs to the reader, dreaming and looking upwards; or the word could be in this imperative form because it commands the reader to ponder the connotations of it. The imagination is without a doubt one of the most important and central features of language; perhaps that is why poetry is so appealing to so many people, because it mimics the creativity of language itself.

This penultimate, 18-line stanza hashes out the theme of music more concetely than before. Hints to it have been made, and the drums of the previous stanza clearlt foreshadow it. Playing, harmony, symphony, melody, music, resonates: these are all concepts related to this aural artform, and you create imagery related to it brilliantly with these subtle word-additions. (And the similairty of the words offer chances of hidden internal rhyme, as ~tasheen pointed out here)
The tempo also quickens here, as though building up to something; the words louder and louder in line 7 continue this, whipping the reader into a kind of controlled frenzy of rhythm. But even a detonation does not quell the pace because it happened within, without sound; and only when you yourself explode with song and voice does the frantic flow end.
The use of numbers, of thousands, million, billion, trillion, also aids this building up, counting ever higher and higher. (6x10^4) languages, (6x10^9) people, and (6x10^12) thoughts; this is a logical sequence, but a poetically rendered one as well.

But the way you end the poem is a great surprise; after all of the action, all of the emotion and the whirlpool of thoughts, as well as the idealistic dreams of the beginning, you suddenly say that all of this can only be experienced for "one instant". This instant, of course, represents the course of a single worded utterance, which is no more than a carefully formed sound escaping one's lips.
But these two final stanzas seem like more than that to me; they seem like a criticism, no, a description of Time and of humankind's relation to it. Even if we reach this heavenly goal, rebuild the Tower of Babel, it will all have taken place in the tiniest fraction of a second in the course of the universe.
The final stanza is a brilliant way to end it all; losing focus, echoing, fading slowly.

This is one of the most incredible poems I have read in my life. There are TS Eliot-esque and Sylan Thomas-like portions visible throughout, but it is all you. The piece is like a humble but excited recital, a proclamation of the staus quo of the universe.
You have shaken me with this, and nothing can erase that emotion; I will keep it stored in my memories.

I know who killed the radio star ... Lori-Ann Rella did

Meet Lori-Ann Rella, my awesome housemate.

CFG in round 4 of the Dec. 14th slam

While Apollo Poetry's tape of the third round of the Dec. 14 poetry slam in Cottonwood didn't capture the fourth round, Gary Every did manage to get this photo of me.