This is the official blog of Northern Arizona slam poet Christopher Fox Graham. Begun in 2002, and transferred to blogspot in 2006, FoxTheBlog has recorded more than 1.6 million views since 2009. This blog cover's Graham's poetry, the Arizona poetry slam community and offers tips for slam poets from sources around the Internet. Read CFG's full biography here. Looking for just that one poem? You know the one ... click here to find it.
If I won $380 million in a lottery, I'd have two arms surgically grafted to my body, just behind my current ones, and then two arms with fleshy wings like a bat grafted in the middle of my back, so 6 hands into total, which would make chores and travel super efficient.
Counting my legs, I'd have eight limbs, so you could call me the Octopoet.
And if you think that's gross, you'd be wrong. For one, I could shower 6 times as fast, and there's always someone who's into freaks. Add that to being a celebrity with $380 million, and getting a g.
Little Gidding, Part II By T.S. Eliot (Written in 1942, during the constant Luftwaffe air raids on London)
Ash on and old man's sleeve Is all the ash the burnt roses leave. Dust in the air suspended Marks the place where a story ended. Dust inbreathed was a house— The walls, the wainscot and the mouse, The death of hope and despair, This is the death of air.
There are flood and drouth Over the eyes and in the mouth, Dead water and dead sand Contending for the upper hand. The parched eviscerate soil Gapes at the vanity of toil, Laughs without mirth. This is the death of earth.
Water and fire succeed The town, the pasture and the weed. Water and fire deride The sacrifice that we denied. Water and fire shall rot The marred foundations we forgot, Of sanctuary and choir. This is the death of water and fire.
In the uncertain hour before the morning Near the ending of interminable night At the recurrent end of the unending After the dark dove with the flickering tongue Had passed below the horizon of his homing While the dead leaves still rattled on like tin Over the asphalt where no other sound was Between three districts whence the smoke arose I met one walking, loitering and hurried As if blown towards me like the metal leaves Before the urban dawn wind unresisting. And as I fixed upon the down-turned face That pointed scrutiny with which we challenge The first-met stranger in the waning dusk I caught the sudden look of some dead master Whom I had known, forgotten, half recalled Both one and many; in the brown baked features The eyes of a familiar compound ghost Both intimate and unidentifiable. So I assumed a double part, and cried And heard another's voice cry: 'What! are you here?' Although we were not. I was still the same, Knowing myself yet being someone other— And he a face still forming; yet the words sufficed To compel the recognition they preceded. And so, compliant to the common wind, Too strange to each other for misunderstanding, In concord at this intersection time Of meeting nowhere, no before and after, We trod the pavement in a dead patrol. I said: 'The wonder that I feel is easy, Yet ease is cause of wonder. Therefore speak: I may not comprehend, may not remember.' And he: 'I am not eager to rehearse My thoughts and theory which you have forgotten. These things have served their purpose: let them be. So with your own, and pray they be forgiven By others, as I pray you to forgive Both bad and good. Last season's fruit is eaten And the fullfed beast shall kick the empty pail. For last year's words belong to last year's language And next year's words await another voice. But, as the passage now presents no hindrance To the spirit unappeased and peregrine Between two worlds become much like each other, So I find words I never thought to speak In streets I never thought I should revisit When I left my body on a distant shore. Since our concern was speech, and speech impelled us To purify the dialect of the tribe And urge the mind to aftersight and foresight, Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age To set a crown upon your lifetime's effort. First, the cold friction of expiring sense Without enchantment, offering no promise But bitter tastelessness of shadow fruit As body and soul begin to fall asunder. Second, the conscious impotence of rage At human folly, and the laceration Of laughter at what ceases to amuse. And last, the rending pain of re-enactment Of all that you have done, and been; the shame Of motives late revealed, and the awareness Of things ill done and done to others' harm Which once you took for exercise of virtue. Then fools' approval stings, and honour stains. From wrong to wrong the exasperated spirit Proceeds, unless restored by that refining fire Where you must move in measure, like a dancer.' The day was breaking. In the disfigured street He left me, with a kind of valediction, And faded on the blowing of the horn.
Thanks, T.S., you douche, for ruining poetry promotion for the rest of us.
Although, Eliot's influence on poetry probably indirectly inspired the Beats to make poetry relevant again and also Marc "So What?" Smith to create slam to make it populist.
Poetry should be understandable. As language is meant to convey ideas from author to reader, speaker to listener, thus poetry, being language in its most polished form, should convey ideas in the clearest (William Carlos Williams' "The Red Wheelbarrow") or most elegant (John Milton's "Paradise Lost") or most bluntly straightforward (a slam satire) or most beautiful (Shane Koyczan's "The Crickets Have Arthritis" or Derrick C. Brown's "A Finger, Two Dots, Then Me") or most moving (Andrea Gibson's "Still") means -- depending on the poet, style and voice.
"The Waste Land" is the antithesis of poetry's purpose. It is forcefully convoluted with such obscure allusionary references that only Eliot scholars can sit down and read the thing without a footnoted guidebook to understand it. It also uses Greek, Italian and Sanskrit, none of which have I be fluent in since ... the accident ... and seem to have been added only to show off how wise and worldly, and better than you, Eliot was.
Of course, H.P. Lovecraft (horror author who gave us the ancient evil god Cthulhu), who hated Eliot probably as much I do, wrote a great satire of "The Waste Land," called "Waste Paper: A Poem Of Profound Insignificance," and it's a far more entertaining read. Lovecraft called "The Waste Land," "a practically meaningless collection of phrases, learned allusions, quotations, slang, and scraps in general."
And if you thought Eliot was a dick, you haven't met an Eliot scholar yet.
A Eliot scholar is the guy at the party who'll tell you why the 1998 E. Guigal Cote Rotie Brune et Blonde - which he says he's drinking - is vastly superior to the 1999 Alain Graillot Crozes Hermitage, which you're drinking -- although you just don't care to tell him you just helped the party's host fill those two bottles of expensive-looking wine from the same tap of Almaden box wine and, fuck, you only stopped to talk to this guy so your roommate could make moves on the hot hipster chick this douche-bag brought, and as soon as he gets her number and sets up a date, you're fuckin' out of here and headed to another party where the girl you like is double-fisting a pint of Guinness and a bottle of Jameson, like the kick-ass cool chick you love her for -- fuck, is this guy still talking?
The four-part "Little Gidding" series I vaguely remember reading in college, but yesterday, my mother sent me the highlighted passage as a New Year's Eve quote.
Which is why I love my mother.
(Whose married surname, coincidentally but irrelevantly, is Elliott.)
I watch CNBC. I read the Wall Street Journal. I check stock tickers, Study insider reports, Consult my broker on a daily basis. After careful deliberation, I have decided to empty my bank account, Convert it to unmarked twenty-dollar bills, Go directly to Las Vegas, Put it all on black. When the ball drops in my favor, I could use those liquid assests to diversify my portfolio, Invest heavily in pencils and apples, And for once, be on the ground floor - That place where all the stock brokers will land When they finally succumb to mantra of doom... The endless repetition of "Buy! Sell! Buy! Sell!" That turn becomes "JUMP!!! JUMP!!! JUMP!!!", Playing on an infinite loop in the back of their mind When they look out their office windows And imagine the sweet release of death Waiting for them on pavement below. Good. Give in to it, Wall Street, Embrace your destiny.
I want my 401K back. I'm not getting it back. I've been advised it resides at the First Bank of the Land of Imagination, Currently being managed by a crack team of leprechauns and unicorns, Being leveraged into moon beams and fairy dust. I shouldn't worry though. I'll get my disbursement check as soon as I begin collecting Social Security. This just in… I'm not getting Social Security either! So the time has come To beat our shares into pitchforks, Set our stock portfolios alight to guide our way, To storm the castle And kill the monster. Now, I’m not suggesting you head to the headquarters of Goldman Sachs With a pistol-grip pump shotgun, Kick down the door, Shout “I am the Angel of Death – the time of purification is at hand!” Then start paying out double-barrel killshot bonuses With a gleam in your eye and a song in your heart. Oh wait, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting! Because there will be a reckoning, A tallying of names and a cracking of skulls, And it will be easier for a camel to thread the eye of a needle Then it will be for a fat-cat to avoid my lead. Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!
Who is John Galt? Who cares. He’s dead. I killed him and he’s buried in a shallow, unmarked grave outside of town Next to the bodies of Adam Smith and Horatio Alger. Stop asking questions. Because it’s time for action. Swift, brutal, unthinking mob action. Let’s head to Wall Street Block all the exits at the New York Stock Exchange. Let’s give these American heroes the reward they so richly deserve. Let loose rabid bulls and bears as an appetizer of destruction, Rain down burning ticker tape like the wrath of God from the gallery, Sing “Auld Lang Zyme ” with the vengeful ghost of George Bailey, Sr. Then roast marshmallows on the smoking ruin, Toasting our lost fortunes as we drink from the skulls of Morgan Stanley and Charles Schawb. Because I watch CNBC and read the Wall Street Journal. I now know the true meaning of class warfare. The horror... The horror... Burn, Wall Street, Burn
Klute, The: A rare breed of Southern Arizona slam poet, originally raised in Southern Florida (however, he's not a native Floridian - rumors trace his origin back to Illinois).
Abhors use of rhyme schemes in poetry, writes almost exclusively in free verse. Frequent targets: the goth subculture, neoconservativism (especially Dick Cheney), and crass-commercialism. Member of the 2002, 2003, 2005, and 2006 Mesa National Slam teams (Mesa's 2005 slam champion), and 2008's Phoenix Slam Team. SlamMaster of the Mesa Poetry Slam. Has released three chapbooks of his work: 2002's "Escape Velocity", 2005's "Look at What America Has Done to Me", and 2008's "My American Journey". Ask him nicely and he might send you a copy. Primary habitat considered to be raves (especially desert parties), goth clubs, and dimly lit dive bars. Prefers vodka, rum, and absinthe when drinking. Is considered friendly, but when cornered, lashes out with a fury not seen since last Thursday. He's totally smitten with his girlfriend, Teresa - so don't ask him to dance. Feel free to buy him a drink, but remember, he's not putting out. No matter how much you beg.
People are talking about The Klute!
AZSlim, Espresso Pundit poster: Don't argue with The Klute. His hyperventilating and pure hypocrisy shown in these (and many other) posts makes reasoning with a two-year old who didn't get the popsicle he wanted seem tame by comparison.
Phoenix 944 Magazine says: Despite the heat, [The Klute] wears a black trench coat almost everywhere he goes and if the setting permits, he’ll blast through enough slanderous commentary to make Andrew Dice Clay blush. [He] admits he started slam poetry out of arrogance. He saw a performance and figured he could do better, after which he also admits he failed miserably. Today, his addiction for getting in front of the microphone and spitting out everything from a Dick Cheney haiku to a long-winded prose on race car driving to the late Hunter S. Thompson is as strong as his love for vodka and absinthe. If anyone’s seen “The Klute” in action, they’d know it. If they haven’t, they must.
Jerome duBois, The Tears of Things: You have one of the blackest hearts I've ever had the misfortune to glimpse.
Again, another old poem I recently found. This one was written Saturday, Sept. 18, 2004, at 3:10 p.m.
The Lives of Other Men
on these mornings I wish for the lives of other men who can not calculate the distances between faraway cities who do not know the details of how what came when
the bliss of minds who do not know the differences between men and assume that all have the lives we live
I wish the stories I could tell were fictions whose specifics were authored, not endured because the narrations of fallen systems and blind eyes toward good men proves the privilege of my birth and our ideals are pretty parchment passages with good intentions I'm ashamed I once believed
this life is an accident the branches of my tree belong to a better man who knew to not waste them but I stepped in and held tight the lie that I had it rough because suburban religions preach to the choir with bake sales and new pipe organs or golf club politics while boys like me tell tales of tattoos and riots bullets shattering Sunday mornings cells and sentences I thought only existed in films
make me nameless reward some lost soul with this life so they do not wander streets count in years the absence of children's visits or leave unlived the rights that parchment offers
let me lease my days so that boys who could be me can make redemption more than a word father more than an abstraction family more than an anachronism
I found a collection of old poems floating in e-mail limbo. The poem was written Sept. 5, 2008.
Cut out my heart and leave it in a gin and tonic on top of a Dave Matthews Band CD
This is beauty, the way skin bounces off clouds shouted to a thickened sky of a heaven too tired to listen and I feel a step closer to god when i contemplate our creation
you know we were made in the image of a drunk deity who didn't know her/is right from her/is left tried to shorten our days with death and plague but we kept coming back till s/he woke in a hangover and realized what s/he'd done was a little ... um ... crazy at the time a little short on the why’s and how’s of how we came to be left us between two dead soldiers of Sam Adams Light on her/is best friend's neighbor's kitchen counter 'cause s/he was watching her/is figure tries to hide her/is face in the bar when we come staggering through, asking to use the phone. and begging the bartender to serve us the wine of the vine that softened Judas' loyalty then asking the gravedigger to bury us close enough to count raindrops of the days till judgment when pulled from the soil like treasure we can recall our days before it all went downhill and convince the final judge that we're worth sparing worth including in the finality then sing a song soft enough to make the towers crumbles, tarnish those pearly gates and force the whole mess to come crashing down when heaven falls the boom will resound through history in our heartbeats, and the echoes will come 72 per minute there, put your hand on your sternum can you feel the echo in your chest? the end has already happened now we're just words arching toward that final "the end" before the acknowledgments, index, and afterward from the publisher, characters on a page. and tonight, I glimpse the reader's eyes
Maple Dewleaf, of Flagstaff, 24.5, (2:51) N. Miouo Nance, of Phoenix, 24.7, (3:02) Russ Kazmierczak, of Tempe, 28.1, (2:04) Lauren Perry, of Mesa, 26.5, 26.0 after 0.5 time penalty, (3:12) David Tabor, of Mesa, 27.0, 24.5 after 2.5 time penalty, (3:55) Joe Griffin, of Flagstaff, 22.6, (1:17) Danielle Silver, of Sedona, 26.3, (2:12) Mikel Weisser, of Kingman, 27.1, (3:02) Ron Lemco, of Sedona, 26.9, (1:31) Bert Cisneros, the elder poet, of Cottonwood, 26.8, (2:22) The Klute, of Mesa, 28.7, (3:05) Tristan Marshell, of Mesa, 28.7, (2:58)
Teaser poem by feature poet Brit Shostak Host: Christopher Fox Graham of Sedona, "Orion"
Round 2 Reverse Order
Tristan Marshell, 27.7, (3:00), 55.5 The Klute, 29.6, (3:04), 58.3 Bert Cisneros, the elder poet, 26.5, (2:14), 53.3 Ron Lemco, 26.7, (1:10), 53.6 Mikel Weisser, 27.0, (2:28), 54.1 Danielle Silver, 27.8, (2:50), 54.1 Joe Griffin, 26.9, (1:24), 49.5 David Tabor, 28.9, (2:35), 53.4 Lauren Perry, 28.6, (2:55), 54.6 Russ Kazmierczak, 29.6, (2:06), 57.7 N. Miouo Nance, 27.0, (1:54), 51.7 Maple Dewleaf, 28.3, (2:12), 52.8
Feature Poet
Brit Shostak is in a constant battle for balance. She spends most days trying to read as much as she writes, be as creative as the things that inspire her, and love as much as she is loved.
She is a life-long four-eyes, who sings in the shower and tries to listen as much as she speaks.
She still prefers typing most things on her 1957 Underwood typewriter.
When she was just a tot she had to get stitches in her eyebrow after running into a bookcase at the library. Legend says that something from that event stuck.
After writing for what seems like as long as she could hold a pencil she has published two chapbooks, “Kissing Lightning Bolts” (2009) and “Lessons in Calamity” (210).
She has just released her first CD, “Thieving the Midnight Oil.”
Although Shostak enjoys the competitive thrill of slams she is actively pursuing a degree in creative writing with an emphasis in poetry and finds the page just as if not more important than performance.
Shostak was the 2009 Mesa representative at the Individual World Poetry Slam and a member of the 2009 and 2010 Mesa National Slam Poetry teams.
She has also had the extreme pleasure of reading in front of poetry legends Sonia Sanchez, poetry slam creator Marc Kelly Smith and S.A. Griffin.
After spending the last decade in the desert she is headed to the Pacific Northwest in search of adventure, good coffee, and the perfect tree to read a book beneath.
Shostak is a dandelion seed looking for a place to plant herself. She does most of her deeds in watermelon sugar.
Sorbet: Gary Every of Sedona
Round 3 High to Low
The Klute, 29.5, 29.0 after 0.5 time penalty, (3:11), 87.3 Russ Kazmierczak, 29.7, (1:54), 87.4 Tristan Marshell, 29.1, (2:50), 84.6 Lauren Perry, 28.9, 28.4 after 0.5 time penalty (3:13), 83.0 Danielle Silver, 27.7, (2:22), 81.8 Mikel Weisser, 28.3, (2:19), 82.4 Ron Lemco, 28.6, (2:32), 82.2 David Tabor, 30.0*, (2:40), 83.4. *Four 10s Bert Cisneros, the elder poet, 28.8, (1:58), 82.1 Maple Dewleaf, 27.9, (1:52), 80.7 N. Miouo, Nance, 28.1, (2:16), 79.8 Joe Griffin, 28.3, (1:07), 77.8
Final scores 1st: Russ Kazmierczak, 87.4, $100
2nd: The Klute, 87.3
3rd: Tristan Marshell, 84.6
David Tabor, 83.4 Lauren Perry, 83.0 Mikel Weisser, 82.4 Ron Lemco, 82.2 Bert Cisneros, the elder poet, 82.1 Danielle Silver, 81.8 Maple Dewleaf, 80.7 N. Miouo Nance, 79.8 Joe Griffin, 77.8
Slam staff
Scorekeeper and Timekeeper: Sarah Lepich Host: Christopher Fox Graham Organizers: Studio Live Christopher Fox Graham, Sedona 510 Poetry
Next Sedona Poetry Slam: Saturday, Dec. 11, 2010, Studio Live, Sedona, Arizona, 7:30 p.m., featuring Mesa's Brit Shostak.
Seven Years of Solitude First published Thursday, Dec. 31, 2009, 9 a.m.
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
Somewhere Between Midnights and the Dawn First published Thursday, Jan. 28, 2010, 1:55 a.m.
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
The Sedona Poetry Slam hits the stage at Studio Live at 7:30 p.m. Saturday, Dec. 11, presenting three rounds of poetic competition as poets battle for pride and $100.
Between rounds, the audience will be entertained with a feature performance by Brit Shostak, a two-time Mesa National Poetry Slam Team poet and Individual World Poetry Slam competitor.
Feature poet Brit Shostak
Shostak is in a constant battle for balance. She spends most days trying to read as much as she writes, be as creative as the things that inspire her, and love as much as she is loved.
She is a life-long four-eyes, who sings in the shower and tries to listen as much as she speaks.
She still prefers typing most things on her 1957 Underwood typewriter.
When she was just a tot she had to get stitches in her eyebrow after running into a bookcase at the library. Legend says that something from that event stuck.
After writing for what seems like as long as she could hold a pencil she has published two chapbooks, “Kissing Lightning Bolts” (2009) and “Lessons in Calamity” (210).
She has just released her first CD, “Thieving the Midnight Oil.”
Although Shostak enjoys the competitive thrill of slams she is actively pursuing a degree in creative writing with an emphasis in poetry and finds the page just as if not more important than performance.
Shostak was the 2009 Mesa representative at the Individual World Poetry Slam and a member of the 2009 and 2010 Mesa National Slam Poetry teams.
She has also had the extreme pleasure of reading in front of poetry legends Sonia Sanchez, poetry slam creator Marc Kelly Smith and S.A. Griffin.
After spending the last decade in the desert she is headed to the Pacific Northwest in search of adventure, good coffee, and the perfect tree to read a book beneath.
Shostak is a dandelion seed looking for a place to plant herself. She does most of her deeds in watermelon sugar.
Want to slam?
All poets are welcome to compete in the slam.
Slammers will need three original poems, each lasting no longer than three minutes. No props, costumes nor musical accompaniment are permitted.
The poets will be judged Olympics-style by five members of the audience selected at random at the beginning of the slam. The top poet at the end of the night wins $100.
Poets who want to compete should purchase a ticket in case the roster is filled before they arrive.
Founded in Chicago by construction worker and poet Smith in 1984, poetry slam is a competitive artistic sport. Poetry slam has become an international artistic sport, with more than 100 major poetry slams in the United States, Canada, Australia and Western Europe.
Your host, Christopher Fox Graham
The slam will be hosted by Sedona poet Christopher Fox Graham, who represented Northern Arizona on the Flagstaff team at five National Poetry Slams between 2001 and 2010.
He has hosted and competed in poetry slams and open mics in Sedona since 2004. Graham is a member of the Sedona Performers Guild, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit alliance of musicians, performers and performance poets that runs the 100-seat Studio Live performance space in West Sedona.
Graham founded the bimonthly Sedona Poetry Slam in 2008, bringing in feature poets from around Arizona and the United States.
Graham has performed in 40 states, Toronto, Dublin, Ireland, and London, and wrote the now infamous “Peach” poem.
Get tickets
For more information or to register, call Graham at (928) 517-1400 or e-mail to foxthepoet@yahoo.com.
Tickets are $5 online if ordered by Dec. 10, or $10 at the door.
Home of the Sedona Performers Guild nonprofit, Studio Live is located at 215 Coffee Pot Drive, West Sedona. For more information, visit www.studiolivesedona.com.
Studio Live is located in West Sedona, off Coffee Pot Drive, just north of Bashas' plaza and Oak Creek Brewing Co.
Lexington, Bull Run and Live on CNN By Christopher Fox Graham
America, the absent-minded lover who forgets your name in the ambivalence of night doubts the pressure pressed gently to it yesterday was worth remembering today America, you drunk rapist of suburban children seeking to know your currents pull themselves higher to see the view know the far side of your hulk
you, America, show shadows of past days bring down the cultural acme to a level you can conduct with a symphony of fools playing off and out of meter you, America, want us to love you and your ideals that you stopped practicing long before most of us came here, you want us to love you the way you were and ignore the bombs of contempt and leaflets dropped on Americans who just haven't moved here yet
you, America with your blind eyes and traffic stops with your breathalyzers of dissidents shatter our hopes with your material wealth and the need to make more
you draw in our children with your Technicolor dreamscapes teach them that 2-D television love lives can fill the void we feel by not reaching out to feel our neighbors hands call 9-1-1 instead of showing up to speak some next-door words
you, America, that forbids our secret pleasures from leaving us happy for a night let us damn ourselves if you believe in the freedom with which our ancestors built you let go of wrists because these nations' hands have empires to wreck and men to free we have lovers to swoon and stars to call our own without the cataloging of spheres of gases
we have dreams of starlight to worship lovers beneath without the fist fall of your suspicions let us alone, America, you redneck whore, you control freak with good intentions our way to hell is paved with your statutes that enforce the will of do-nothing meat puppets instead of letting the artists live for art's sake and drag the moonlight out into day name the blind sun with our own tongue and kiss the clouds into tomorrow
you, America, the destroyer of worlds the doom of dreams leaving broken roads not taken through yellow woods unseen bought with slaves wages
we will resist you cap your mountains with our footfalls bring down the gates of mud and bury them for peach tree orchards
you, America, may doom us one by one but the enumeration of our mysteries will hopscotch through our daughters' minds raise the sons to raise the armies to resist you tear down the towers overlooking our prison camp daymares America, we love you but you do very bad things no man or thing is evil but actions may be and sometimes crimes deserve just punishment when too many have been broken
we, America, your sons and daughters, lay broken but we won't here long soon we'll rise it will only take a moment when one swift kick in the ribs proves one too many and we retake our place and the bearers of freedom the entrepreneurs of artistry one more artist with shotgun dentistry one more ghetto enclave to genocide the unwanted one unlucky fuck who gets too close to the riot line and takes a round on live network daytime TV one martyr who didn't want to be to raise the call in us get us to pull each other up by the bootstraps and bring down the highjackers of our grand experiment and make you remember that you are ours we are not yours
you, America, you were a republic once and a republic can last forever, but empires, all empires must one day fall
I wrote and performed this poem tonight for the Sedona Visual Artists Coalition's "PATHWAYS...A Visual Journey" show in the Tlaquepaque Sala de la Milagro ballroom.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
We parted ways in that yellow wood split at the fork to wander onward I, the grassy one who wanted wear my partner, the one bent below the undergrowth where I could not go
the traveler stood between us weighing our claims for his future looking down us both as far as he could as if the first footfalls hence could reveal our destinations
Others had stood here on other mornings longingly stretched their dreams down us then trodden black the fallen leaves and none had ever come back to retry the other road
the traveler chose a route, and made his way down his road where he wound up, I cannot say I am just the road in a yellow wood the difference was his to make
I wrote and performed this poem tonight for the Sedona Visual Artists Coalition's "PATHWAYS...A Visual Journey" show in the Tlaquepaque Sala de la Milagro ballroom.
MapQuest the miles in the sky it's easier to find you that way than to traipse the hills between us
begin at Betelgeuse, the moment we met you, smiling as a stranger yet to know me me, tripping over words until I learn the rhythm to match you we trace the lines the midnights you teach me the art of touch the mathematics of how to hold you wrap starstrings of limbs to encase you and become a hammock for your dreams
I first kiss you near the lips of Meissa taste the words camping in your backyard tongue bring them inside mine swirl them around until they lost track of their speaker and became one breath
on the edge of Belatrix we start our roadtrips showing you all the places I loved atlasing each one in sequence into new memories snapping photographs for future shoeboxes and Facebook updates
the fights erupt near Mintaka parry, thrust, riposte, we practice the arts of combat study the hows and ways of pushing each other you always win the battles, even if you don’t believe me
near Alnilam, you proffer forgiveness and I discover how to say "sorry" without losing face on the brink of the Horsehead Nebula I dive into all your stories bleed out all of mine let you examine all my sins with the enthusiasm of a hell-bent prosecutor working an open-and-shut case but on the executioner's block before the guillotine blade drops the electric chair switch makes contact or the Sodium Pentothal entered the vein the pardon comes and into my arms you sweep like a storm tsunaming my defenses to wreckage and calling me back to bed
we swim to the Orion Nebula lovers in the surf of a black and white movie drenched in the waves as if to tell Nature and the gods, "your eternity will not outlast us" "our kisses will still come ferociously long after this sand is washed away to bedrock and the waves have evaporated in the heat of a dying sun" "Your mighty Olympus will fall into Eden's vacant valleys before we yield to your earthquakes shrug off lightning bolts and burning bushes" "our pulses will be the last thing the universe will hear before entropy turns all the matters into orphaned atoms finding lonely refuge in the dark"
we lost ourselves in those nebulas swallowing stardust to give birth to new suns we seemed to live there for eons of mortal time just black sheets, bare skin, whispered poems smiles and slumber
but in the bliss, we drift just past Alniltak, and differences became too much too bear so we kiss for last time make love for the last time said our last words as lovers and go our own way
You sail on to Saiph, I go home to Rigel leaving phone numbers scarred on each other's aorta mine still beats out the ten digits daily when the moment feels right and in the time it takes to draw a line between them with the tip of finger remembering the sequence we fold space like bedsheets in the blink of eye so two points become one
and we cross the thousands of light years become lovers again, drunk instead on words remember the old times, the joys in Orion and Horsehead, the battles of Alniltak, Alnilam and Mentaka the road routes to Belatrix the kiss of Meissa and the first hello in the orbit of Betelgeuse but when the phone clicks off and the points unfold, you shine in Saiph and I glow bright above Rigel so we can see each other
and if on some little world called Earth where two lovers like us gaze up and see us shining on the same night and wonder so be it navigate by us if you will send wishes heavenward if you think it'll do any good but know we don't glimmer for you we, instead, burn brilliant so the other can see us and know that despite it all love travels faster than light and our story is wide as a constellation
I wrote and performed this poem tonight for the Sedona Visual Artists Coalition's "PATHWAYS...A Visual Journey" show in the Tlaquepaque Sala de la Milagro ballroom.
Shaihk Sammad won the Sedona Poetry Slam, held Saturday, Oct. 23, 2010, Studio Live, Sedona, Arizona, 7:30 p.m.
We had veteran slammers but also a first-time slammer who gave it a go. We love these "virgin" slam poets because we were all first-timers once. We also admire the bravery to get up on stage for the first time. There were a lot of 10.0s, which are indicated by an asterisk *.
Brian Towne, of Flagstaff, 27.5, (2:48)* Christopher Harbster, of Flagstaff, 28.1, (3:06)** Mikel Weisser, of Kingman, 29.0, (2:56)*** Shaikh Sammad, of Cottonwood, 29.9, (2:59)*** Maple Dewleaf, of Flagstaff, 26.8, (2:10)* Richard Wagner, a first-time slammer from Ontario, Canada, 22.6, (1:34) James Joseph Buhs, of White Plains, N.Y., 26.9, (3:02)** Jessica Laurel Reese, of the Village of Oak Creek, 29.2, (1:34)*
Teaser poem by feature poet Doc Luben, "A New Hand"
Round 2 Reverse Order
Jessica Laurel Reese, 27.3, (2:25), 56.5* James Joseph Buhs, 29.4, (2:20), 56.3** Richard Wagner, 22.6, (1:16), 45.2* Maple Dewleaf, 27.9, (1:55), 54.7* Shaikh Sammad, 30.0, (2:55), 59.9**** Mikel Weisser, 28.1, (2:12), 54.7* Christopher Harbster, 28.2, (2:17), 56.3 Brian Towne, 30.0, (2:43), 57.5****
Feature Poet
Doc Luben is a Tucson slam poet with more than a decade of professional theatre experience.
Luben has been stomping the stage in Los Angeles and Arizona since well before 1990. He recently completed a 17-city national poetry tour from Orlando, Fla., to Chicago to Detroit to Denver and many wild points between.
Luben was a panelist and performer at the 2010 Phoenix Comic-Con Nerd Slam and was the Tucson Poetry Slam Champion in 2009.
Luben's performance is a cocktail of twisty magic realism and sneaky, snarky humor. His poems are compressed life stories, marked by a rosy-cheeked love of screw-ups and contempt for those who claim enlightenment.
Luben earned his street cred in 1990s Los Angeles, writing and performing in loading-dock theater and guerrilla improv. He then squandered all of that street cred on a decade of Shakespeare with the Arizona Classical Theatre. In Prescott, he was tempted into the evils of slam poetry at the McCormick Arts District's poetry venue, the MAD Linguist.
Doc performed twice in the Arizona All-Star Slam, and enough time has gone by that he can reveal he did not technically qualify either time: they bent the rules to get him on stage, because he is just that good.
Luben was a featured poet at the first and later the last Arizona Spoken Word Festival and Slab City Slam at Arcosanti, the state's slam poetry tournament.
His plays have been featured productions at ACT, and has proudly taught subversive youth performance workshops for two decades. Luben trained at the freakishly progressive California Institute of the Arts, where they absolutely do not have Walt Disney's head frozen in the basement.
Also, your girlfriend has a crush on him. Don't worry. It's normal.
Round 3 High to Low
Shaikh Sammad, 29.6, (2:37), 89.5** Brian Towne, 29.3, (2:51), 86.8* Mikel Weisser, 28.1, (1:55), 85.2 Jessica Laurel Reese, 27.4, 26.9 after a -0.5 time penalty (3:18), 83.4 James Joseph Buhs, 27.9, (2:12), 84.2* Christopher Harbster, 28.3, (2:39), 84.6* Maple Dewleaf, 28.9, (2:13), 83.6* Richard Wagner, 25.4, (0:35), 70.6
Final scores 1st: Shaikh Sammad, 89.5, $100
2nd: Brian Towne, 86.8
3rd: Mikel Weisser, 85.2
Christopher Harbster, 84.6 James Joseph Buhs, 84.2 Maple Dewleaf, 83.6 Jessica Laurel Reese, 83.4 Richard Wagner, 70.6
Slam staff
Scorekeeper and Timekeeper: Sarah Lepich Host: Christopher Fox Graham Organizers: April Holman Payne, Studio Live Christopher Fox Graham, Sedona 510 Poetry
Next Sedona Poetry Slam: Saturday, Dec. 11, 2010, Studio Live, Sedona, Arizona, 7:30 p.m., featuring Mesa's Brit Shostak.
The Sedona Poetry Slam hits the stage at Studio Live at 7:30 p.m. Saturday, Oct. 23, presenting three rounds of poetic competition as poets battle for pride and $100.
Between rounds, the audience will be entertained with a feature performance by Doc Luben, a Tucson slam poet with more than a decade of professional theatre experience.
Luben has been stomping the stage in Los Angeles and Arizona since well before 1990. He recently completed a 17-city national poetry tour from Orlando, Fla., to Chicago to Detroit to Denver and many wild points between.
Luben was a panelist and performer at the 2010 Phoenix Comic-Con Nerd Slam and was the Tucson Poetry Slam Champion in 2009.
Luben's performance is a cocktail of twisty magic realism and sneaky, snarky humor. His poems are compressed life stories, marked by a rosy-cheeked love of screw-ups and contempt for those who claim enlightenment.
Luben earned his street cred in 1990s Los Angeles, writing and performing in loading-dock theater and guerrilla improv. He then squandered all of that street cred on a decade of Shakespeare with the Arizona Classical Theatre. In Prescott, he was tempted into the evils of slam poetry at the McCormick Arts District's poetry venue, the MAD Linguist.
Doc performed twice in the Arizona All-Star Slam, and enough time has gone by that he can reveal he did not technically qualify either time: they bent the rules to get him on stage, because he is just that good.
Luben was a featured poet at the first and later the last Arizona Spoken Word Festival and Slab City Slam at Arcosanti, the state's slam poetry tournament.
His plays have been featured productions at ACT, and has proudly taught subversive youth performance workshops for two decades. Luben trained at the freakishly progressive California Institute of the Arts, where they absolutely do not have Walt Disney's head frozen in the basement.
Also, your girlfriend has a crush on him. Don't worry. It's normal.
All poets are welcome to compete in the slam.
Slammers will need three original poems, each lasting no longer than three minutes. No props, costumes nor musical accompaniment are permitted.
The poets will be judged Olympics-style by five members of the audience selected at random at the beginning of the slam. The top poet at the end of the night wins $100.
Poets who want to compete should purchase a ticket in case the roster is filled before they arrive.
Founded in Chicago by construction worker and poet Marc "So What?" Smith in 1984, poetry slam is a competitive artistic sport. Poetry slam has become an international artistic sport, with more than 100 major poetry slams in the United States, Canada, Australia and Western Europe.
The slam will be hosted by Sedona poet Christopher Fox Graham, who represented Northern Arizona on the Flagstaff team at five National Poetry Slams between 2001 and 2010. He has hosted and competed in poetry slams and open mics in Sedona since 2004.
Graham has performed in 40 states, Toronto, Dublin, Ireland, and London, and wrote the now infamous "Peach" poem.
For more information or to register, call Graham at (928) 517-1400 or e-mail to foxthepoet@yahoo.com.
Admission is free for poets who slam ... and they could win $100, so why not give it a go?
Home of the Sedona Performers Guild nonprofit, Studio Live is located at 215 Coffee Pot Drive, West Sedona. For more information, visit www.studiolivesedona.com.
Poet Doc Luben features at the Sedona Poetry Slam on Saturday, Oct. 23
The Sedona Poetry Slam hits the stage at Studio Live at 7:30 p.m. Saturday, Oct. 23, presenting three rounds of poetic competition as poets battle for pride and $100.
Between rounds, the audience will be entertained with a feature performance by Doc Luben, a Tucson slam poet with more than a decade of professional theatre experience.
Luben has been stomping the stage in Los Angeles and Arizona since well before 1990. He recently completed a 17-city national poetry tour from Orlando, Fla., to Chicago to Detroit to Denver and many wild points between.
Luben was a panelist and performer at the 2010 Phoenix Comic-Con Nerd Slam and was the Tucson Poetry Slam Champion in 2009.
Luben's performance is a cocktail of twisty magic realism and sneaky, snarky humor. His poems are compressed life stories, marked by a rosy-cheeked love of screw-ups and contempt for those who claim enlightenment.
Luben earned his street cred in 1990s Los Angeles, writing and performing in loading-dock theater and guerrilla improv. He then squandered all of that street cred on a decade of Shakespeare with the Arizona Classical Theatre. In Prescott, he was tempted into the evils of slam poetry at the McCormick Arts District's poetry venue, the MAD Linguist.
Doc performed twice in the Arizona All-Star Slam, and enough time has gone by that he can reveal he did not technically qualify either time: they bent the rules to get him on stage, because he is just that good.
Luben was a featured poet at the first and later the last Arizona Spoken Word Festival and Slab City Slam at Arcosanti, the state's slam poetry tournament.
His plays have been featured productions at ACT, and has proudly taught subversive youth performance workshops for two decades. Luben trained at the freakishly progressive California Institute of the Arts, where they absolutely do not have Walt Disney's head frozen in the basement.
Also, your girlfriend has a crush on him. Don't worry. It's normal.
All poets are welcome to compete in the slam.
Slammers will need three original poems, each lasting no longer than three minutes. No props, costumes nor musical accompaniment are permitted.
The poets will be judged Olympics-style by five members of the audience selected at random at the beginning of the slam. The top poet at the end of the night wins $100.
Poets who want to compete should purchase a ticket in case the roster is filled before they arrive.
Founded in Chicago by construction worker and poet Marc "So What?" Smith in 1984, poetry slam is a competitive artistic sport. Poetry slam has become an international artistic sport, with more than 100 major poetry slams in the United States, Canada, Australia and Western Europe.
The slam will be hosted by Sedona poet Christopher Fox Graham, who represented Northern Arizona on the Flagstaff team at five National Poetry Slams between 2001 and 2010. He has hosted and competed in poetry slams and open mics in Sedona since 2004.
Graham has performed in 40 states, Toronto, Dublin, Ireland, and London, and wrote the now infamous "Peach" poem.
For more information or to register, call Graham at (928) 517-1400 or e-mail to foxthepoet@yahoo.com.
Tickets are $5 online or $10 at the door.
Admission is free for poets who slam ... and they could win $100, so why not give it a go?
Home of the Sedona Performers Guild nonprofit, Studio Live is located at 215 Coffee Pot Drive, West Sedona. For more information, visit www.studiolivesedona.com.
When Francisco Altschul went off to the University of El Salvador to become an architect, he never expected to one day be his country’s ambassador.
Nor did he expect his country would be dragged into a decade of civil war and that he would flee after his name appeared on a death squad’s hit list.
Yet almost 20 years after war ended, Altschul spoke at Verde Valley School and the Sedona Public Library about how far his country has come. Among those achievements was the peaceful election of leftist President Maurico Funes from the political party that once led the fight against an oppressive regime.
She’s unbreakable but easily bent as stubborn as a mule but when push comes to shove concaves her spine into the wind so she doesn’t need me until she needs craves my embrace only when it’s near enough to envelop her
in the absence, we are just strangers sharing familiar history and phone lines, whispering “until I see you again …” when she’s here, we’re a psychic friends network finishing each other’s thoughts but languishing in the laborious lugubrious articulation of sentences when she’s gone, she becomes ancestral myth remembered theoretically as a moral teaching tool cleaving us apart is like banishing a twin while the collision together equally disturbs our rhythms shakes loose the axis of the galaxy affecting space alien trade routes halfway across the Orion Arm until patterns synchronize and stabilize
I miss sharing her pulse the give-and-take battles of ego and surrender hers as much as mine although mine takes center stage more often
in her vacancy personality fades into vapor ceases to break the surface slumbers for days at a time before rising to check the calendar realize her eviction then shutter eyes again
how her chapters scribe themselves I can only conjecture pen what I imagine and wait to crack her fortune cookie shell for the answer
unbreakable, she bends in the wind opening her fate like a sail landing wherever the breeze blows, spine bent, but unbowed conviction untamed, pride untarnished mouth closed ears open arms wide
Normal answers seem tame.
