Enjoying the Grand Canyon

Other tourists complimented Azami's choice of early-morning wear.

The sun rising higher
The 500-foot cliff beneath Mather Point
The view toward Phantom Ranch
East toward Yaki Point

Azami and I visit the Grand Canyon

Sunrise over the Grand Canyon on Saturday, March 20
Azami and I camped out in the bed of my Chevy and woke just before sunrise. I look like a marshmallow.
I am not a morning person
However, Azami is a morning person.
The first view of the Grand Canyon from Mather Point
And the sunrise over the canyon rim.
Azami enjoying the sunrise
Mather Point
CFG in the sunrise
Giving the famous "Nicholas Graham grin"

The Klute wins the March 20 Sedona Poetry Slam

Results from the Sedona Poetry Slam

Saturday, March 20, 2010, Studio Live, Sedona, Arizona, 7:30 p.m.

Calibration poet and host Christopher Fox Graham of Sedona, "Hunting UFOs"

Round 1
Random Draw

Maple Dewleaf, of Flagstaff, 25.8 (2:30)
Randy Warren, "An Introduction," of Sedona, 22.1 (3:00)
Jessica Laurel Reese, of the Village of Oak Creek, 25.2 (2:10)
Dain Michael Down, of Seattle, 27.2 (2:16)
Champion Max Boehm-Reifenkugel, of Sedona, 28.5 (2:29)
The Klute, of Mesa, "Adam and Steve," 29.1, 28.1 after -1.0 time penalty (3:23)
Allan Skinneman (aka Geoff Jackson), of Flagstaff, 27.7 (1:54)
Brit Shostak, of Mesa, 27.2 (2:35)

---intermission---

Feature poet: Bill Campana of Mesa.
A member of five Mesa National Poetry Slam Teams, Bill Campana has been to the semi-finals of the National Poetry Slam twice. He has hosted and featured across the Southwest, and continues to write at a feverish pace, always challenging fellow poets to better their craft on the page and the stage.

Campana knows that the only true way to respect culture is to break it into little tiny pieces. He came onto the poetry scene at full power, and suddenly the dry dusty notebooks of lesser poets got burned up in the shockwave.

Campana is the atom bomb that levels ivory towers. He got people excited enough about poetry to come back for more, and to see what would happen next. Soon, the audience was too big for the coffeehouse, a feat unprecedented since Socrates dared the baristas to make him a hemlock Frappuchino.

Sorbet poet: Mikel Weisser of Kingman, "Drunk Guy's Dick"

Round 2
Reverse Order

Brit Shostak, 28.1 (2:55), 55.3
Allen Skinneman, 27.4, 25.9 after 1.5 time penalty (3:32), 53.6
The Klute, "Cereal Aisle Racist," 29.0 (2:36), 57.1
Champion Max Boehm-Reifenkugel, 28.3 (1:50), 56.8
Dain Michael Down, 28.6 (1:31), 55.8
Jessica Laurel Reese, 28.8 (2:42), 54.0
Randy Warren, "I See You," 27.0 (1:51), 44.6
Maple Dewleaf, 27.5, 26.0 after 1.5 time penalty (3:40), 51.8

Sorbet poet Mikel Weisser, "The New Material"

Round 3
High to Low

The Klute, "2012," 29.3 (2:29), 86.4
Champion Max Boehm-Reifenkugel, 29.2 (2:03), 86.0
Dain Michael Down, 29.3 (2:39), 85.5
Brit Shostak, 28.9 (2:02), 84.2
Jessica Laurel Reese, 29.3 (1:30), 83.3
Allen Skinneman, 28.2 (2:53), 81.8
Maple Dewleaf, 28.2 (1:27), 80.0
Randy Warren, "A Life Spent Dying," 28.4, 24.9 after 3.5 time penalty (4:10), 74.0

Final scores
1st: The Klute of Mesa, 86.4, $100
(this marks The Klute's third consecutive victory at the Sedona Poetry Slam)

2nd: Champion Max Boehm-Reifenkugel, 86.0

3rd: Dain Michael Down, 85.5

Brit Shostak, 84.2
Jessica Laurel Reese, 83.3
Allen Skinneman, 81.8
Maple Dewleaf, 80.0
Randy Warren, 74.0

Slam staff

Scorekeeper and Timekeeper: Azami
Host: Christopher Fox Graham
Organizers:
Susan Schomaker, April Holman Payne, Jenn Reddington, Studio Live
Christopher Fox Graham, Sedona 510 Poetry

One Day Older and Closer to Saturday's Sedona Birthday Party

Miranda Foreman (aka Randi Walters)
and Christopher Fox Graham


will host a joint birthday party at the Willow Way Hotel (Graham's house on Willow Way), West Sedona, on Saturday, March 13.

CFG's birthday is March 12 and Randi's birthday is March 14.

The party starts around 7 p.m. with the major kickoff around 9 p.m. Feel free to bring potluck snacks for all and alcohol refreshments. Fun will be provided. Additional guests welcome.

Gifts optional, but accepted. Rewards will be given in the form of a big sloppy kiss by ... um ... Sam Cavanaugh ... unless he responds to this blog post to say no before then ....

Fight the reaper one birthday at a time ...

Never ask for a 'venti'; I want a coffee

Danny: Can I get a large black coffee?

Barista: A what?

Danny: Large black coffee.

Barista: Do you mean a venti?

Danny: No, I mean a large.

Barista: Venti is large.

Danny: No, venti is 20. Large is large. In fact, tall is large and grande is Spanish for large. Venti is the only one that doesn't mean large. It's also the only one that's Italian. Congratulations, you're stupid in three languages.

Barista: A venti is a large coffee.

Danny: Really? Says who? Fellini? Do you accept lira or is it all euros now?

Quesadillas

Azami making quesadillas for dinner at the Willow Way Hotel (our house) artists co-op.

Morning view

The view that wakes up Azami and I in the morning.

Reflections on Azami's return

To overcome the culture shock of returning to the United States in the heart of all our most insane uber-American cities, Las Vegas, where all vices can be bought for a price, Azami indulges in sustenance.

Having never dated someone this long, nor getting back together after a spell apart, it was interesting to recalibrate my brain to her again.

We had been apart 2 months and 2 days, and my habits were used to being alone again. But Azami was back in my life, so all the habits of "space" -- holding hands; subconscious awareness of her presence when she was near, like a Jedi sensation of her location, or a cerebral GPS; that inevitable joining of consciousness so that I can approximately feel her limbs when we touch even though she's in another body; the disassociation of myself into the unit of "us" (look around the room you're in right now, close your eyes and visualize all the objects in your head and rebuild the room in your imagination, as if they exist in a diorama inside your head. Then imagine that the black exterior of your skull is actually your skull and all the objects therein are apart of you - as constructs of your mind - then open your eyes and resume that feeling with the actual, tangible objects in the room - they are apart of your mental comprehension and cerebral being although they exist independent of your flesh) wherein I sense us as a unit together and not so much me as me and her as another person -- came back like habit.

They had to be readjusted to the intellectual understanding that she had been gone and I had to instantly relearn them all. It lead to me acting the same as I had the day she left, but feeling extremely awkward the entire time as my brain tried to figure out what was happening.

In any case, I explained to her that I was feeling awkward because all of me was readjusting. She took it in stride.

We headed over Hoover Dam and back to Mikel Weisser's Peace Park in So-Hi, Arizona, just north of Kingman. He had offered us the place rather than drive back to Sedona for another four hours. We got into his place at around 5 a.m. and crashed out.

I had never been to Mikel's before, so it was cool to see all that I had heard about. Mikel and his wife were at a teachers' union meeting in Phoenix, so they gave us a run of the place.

Just as we were leaving -- like getting in the car and opening the gate leaving -- Mikel's 16-year-old daughter came out to say hello. I shot this picture of the Mikel's peace stones right after. The big coffee mug used to adorn Java Love Cafe in Sedona, but Gianni Cardinelli gave it to Mikel at the party marking Gianni's sale to a new owner. Now it has a new, peaceful home in So-Hi.

We woke around 11 a.m. and made the drive back to Sedona, where all was right with the world.

Azami has been back for two weeks, 21 hours. It's as if she never left.

Bill Campana featured at March 20 Sedona Poetry Slam

Spring in Sedona begins Saturday, March 20, with a Poetry Slam, featuring five-time Mesa National Poetry Slam Team veteran Bill Campana.

Sedona's Studio Live hosts the slam starting at 7:30 p.m. and all poets are welcome to compete for the $100 grand prize. 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 from sonnets to hip-hop are welcome.

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

Before Campana blazed into the Mesa and Phoenix poetry scene in 1997, individuals would attend poetry readings and at the end of every dry, polished piece of mental origami, read with all the flair of a zoning law variance, those still awake in the audience would say "humph." Poets would get a smattering of courtesy applause, and everyone would go home feeling just a little more cultured than their neighbors who owned television sets.

Campana, however, knows that the only true way to respect culture is to break it into little tiny pieces. He came onto the poetry scene at full power, and suddenly the dry dusty notebooks of lesser poets got burned up in the shockwave.

Campana is the atom bomb that levels ivory towers. He got people excited enough about poetry to come back for more, and to see what would happen next. Soon, the audience was too big for the coffeehouse, a feat unprecedented since Socrates dared the baristas to make him a hemlock frappuchino.

Campana began writing poetry at the age of 17, quit at 22 because he realized that he had nothing to say. Twenty years later, he picked up where he left off, soon ran out of things to say again but has not stopped writing.

A member of five Mesa National Poetry Slam Teams, Campana has been to the semi-finals of the National Poetry Slam twice. He has hosted and featured across the Southwest, and continues to write at a feverish pace, always challenging fellow poets to better their craft on the page and the stage.

Campana takes elements of other art forms and applies them to his poetry. Although audiences can't hear the music, he insists it's in there in tributes to composition. Although audiences can't see the paintings and photographs they are there behind the words. Campana currently lives on the fine line that separates the page from the stage. From there he can reach people from both spectrums of modern poetry. Campana runs the weekly Sound Effects poetry open mic called in Phoenix.

Campana also recently released a compilation album, "The Hit List," that features 94 poems composed over the last 10 years of his performance career in Phoenix.

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 $15, available at Studio Live or Golden Word Books, 3150 W. SR 89A.

Competing poets are free; slots are limited. Contact foxthepoet@yahoo.com to sign up.

Azami on The History Channel? Video about the hobo lifestyle

Filmmaker Tom McGuigan met my ex-girlfriend (and everyone's favorite honorary Arizonan), Azami, at the National Hobo Convention in Britt, Iowa. McGuigan's been working on a film project documenting the hobo and train-hopping culture, which is alive and well in America and Canada. His short film trailer can be found here at American Rail Riders. The footage in the beginning minute was taken by Azami on her trek with other hobos following the National Poetry Slam and the National Hobo Convention last August on her way back to Arizona. The rest of the video splices her film taken on the road and the rails and video shot by McGuigan at the National Hobo Convention. I saw much of Azami's hitchhiking and train hopping footage after she got back and it is pretty cool Hopefully McGuigan can get his film picked up by The History Channel or a film studio willing to turn it into a full-fledged documentary. Everyone who knows Azami knows she defines herself as both a burner (Burning Man participant/artist) and a hobo. What is a hobo?

"A hobo is a traveling worker. Tramps travel but don't work and a bum does neither."

-- American Rail Roaders

Where did the word "hobo" come from?

I've not found a convincing explanation. Some say it derives from the term "hoe-boy," meaning farm hand, or "homo bonus," meaning "good man." Others speculate that men shouted "Ho, Boy!" to each other on the road. One particularly literate wayfarer insisted the term came from the French "haut beau." Whatever its origin, the word "hobo" became widespread in American vernacular during yet another major depression from 1893 to 1897. I sometimes joke that a hobo is a tramp on steroids. Hoboes were by and large more organized, militant, independent, and political than their predecessors. The widespread use of the word "bum" after World War II signals the end of this colorful subculture of transient labor.

-- Todd DePastino author of "Citizen Hobo: How a Century of Homelessness Shaped America"

A hobo is a different class of homeless wanderer than a tramp or a bum, but there is a stratification based on intention and work ethic:

Tramps and hobos are commonly lumped together, but in their own sight they are sharply differentiated. A hobo or bo is simply a migratory laborer; he may take some longish holidays, but soon or late he returns to work. A tramp never works if it can be avoided; he simply travels. Lower than either is the bum, who neither works nor travels, save when impelled to motion by the police.

--H. L. Mencke "The American Language: 4th ed."

Well, there were endless squabbles about the differences between hoboes, tramps, and bums. One famous quip had it that the hobo works and wanders, the tramp drinks and wanders, and the bum just drinks. More accurately the tramp, the hobo, and the bum represent three historical stages of American homelessness, with the tramp coming first, in the 1870s, and the bum later, in the 1940s and 1950s. So chronologically between the two was the hobo. Hoboes mark the coming of age of America's tramp army. The end of the depression in 1878 did not mean the end of tramping. Like our homeless population today, the tramp army was resistant to upswings in the business cycle. By the 1890s, after twenty years on the road, tramping had matured to the point where it now possessed its own unique institutions, culture, and even politics—taken together, what later came to be called "hobohemia." ... ... I sometimes joke that a hobo is a tramp on steroids. Hoboes were by and large more organized, militant, independent, and political than their predecessors. The widespread use of the word "bum" after World War II signals the end of this colorful subculture of transient labor.

-- Todd DePastino author of "Citizen Hobo: How a Century of Homelessness Shaped America"

In short, a hobo is the "homeless person" who nowadays travels, hitchhikes and/or hops trains and during the down time, sells art, makes jewelry, offers to do landscaping or farm work, busks, i.e., works for the freedom to travel in ways reminiscent of the Beats. They're not the spangers on the street corner nor the drunk in the gutter. In essence, a hobo is a quintessential American (or Canadian in this case): free-thinking, hardworking, independent and egalitarian. Most importantly, the hobo lifestyle is a choice. And Azami herself is "organized, militant, independent, and political" (plus artistic and a little stubborn). In any case, I'm glad and proud to have loved and been loved by my hobo. I always found her lifestyle fascinating and I'm glad she's now making it available to the world.

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