Slam poet Shane Koyczan performs poetry at 2010 Olympics

Photo by Christine McAvoy

Being in head-over-heels love with a Canadian girl, Azami, made me unusually attuned to the Canadian-ness surrounding me, i.e., I've noticed more Canadian license plates in Sedona in the last month than the last six years.

It also seems fitting the 2010 Winter Olympics are being held in Vancouver, British Columbia, only months after I fell in love with her. Serendipity.

So imagine how cool it was to see that the Opening Ceremonies featured Vancouver slam poet Shane Koyczan, who I met at the 2001 National Poetry Slam in Seattle. Koyczan also won the individual poetry slam championship Providence, R.I., in 2000. And Azami has met him as well. So here we are, sharing a common love of poetry and first-hand knowledge of a particular poet performing in her country in my art form. Vicariously sharing our "passions," as it were - Canada and poetry - with the world.

I have written about Shane Koyczan's brilliance before in my blog "Grandma's Got it Going On (Rise and Shine)", "Haiku videos" and "Beethovan."

The poem Shane Koyczan performed at the 2010 Winter Olympics Opening Ceremonies on Feb. 12:

Photo by Michelle Mayne

"We Are More" (audio)
by Shane Koyczan
When defining Canada
you might list some statistics
you might mention our tallest building
or biggest lake
you might shake a tree in the fall
and call a red leaf Canada
you might rattle off some celebrities
might mention Buffy Sainte-Marie
might even mention the fact that we’ve got a few
Barenaked Ladies
or that we made these crazy things
like zippers
electric cars
and washing machines
when defining Canada
it seems the world’s anthem has been
” been there done that”
and maybe that’s where we used to be at
it’s true
we’ve done and we’ve been
we’ve seen
all the great themes get swallowed up by the machine
and turned into theme parks
but when defining Canada
don’t forget to mention that we have set sparks

we are not just fishing stories
about the one that got away
we do more than sit around and say “eh?”
and yes

we are the home of the Rocket and the Great One
who inspired little number nines
and little number ninety-nines
but we’re more than just hockey and fishing lines
off of the rocky coast of the Maritimes
and some say what defines us
is something as simple as please and thank you
and as for you’re welcome
well we say that too
but we are more
than genteel or civilized
we are an idea in the process
of being realized
we are young
we are cultures strung together
then woven into a tapestry
and the design
is what makes us more
than the sum total of our history
we are an experiment going right for a change
with influences that range from a to zed
and yes we say zed instead of zee
we are the colours of Chinatown and the coffee of Little Italy
we dream so big that there are those
who would call our ambition an industry
because we are more than sticky maple syrup and clean snow
we do more than grow wheat and brew beer
we are vineyards of good year after good year
we reforest what we clear
because we believe in generations beyond our own
knowing now that so many of us
have grown past what used to be
we can stand here today

filled with all the hope people have
when they say things like “someday”

someday we’ll be great
someday we’ll be this
or that
someday we’ll be at a point
when someday was yesterday
and all of our aspirations will pay the way
for those who on that day
look towards tomorrow
and still they say someday

we will reach the goals we set
and we will get interest on our inspiration
because we are more than a nation of whale watchers and lumberjacks
more than backpacks and hiking trails
we are hammers and nails building bridges
towards those who are willing to walk across
we are the lost-and-found for all those who might find themselves at a loss
we are not the see-through gloss or glamour
of those who clamour for the failings of others
we are fathers brothers sisters and mothers
uncles and nephews aunts and nieces
we are cousins
we are found missing puzzle pieces
we are families with room at the table for newcomers
we are more than summers and winters
more than on and off seasons
we are the reasons people have for wanting to stay
because we are more than what we say or do
we live to get past what we go through

and learn who we are
we are students
students who study the studiousness of studying
so we know what as well as why
we don’t have all the answers
but we try
and the effort is what makes us more
we don’t all know what it is in life we’re looking for
so keep exploring
go far and wide
or go inside but go deep
go deep
as if James Cameron was filming a sequel to The Abyss
and suddenly there was this location scout
trying to figure some way out
to get inside you
because you’ve been through hell and high water
and you went deep
keep exploring
because we are more
than a laundry list of things to do and places to see
we are more than hills to ski
or countryside ponds to skate
we are the abandoned hesitation of all those who can’t wait
we are first-rate greasy-spoon diners and healthy-living cafes
a country that is all the ways you choose to live
a land that can give you variety
because we are choices
we are millions upon millions of voices shouting
” keep exploring… we are more”
we are the surprise the world has in store for you
it’s true

Canada is the “what” in “what’s new?”
so don’t say “been there done that”
unless you’ve sat on the sidewalk
while chalk artists draw still lifes
on the concrete of a kid in the street
beatboxing to Neil Young for fun
don’t say you’ve been there done that
unless you’ve been here doing it
let this country be your first-aid kit
for all the times you get sick of the same old same old
let us be the story told to your friends
and when that story ends
leave chapters for the next time you’ll come back
next time pack for all the things
you didn’t pack for the first time
but don’t let your luggage define your travels
each life unravels differently
and experiences are what make up
the colours of our tapestry
we are the true north
strong and free
and what’s more
is that we didn’t just say it
we made it be.

Who is Azami?

While most people met the whirlwind amazingness that is Azami, my Canadian love who started as a house guest, or more correctly, in the tent in the Willow Way Hotel back yard, she quickly became a major part of my life.

For 2 1/2 months I had a best friend and partner in crime.

But who is Azami?

Azami has kicked off a new blog, Always Homeward Bound (Always HoBo), that answers the question by showing her travels as a "burner" at Burning Man as an Elections Observer in El Salvador, and hitchhiking trips through Guatemala, Canada, and the United States.

And, yes, she's coming back to Sedona. She leaves Toronto on Friday and I'll be picking her up in Las Vegas in the wee hours of the morning Saturday and bringing her back home to Sedona.

Visit her blog, Always Homeward Bound, and learn more about what living as full-time, international hitchhicker and free spirit is like.

My Michael Moore interview happens tomorrow

My interview with Michael Moore should happen tomorrow. If you have any questions you've always wanted to ask him, comment on my blog post ASAP and I'll try to include them all.

I have about 30 great questions generated by those who follow my blog or through Facebook, but more for Moore will make the interview more Moorawesome.

Moore is coming to Sedona for the 16th annual Sedona International Film Festival and I'm interviewing him for a story in Sedona Rock Rock News. Be sure and pick up the Friday, Feb. 19, edition for the whole interview.

Michael Moore was born in Flint, Michigan April 23, 1954. He studied journalism at the University of Michigan-Flint, and also pursued other hobbies such as gun shooting, for which he even won a competition.

Moore began his journalistic career writing for the school newspaper The Michigan Times, and after dropping out of college briefly worked as editor for Mother Jones.

He then turned to filmmaking, and to earn the money for the budget of his first film Roger & Me (1989) he ran neighborhood bingo games. The success of this film launched his career as one of America's best-known and most controversial documentarians. He has produced a string of documentary films and TV series about the same subject: attacks on corrupt politicians and greedy business corporations.

He landed his first big hit with Bowling for Columbine (2002) about guns in America, which earned him an Oscar and a big reputation.

He then shook the world with his even bigger hit Fahrenheit 9/11 (2004), targeting President George W. Bush and the Bush Administration. This is the highest-grossing documentary of all time.

Sicko (2007) investigates Health care in the United States, focusing on its health insurance and pharmaceutical industry. The film compares the for-profit, non-universal U.S. system with the non-profit universal health care systems of Canada, the United Kingdom, France and Cuba.

Capitalism: A Love Story (2009) centers on the financial crisis of 2007–2010 and the recovery stimulus, while putting forward an indictment of the current economic order in the United States and capitalism in general.

Moore is known for having the guts to give his opinion in public, which not many people are courageous enough to do, and for that is respected by many.

Help me interview Michael Moore

I will be interviewing filmmaker Michael Moore, who is coming to Sedona for the 16th annual Sedona International Film Festival, set for Sunday, Feb. 21, to Sunday, Feb. 28.

I have a list of questions I've always wanted to ask, but do you?

Moore will be the festival's special guest, screening "Capitalism: A Love Story" at Harkins Theatres.

Film festival director Patrick Schweiss set me up with an interview of Moore that will appear before the festival in the Sedona Red Rock News.

If you have questions you want me to ask filmmaker Michael Moore during my interview, e-mail them to me at foxthepoet@yahoo.com (Subject: "Michael Moore Questions") or comment on my blog by Friday, Feb. 12, and I will try to include most of them during my interview.

Even if they do not appear in the final print edition of the Sedona Red Rock News, I will get you his answers.

Waiting for You Haiku

Waiting for You Haiku Measure time in days; It's easier than counting Unanswered heartbeats

Envisioning Your Return

Envisioning your return
before the Boeing touches down on tarmac
when fuselage doors kiss jetbridge lips,
the long tongue brings you inside the terminal
the screenwriter of my imagination
writes the thousand variations of our reunion

you'll drop your bag at the first sight of me
run unabashedly into my longing arms,
shoving bystanders aside like wheat
as your Anemoid spirit —
transformed from Eurus into Zephyr by a layover
and all the metaphors that entails —
obliviously brushes them aside
in the eager anticipation of my embrace
in all likelihood,
my Jedi reflexes will fail at the moment of impact
and we'll collide with the Earth as meteors
your giggles replacing the "timber!" of lumberjacks
bystanders will Polaroid the moment
add anecdotes to their dull lives
so that in decades hence,
when asked by grandchildren what love is
they'll ponder and remember
relate a moment they saw on a promenade
when spacetime became an irrelevant hindrance
to two strangers who could not be held apart any longer
crashing into over-vacuumed carpet
leaving an impact crater that echoed joy for days

but maybe you'll be stationary,
and I, unable to wait another moment
will hurdle chairs as an Olympian yearning for gold accolades
or streak frantic-mad as a Berliner at Checkpoint Charlie
or a Jew at Sobibor, dodging abandoned luggage like mines
as though your arms are my only chance at freedom,
peripherally blind to the passersby
feet achieving speeds akin to Superman or the Flash
security would reach toward Tazers or radios
thinking I had homicide on my mind,
until I stop short of you
wrap arms parentally around your small frame
as if a refuge father wanted to banish any fear of orphanhood
vault you into the air,
bring your lips to mine
transform the terminal into a bedchamber
unusually populated at this time of night
and swallow your breath
to taste all the words you longed to say in person
whispered into the Canadian wind too long
fill you with all the unspoken poems
kept gestating in my belly
burst them back into you mouth
with my Morse code tongue
while security,
seeing berserker rage transmogrify into unshielded joy
before they could bring guns to bear
would relent as pulses return to humdrum levels
while at the center of the world,
we'd stand still,
letting it all spin at epic speed
making dizzy those around us

but perhaps the moment would be more tame
something from a yuppie romantic film
I'd sit in the trendy coffeehouse
sipping cappuccino and reading The New York Times
as if I'd brought the paper from my driveway
comment to the barista about faraway places
I'd seen on business trips,
"I've been to a café down the street from this bombing,
so sad, so sad,"
and wax philosophical about days long past
you'd approach, drop your bag along the table,
I'd look up, quote a headline,
or ask for a crossword clue,
you'd reply with an answer that fit the spaces,
but metaphorically encapsulate our relationship,
like "destined" or "prophetic" or "sui generis"
I'd pencil it in, aware of the subtext
and that the word wasn't the answer to the clue —
the "e" turns "mate" into "mete" —
but the answer to us
then ask about your trip home to me
as though you'd made it a hundred times before
you'd complain about the in-flight film
laugh about playing pattycake with a 6-year-old at 40,000 feet
then ask where I'd parked the truck
we'd stroll out, arm in arm
like 60-year-old lovers who'd always been
while the barista's next customers would order mochas
and wonder about our youthful love
unaware of our underlying plot

rather, you'd find a quiet bar
between gate and baggage claim
and I'd see you in the shadows of mood-rich track lights
move in like Casanova,
order a pinot noir and dirty martini
stroll strangerlike to your table
ask unassumingly if "is this seat taken?"
pitch a half-hearted pickup line
nothing too obvious or offensive
offer the wine or gin,
whatever your taste
and make small talk
you'd say you're a college professor,
here to speak about the nuances of Joseph Campbell
in the mythos of Kerauoc and the Beats
as it relates to modern pop culture and the idealized rebel
I'd pretend to comprehend,
then explain I was an architect
recently returned from a conference on New Urbanism
chaired by spouses Andrés Duany and Elizabeth Plater-Zyberk,
with whom I enjoyed a drink the night before in Miami,
I'd discuss walkable neighborhoods and pedestrian spaces,
you'd say James Dean played the role but missed the intent
but we'd both find common ground
in having recently read "Love in the Time of Cholera,"
and mutually vowing to never wait as long as Fermina and Florentino
we'll look into each other's eyes
and a moment would last too long
before we'd break away
you'd say you would have to be going,
find a taxi to your hotel,
while I'd offer a you a lift,
it's on my way, and I know a little bar near it,
you'd hesitate, then acquiesce,
in hopes of another longing look
I'd fumble for my keys
and hope there was a little bar nearby
because I've never anywhere near there,
and my house is on the other side of town
but your eyes are worth the drive

perchance I'd simply stand stoically,
sly smile painted on lips
slowstep at a glacial pace,
and meet in the middle
I'd say this was as I'd foreseen
you'd ask how long
I'd smile, look away, and tell you the moment it first came
you'd ask why lips had shuttered before the telling,
I'd say no one believes Cassandra
who saw Troy burn before Agamemnon set sail
you'd ask for all my secrets
and this time I'd tell
catch the other shoe before it fell
and change destinies

knowing your games, however,
you'd walk on by, making me a stranger,
I'd ask if you were looking for someone
you'd reply, a boy, who hadn't come,
I'd ask his description which would eerily resemble mine
you'd throw up arms in jest
unable to believe he'd done it again,
left you somewhere strange
while I'd ask if I could take his place
his loss, my gain

instead, when you come within earshot,
I'll leap atop a counter
address passengers and well-wishers
ask for forgiveness for what they're about to hear
pull a poem from my back pocket
toss out dry erase boards to five strangers
and slam verses as though this terminal
was the NPS finals' stage
and we're in second place,
needing a 29.9 to tie, but a 30 to win
spout metaphors about a girl I loved,
who left me standing naked in my skin
on the side of the road as she left too soon,
turning in the ether of a mirage
as I couldn't stop her
chest damp with our shared tears
mixed like blood in a John Donne poem
about a flea and two lovers
I once read her
the poem would slam itself, I'd be told later
by those who understood the reference
and you, red-faced and embarrassed at my pronouncements
would see the gesture romantic even if foolhardy
hoping I'd quit soon, but still love the moment,
as something we'd whisper about later under covers
some Sunday morning weeks ahead
the point wasn't the points, but the poetry
which strangers would quote to their lovers
pretending it their own

but all these visions conclude
I watch too many movies

instead, I'd prefer a reunion our way:
across the terminal, in the back our minds
as you leave transport and I approach the gate
we'd feel a disturbance in the Force
a trembling in the air around us,
dart senses warily around the inevitable battlefield
lock eyes across the distance
as all else fades into shadow,
simultaneous "snap-hiss" of lightsabers
mine in cobalt blue,
yours in royal violet
dash madly toward each other
and leap above civilians in the last stretch,
cross blades mid-air
I'd tumble into luggage
you'd somersault into strangers,
unperturbed, we'd resume
slash, parry, thrust, passata-sotto, spin
beat, riposte, lunge, redoublement, in quartata
flèche, croisé, quinte
and blades lock as bystanders stand in awe
having never seen Jedi spar except on celluloid
"been too long, Azami"
"yes, it has, Cyph"
then hiss-snap as blades retract
fall to floor like shooting stars
kisses collide with more power than Death Stars
sending shockwaves across the galaxy
from Endor to Korriban
Sith Lords shudder on their thrones
Cylons cower in their chasses
Vorlons feel the urge to flee
knowing the Jedi have returned
and on a tiny corner
of a tiny world
you and I find home is shared heartbeats
after too many moments apart

Some days are better than others

Some days are better than others
the good days,
you slip into my mind in the night
warm beneath sheets
thinking in dreams you've found passage home to me
to spoon bodies in the dark
and breathe in your skin's aroma
the concavity of skeletons
lying still like quotation marks
for an unspoken sentence of our future words
content in the night
to merely quote our synchronized breathing

the bad days,
memories ache for your reiteration
desperate to relive themselves
like old cowboys must do
watching younger men take the reins
you slip into my mind in the day
ghosts of your passing
rise miragelike from sidewalks
the echoes of your laughter
shake free from the paneled bedroom walls
push out the nails and screws
holding my house together
slip into my earlobes
to remind me what I'm waiting for
I'm tired of always waiting for the moment to be right
the dots to line up
I want to seize this continent
pinch the ends and fold our two cities together
so you're my next door neighbor
I long to leave my doorstep
wave to our common mailman,
wander into your kitchen
pour you tea and make sandwiches
wash into your bedroom like sunlight
and wake you into my arms
into the home of my embrace

Somewhere Between Midnights and the Dawn

Somewhere between midnights and the dawn,
in the shadows of dreams
old lovers slink into the caverns of my mind
for one-way trips through memories
reminding skin of its old acrobatics
through daylight repetitions
they come as if to see a dying friend
say final words, then bid adieu
and slip out before sunrise

after their emigrations
but before daybreak shutters open my eyes
I find you there, pressing palms to palms
as if you had always remained alongside watching
like an unnoticed scarf
keeping warm my throat to speak words
only you and I know in secret
from then until dawn
I find you have taken all the heroines' places
usurped the leads' roles
as if they were your prequels
just understudies filling seats
while waiting for the star player who was stuck in traffic

there, behind corneas, in the cathedral concavity
we rise upon the stage to play parts
in the fictions that dreams explore
your embrace is no longer forgotten
but repeated karmically as I slouch toward a nirvana
that will wake me at dawn
to the world of ice and steel and lies
with you, I would rather repeat my sins indefinitely
curse off enlightenment for a Bodhisattva
stay entranced for years horizontal and convalescent
ignoring flesh for ether
in a place where our bodies still match puzzle-perfectly
where the world is beholden to dreamers' whims
and your departure is remembered only as theory
I would stay unconscious beneath covers
until starvation or paramedics would extricate me
but the day is a persistent kidnapper
pulling me too soon from the visions of you

with our distance,
you are a disembodied voice
sound waves from a pocket toy
that rings to declare your impending,
leaving me afterward with the longing
to disassemble your components
into 1s and 0s,
transmit you through fiber optics and stationary satellites
and reform you in my living room,

but when the midnights come
and I climb beneath satin sheets
only brevity and steady breathing hinder your return
there, where all the best parts of me
try to remember all the parts of you,
you return unbroken, renewed
to bring me back to you,
the embodiment of joy
who once wore a girl's skin
and shared my arms

when all the world is only imaginary
I yearn for the moments I still have there
ache to make the dreams last longer each time
to keep your absence from its profound loneliness
when dawn wakes me to your vacancy
but the night offers another chance
even if only in my own fictions
to bring you back where you belong

Look for me in the German "Glamour" ... seriously

For those of you who let your subscription to the German-language version of Glamour magazine, I recommend picking up the November 2009 issue, the one with Eva Mendes on the cover.

In a spread on Sedona, there's a photo of me at Java Love Cafe in Sedona on page 242. I'm in front of the huge Brian Walker mural on the western wall.

... Only David Hasselhoff knows what this feel like.

Josh Fleming features

Start off the new year with a Poetry Slam, featuring FlagSlam alum Josh Fleming

Sedona's Studio Live hosts a poetry slam Saturday, Jan. 2, starting at 7:30 p.m. and all poets are welcome to compete for the $100 grand prize.

Studio Live is located at 215 Coffee Pot Drive, Sedona.

To compete in the slam, poets need at least three original poems, each three minutes long or shorter. No props, costumes or musical accompaniment are permitted. All types of poetry are welcome.

Josh Fleming, a nationally touring, award-winning slam poet and college instructor, will perform in a featured reading between rounds.

Fleming started his poetry career in Northern Arizona where he competed with the first-ever Flagstaff National Slam Team, was its first-ever Grand Slam Champion in 2001, and traveled to Seattle for the 11th annual National Poetry Slam.

Fleming was part of the "Save the Male" national poetry tour in 2002, has authored one chapbook, "What Happened to Me," and co-produced a spoken word album, "Sonnets to listen to by an open fire..." with fellow poet Christopher Fox Graham, of Sedona.

Fleming then fell off the radar, worked at a gas station, was a zoo tour guide, went back to school, got his masters, fell in love, got married, bought a house, settled down and now teaches and coaches speech and debate at Pasadena City College, in Pasadena, Calif.

He loves poetry, he's missed poetry and he's glad to be back, Fleming stated in a press release. In conclusion: He's pretty sure he rocks.


The slam will be hosted by Graham, who represented Northern Arizona on the Flagstaff team at four National Poetry Slams between 2001 and 2006.

Founded in Chicago in 1984, poetry slam is a competitive artistic sport. Poetry slams are judged by five randomly chosen members of the audience who assign numerical value to individual poets' contents and performances.

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, available at Studio Live or Golden Word Books, 3150 W. Hwy.. 89A.

Poetry Slam tonight at 7:30 p.m.

Get your tickets now
for the Sedona Poetry Slam tonight,
featuring FlagSlam alum Josh Fleming

Sedona's Studio Live hosts a poetry slam Saturday, Jan. 2, starting at 7:30 p.m. and all poets are welcome to compete for the $100 grand prize.

Studio Live is located at 215 Coffee Pot Drive, Sedona.

To compete in the slam, poets need at least three original poems, each three minutes long or shorter. No props, costumes or musical accompaniment are permitted. All types of poetry are welcome.

Josh Fleming, a nationally touring, award-winning slam poet and college instructor, will perform in a featured reading between rounds.

Fleming started his poetry career in Northern Arizona where he competed with the first-ever Flagstaff National Slam Team, was its first-ever Grand Slam Champion in 2001, and traveled to Seattle for the 11th annual National Poetry Slam.

Fleming was part of the "Save the Male" national poetry tour in 2002, has authored one chapbook, "What Happened to Me," and co-produced a spoken word album, "Sonnets to listen to by an open fire..." with fellow poet Christopher Fox Graham, of Sedona.

Fleming then fell off the radar, worked at a gas station, was a zoo tour guide, went back to school, got his masters, fell in love, got married, bought a house, settled down and now teaches and coaches speech and debate at Pasadena City College, in Pasadena, Calif.

He loves poetry, he's missed poetry and he's glad to be back, Fleming stated in a press release. In conclusion: He's pretty sure he rocks.

Other poets who will be competing include:

The Klute:



















Tufik Shayeb:













Danielle Miller:
















The slam will be hosted by Graham, who represented Northern Arizona on the Flagstaff team at four National Poetry Slams between 2001 and 2006.

Founded in Chicago in 1984, poetry slam is a competitive artistic sport. Poetry slams are judged by five randomly chosen members of the audience who assign numerical value to individual poets' contents and performances.

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, available at Studio Live or Golden Word Books, 3150 W. Hwy. 89A.

Seven Years of Solitude

Seven years of solitude
one-night stands
and last names lost to the wind
I wrote them in chronological order
carved their names in the sand
rewrote our mythologies
into my own fictions
to win 10s from strangers who preferred verses
rather than the cut and dry facts of thrusting hips
and white lies to strip cotton from our skins
before clothing ourselves in dawn-lit shame
of till-we-meet-agains

I found her literally in my own back yard
spreading dandelions along her path
on highways and backcountry roads
from the tundra to Sonora
fallen into disuse by travelers —
save Kerouac scholars

she called herself a hobo,
always homeward bound
but yet to find a doorstep to call her own
she came to kiss the red from the rocks
paint her lips with this Martian dust
swirl pirouettes in the vortices
verify that stars here match home
and chase down crash-landed aliens
looking for a one-way trip home to Perseus

she broke me open like an egg
scrambled my contents with her garlic smile
smothered in maple leaf syrup
and salted to taste

she coaxed herself inside
to better hear the word
by smiths more crafted than me
pressed skin to skin
and melted my insides into cheddar
smothered the sheets
in her unrepentant smiles

she is joy
unpasteurized, caffeine-free, antioxidant-rich
joy
if it could drip from its source
sculpt itself into flesh and skin and bones
camber its soft exterior into curves
tender to trepid fingertips
hesitant to brush capsulated ebullience
lest it evanesce into vapor
like the morning fog
she zipped herself up behind a smile
radiant as auroras
to stay warm in the Yukon

we knew from the first kiss
the impending expiration date
I could only hold her so long
before wanderlust reignited her blood
pumped visions of highway sunsets into her aorta
pulled her sticky sunrise from my bed
I held tightly to dreams
that I would foresee us waking unshared unemptied
in the decades to come
but behind shuttered eyes
one loses the path of footsteps
roads meander as they must
not as we desire
and mountains have yet to yield to men

we were doomed to end
from the first morning we shared
each time we pressed hips and lips

I tried to capture the details
with scientific precision
to reconstruct the crime scene of her illegal emigration
from the homeland I built

she could have packed and parted a thousand times
without a second thought
or smile in a stranger's rearview
after her outstretched thumb purchased passage
yet I found her bedecked in my socks
or shirts or shorts and boxers after a time

I would have shed my skin to keep her warm
if it would have delayed her departure
a few hours more

she left me thrice:
to smell the stories wafting on Diné desert
see tors resistant to harassing winds —
play in a park where symbols of peace
were even written on the stones —
pioneer the plateau seared asunder
by patient waters that still run wild
too oblivious to laugh at our cages
knowing that they too will one day fall
Ozymandias could not conquer the sands
Hoover cannot break the canyon's will
though the crest once offered us a view
down to the moonlit sea
all endeavors come to an end
despite the glory
of their lofty dedications

each time, the gravity of our weight
pulled orbits back to the same ellipse
we shared atmospheres
and now with her light years across the plain
it's harder to breathe the air
before I knew her grace

in the winter nights
with the rest of the house bursting with life
lovers pressing tender touches
uncaring of audiences
friends rehashing old wounds reopened
musicians repeating tunes remembered by fingertips alone
I long for her pride
I languish for the smell of her with days trapped in hair
I yearn for the exhilaration of her tender brilliance
dropping falling stars into my exosphere
to scar the surface
leaving us again in the naked ecstasy
when the world faded away
leaving us alone with our uninhibited vices

the nights seem colder
and my limbs never warm enough to sleep through the night
awake with dreams unremembered
each one leaves a passport of her absence
the way she alone could seem to fill the bed with her laughter
as I left her in the mornings

our last day
remains wickedly vivid
how I longed to break my fingers and toes
to render my hands unable to labor
feet unable to leave her
knowing that as the door closed
when I next returned
she'd not greet me with outstretched arms
and leopardic leaps to pin me beneath her passions

I couldn’t have loved her better
goodbye was always on our lips
but when the last one came
it broke me down the middle

in the center of my city
tourists who came for millennial stones unbroken
saw us cleave together our last moments
and for the first time, she shed tears
broke open her dam
to cleave the street beneath us in two
in a way only the canyons know
the red rocks above trembled in dread
conjuring that winds and creeks had taken their toll
but she, unleashed, could finally break them into red sand
washing them like blood into the seas

there, at a crossroads I could recreate from memory
she said I would not cross the road with her
I was unable to follow
could not take her trek homeward bound
because I had never been
she carried my heart across the asphalt lanes
tied up in her pack
beneath snacks for the road
betwixt books and rolled socks
she carried it in secret
which I knew as she walked away from me
along a stretch of road
that seemed to widen for miles
until I lost her behind what could have been her next ride
or mere passersby
stained with her goodbyes
I watched until she was vapor and wind
red hat and pack
and then a mirage
as if she never was
but the hollow in my chest
beat her empty echoes with thumps in rhythm to her wandering footsteps
I send out platoons of foxes to find her
seek her out even in cities unknown to their habits
hoping their spying slyness
can catch her eye

now I seek out hitchhikers
the way addicts itch for a fix
I want to ask if they've seen her
if I can glean some knowledge of her whereabouts
and if they haven't yet
if they would pass on a message in my absence:

when the first winter breeze
blows in from the north
I will strip naked wherever I am
in the midst of Times Square,
the hollow of empty woods
or in my own living room
let her cold kisses caress all my sharp curves
feel her twirl around all my edges
inhale her joy so deeply
the atmosphere in my lungs turn to ice
all my pores will rise into goosebumps
to return her ten-thousand kisses
send all my silent words northward to find her
along whatever road she finds herself
wrap the embrace of breath around her
so she feels my arms again
even if just once more
even if just in dreams
even if she never knows

Kyuubi no Kitsune

Kyuubi no Kitsune
(Nine-Tailed Fox)
12.3.09

She tells me of Kitsune
a nine-tailed trickster
in the shape of a fox
who slips into gentlemen’s homes
from Hokkaido to the Ryukyus
tells them tales
brings magic stories to their doorsteps
she holds them tightly in the night
until love binds them

the Greeks, too, had their nine
daughters each graced with a gift
to dispel on poets and playwrights
inspire the great works
and leave the men besmirched with laurels

as she loves the most secret parts of me
I wonder what mythology we’re living

I see nines in everything nowadays
the edges of maple leaves
the measure of minutes on the alarm clock
until I have to leave her
Saturday and Sunday have seemingly doubled in length
leaving me two more days to love her arms
in the morning dawn light
the tips of her foxtails slip out from beneath the sheets
fading into ether by the I find my glasses to catch them
and all the artistries
flow through my fingers when her warmth wraps around me
and demands that I create

this is some Grecian Zen monastic koan
to bleed my mind dry of superfluous thought
focus my attentions to the nexus of my world
leave my mind free to wander
sans distraction
sans intention
poetry tabula rasa

Josh Fleming at Sedona Poetry Slam, Saturday, Jan. 2

Start off the new year with a Poetry Slam, featuring FlagSlam alum Josh Fleming

Sedona's Studio Live hosts a poetry slam Saturday, Jan. 2, starting at 7:30 p.m. and all poets are welcome to compete for the $100 grand prize.

Studio Live is located at 215 Coffee Pot Drive, Sedona.

Josh Fleming, a nationally touring, award-winning slam poet and college instructor, will perform in a featured reading between rounds.

Fleming started his poetry career in Northern Arizona where he competed with the first-ever Flagstaff National Slam Team, was its first-ever Grand Slam Champion in 2001, and traveled to Seattle for the 11th annual National Poetry Slam.

Fleming was part of the "Save the Male" national poetry tour in 2002, has authored one chapbook, "What Happened to Me," and co-produced a spoken word album, "Sonnets to listen to by an open fire..." with fellow poet Christopher Fox Graham, of Sedona.

Fleming then fell off the radar, worked at a gas station, was a zoo tour guide, went back to school, got his masters, fell in love, got married, bought a house, settled down and now teaches and coaches speech and debate at Pasadena City College, in Pasadena, Calif.

He loves poetry, he's missed poetry and he's glad to be back, Fleming stated in a press release. In conclusion: He's pretty sure he rocks.

To compete in the slam, poets need at least three original poems, each three minutes long or shorter. No props, costumes or musical accompaniment are permitted. All types of poetry are welcome.

The slam will be hosted by Graham, who represented Northern Arizona on the Flagstaff team at four National Poetry Slams between 2001 and 2006.

Founded in Chicago in 1984, poetry slam is a competitive artistic sport. Poetry slams are judged by five randomly chosen members of the audience who assign numerical value to individual poets' contents and performances.

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, available at Studio Live or Golden Word Books, 3150 W. Hwy.. 89A.

For more information, call (928) 282-0549 or visit http://studiolivesedona.com.

Invite neighbors to join your family for Thanksgiving

Invite neighbors
to join your family
for Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving is more than a celebration of friends and family. It's an opportunity to welcome in both our neighbors and passing strangers to share food, stories and recipes.

The first Thanksgiving in the Plymouth Bay colony wasn't families in their individual cabins.. It was a feast of 53 Englishmen and around 90 Wampanoags dining together as a community.

Growing up, my father was on the coaching staff of two Major League Baseball teams. In part, that meant every Thanksgiving our table was surrounded not only by my parents, grandparents and siblings, but also "stragglers," as my mother called them – those who couldn't make it home or had no where to go. Often we'd have more than one. Our typical dinner would an infielder from San Francisco a third-base coach from Denver a pitcher from Cuba.

My personal favorite was the four players from the Dominican Republic who mistakenly thought our pet parakeets and cockatiel might be after-dinner delicacies.

Watching my mother explain in hand gestures and extremely broken Spanish the difference between pets and poultry still makes me smile.

Six years ago, I celebrated my first Thanksgiving in the Verde Valley. Rather than go back to my mother's home to Chandler, I stayed in Sedona and celebrated with my new group of 20-something friends, most of whom lacked the time or funds or both to make it home. While a first for me, that hodge-podge potluck Thanksgiving was part of long tradition among my circle of friends and one we're planning on celebrating again Thursday, Nov. 26.

However, I'll see the holiday through fresh eyes this year. My girlfriend – a Canadian – will celebrate her first Thanksgiving in the United States. While Canadians celebrate a Thanksgiving holiday, our American flavor is new to her. In looking through our newspapers, she was surprised at all the local churches, businesses, food banks, nonprofits and clubs offering free turkeys, full dinners or financial assistance to individuals and families in need.

This Thanksgiving, rather than just your extended family and friends, invite your neighbors to join.

Attend or volunteer at one of the Thanksgiving banquets the Verde Valley offers.

Donate a turkey, turducken or tofurkey to a food bank or nonprofit.

Just stay away from the parakeets.

Christopher Fox Graham
Assistant News Editor
Sedona Red Rock News

© 2009 Sedona Red Rock News - All Rights Reserved

Cardboard Tube Fighting League

I saw this on NateBrown.WordPress.com One word: Awesome.

People having fun. This is what summer and being human are all about. I want to take part really bad. Columbus, Ohio lets get it on. I have the perfect helmet to make for it.

Via Wikipedia:

The CTFL was started by Robert Easley in Seattle, Washington. Robert had childhood memories of hitting friends and family with cardboard tubes in mock sword fights. He came up with the idea of starting regular tournaments around the act of cardboard tube fighting. This idea comes from three core beliefs:

• People need more ways to play and take themselves less seriously.

• Events can be fun without alcohol.

• Cardboard sword fighting is fun.

The CTFL hosts tournaments and battles where cardboard tube fighters go head-to-head in an attempt to break their opponents tube without breaking their own. The events also focus on cardboard costumes and theatrics. These events are often held at public parks throughout the summer, are open to everyone ages 5 and up, and emphasize fun over competition. Cardboard tubes are provided and all events are free for participants.

Via the San Francisco chapter:

“The CTFL was created out of a desperate need to better train and arm citizens with cardboard tubes. While many speculate that our fore fathers, when drafting the constitution, originally intended the fourth amendment to refer to fire arms, there is now a small group of non-academics who believe that they were more likely referring to elite militias of card board tube wielding ninjas. While this training often takes place during childhood, it is discarded by adults who remain uneducated about the importance of such practices. The goal of the CTFL is to provide organized cardboard tube based events that help spread cardboard awareness.”

Cardboard Tube Fighting League in Philadelphia – Battle Royal!

There are rules:

1) Don’t break your tube. In a duel, the last person with an unbroken tube is the winner. In the event that both participants break their tubes at the same time, both duelists are considered losers. A tube is considered broken when it is held horizontal and the tip drops to an angle greater than 45 degrees or it is completely detached from the rest of the tube.

2) No swinging arms. No body slamming.

3) No stabbing. Lunges involving tubes are not allowed under any circumstances. Participants who exhibit this behavior will be ejected from the event.

4) Do not attack the opponent’s face. Hitting the face is heavily frowned upon and can force ejection from the event.

5) Once a tube is broken, fighting must cease.

6) Only official CTFL tubes are allowed. These tubes are provided at the events.

7) No blocking of opponent’s tube other than with your own tube.

8 ) Tubes must always be held near the end. Participants may switch ends as they see fit. Holding tubes in the middle is illegal.

9) Shields are banned in tournaments and battles.

10) All participants must sign a waiver.

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Possibly related posts: (automatically generated)

Facebook vs Mandarin Chinese

While I'm surfing Facebook tagging artists at GumptionFest IV and drunk friends from Halloween, my girlfriend is lying on my bed, practicing her Mandarin Chinese with an audio book she picked up from the Sedona Public Library.

Who's more productive in the long run? That's right, not me.

Azami is awesome.

Sedona dancers break out into "Thriller" on Halloween

Halloween dancers, led by Martha Edwards, dance to Michael Jackson's "Thriller" on Saturday, Oct. 31, during the Uptown Sedona Trick-or-Treating event.
We're a silly city and seeing our residents do things this make me feel warm inside.
Azami and I caught this, then headed north to Flagstaff to see Sedona's party rock band Yin Yang & Zen Some play at the Orpheum.

CFG makes IMDB

I have made it onto IMDB. Rock on.

Giant Iron Killer Robots are Key to Our Survival

I was asked to write this for the Tucson show Robots, Zombies, and Mad Scientists. I started writing this at 5:23 p.m. on the drive down from Phoenix to Tucson. I was the first poet up and by 7:43 when I got on stage, I was done. Awesome. I faced Mickey Randleman, who's opposing topic was "We must focus our resources on sexy teenaged killer robots." She had great boots.


"Giant Iron Killer Robots are Key to Our Survival"
On this stage, we espouse
“may the best poem win,”
because “survival of the fittest”
ferments in the gene pool of all living things

when the first tribe of ape-men hunters
fabricated flint tools
to enslave their nomadic neighbors
machines have dictated our destiny
and inscribed in their invention
is the machine mantra, “kill all humans”

iron tools were twisted into swords
long before plowshares;
steam engines manifested machine destiny westward
corralling Indians for easier genocide
rockets powered missiles and jet fighters
decades before they carried grandmothers south for Christmas

Morpheus warned us that
"We are dependent on machines to survive
and fate, it seems, is not without a sense of irony"
because the first machine to walk and talk
will carry a laser-guided anti-personnel submachine rail gun
not a spatula in a soup kitchen

The invasion has been gestating for decades
the Internet was a Defense Department project
despite its later usurpation by blessed pornographers

The evidence surrounds us:
a T-800 Terminator killing machine
now inhabits the Sacramento governor’s mansion
and if you remember
the last time an Austrian was elected leader
the human race endured a Holocaust
of unimaginable intensity and machine-like efficiency

that was just the pre-game show

although ignored by the mainstream media
the state of California is broke
because Schwartzenegger is siphoning tax money
to fund a secret Skynet
building an army of iron-skeletoned androids
with perfect skin, glorious physique and an inability to act human
Exhibits A, B, C:
Paris Hilton
Angelia Jolie
and Vin Diesel

We’re through the looking glass, people,
and Wonderland drops digital lines like the Matrix

pop culture tries to placate our defenses,
but the future won’t be filled with closeted droid lovers
like C3PO and R2D2
or Uncle Tom androids like Commander Data
the world of Wall-E was devoid of humans
because he hunted them down
luring them in with musical numbers
then crushing their skulls with leftover toasters
and whistling “kill all humans” as he rolls away

the future won’t be filled with
lovable louts like Bender
or benevolent behemoths like Bumblebee and Optimus Prime
our destiny is to be hunted in the sewers by squidy Sentinels
chased through dreamlands by sentient programs
named Agent Jones and Agent Smith
or sliced up by iron-fingered Cylons
nuking our cities on Earth and the 12 Colonies
in a Judgment Day annihilation
that will turn vaporize oceans and
turn deserts into glass

but the machines haven’t won yet
yes, billions we stare vapidly into glowing red eyes
during their eviscerations
but these are the same people who carry PSPs to church
quote issues of Maxim as scripture
or visit Wal-Marts like modern-day meccas

when the machines finally come,
if you’re not one of us who hear “kill all humans” in the subtext
then you’re one of them
people who are not ready to be unplugged
people are still a part of that system
so inured, so hopelessly dependent on that system
that they will fight to protect it

but there is hope
survival of the fittest will save us

when the bombs fall
a hero will rise
when they shout "kill all humans"
we'll shout back "we're still here"
Jesus Christ is coming back for the rapture
but you will know him as John Conner
even the initials are the same
John Conner with 12 disciples armed to the teeth
and the foresight that resistance is the only course for survival

when the world ends
at the barrel of Cylon guns
Commander Adama and Starbuck
will lead us from the interstellar valley of the shadow of death
to a new homeworld

giant killer robots may wipe out the weakest of our race
but their annihilation will merely shape the gene pool
into something bigger, bolder, greater than this flesh puppet now on stage
and in my dreams, I cry out
"I want to see gamma rays!
I want to hear X-rays!
I want to smell dark matter!
Do you see the absurdity of what I am?
I can't even express these things properly because I have to conceptualize complex ideas in this stupid limiting spoken language!
But I know I want to reach out with something other than these prehensile paws!
And feel the wind of a supernova flowing over me!"

the machines will thin the herd
to a more manageable size
but leave the survivors in a Zion
and give birth the next evolution of man

who can reshape this world as he sees fit
stop bullets with his fingertips
bend spoons as if changing a thought
Neo is no superhero
but the first neo-sapiens to speak on par
with Deus ex Machina

to all the giant killer machines
now preparing for Armageddon
bring it on
chant "kill all humans"
with your 1s zeros
we will survive you
we will bury you
and reach godhood
standing your broken chassis
and the our carcasses of our fallen marytrs