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 670,000 hits 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.
Celebrate March Madness with some of the best of Sedona’s art scene at the Second Saturday Art Häus.
Collage art at February's Second Saturday Art Häus by Pam Paggao
This underground art event rotates between private homes in the Sedona area, offering visitors a night of intimate discussion with the participating artists, as well as other arts supporters and patrons.
Each month, the featured artists are challenged to paint, sculpt and draw a number of pieces to match the theme.
Previous Art Häus themes have included “Fight or Flight” and “Cowboys, Indians and Aliens.” Last month’s theme of “St. Valentine’s Day Massacre,” included art of candy hearts, broken hearts, real hearts and the infamous St. Valentine’s Day massacre of Chicago mobsters in 1929.
This month’s theme is “March Madness,” so expect art ranging from enthusiasm for college basketball to outright clinical insanity. The artists are free to explore themes as they see fit and produce several varying works depicting it.
Plan on edgy, humorous, and up-to-the-minute paintings exploring the off-the-deep-end crazy rants of actors Mel Gibson and Charlie Sheen, in addition to more conventional dabbling in the realm of madness.
Art by Brian Walker at the Second Saturday Art Häus on Feb. 14
According to a press release, the show highlights the work of Sedona’s best known up-and-coming young artists. The featured artists include:
Painter and sculptor Molly Berg, a Chicago transplant
Sculptor and painter Miguel Guzman from Philadelphia
Phoenix-born painter and pen and ink artist Jarrod Karimi
Milwaukee minimalist painter Timmy Kehoe, a longtime Sedona resident whose work is featured around the city
Pam Paggao, a collagist who hails from Chicago
Chicago-born painter Brian Walker, a longtime fixture in the Sedona scene whose paintings are exhibited in several galleries and on a series of bottles from a Page Springs area winery
“We all bring our own styles into the mix, which makes for a vibrant and sometimes controversial take on each individually themed show,” Walker said.
“The art can be as soft and compassionate as cotton or as edgy as a nic fit,” he said. “That’s juxtaposition of the show, how different each of our styles complement and contrast with each other. It’s beautiful chaos. It’s like creating explosions in your hands.”
The art of Kehoe, Karimi and Walker have all been separately featured in the Sedona Red Rock News’ Sedona Underground arts column.
Refreshments will be provided. This month, Second Saturday Art Häus takes place at 80 Birch Blvd., West Sedona.
some moment
between our last meaningful kiss
and the last time we shared a bed
you broke
the laugh is the same
stories haven’t changed
the proximity of your warmth
exudes the same radiance
but no one tends furnace
whatever I once loved
could not be without
the heart-skip of sight
somewhere between us has ceased
a stranger in a body
that once thrust itself beneath mine
rocked in rhythm to my hips
a tongue that dove into my mouth
like a toddler in the surf
a shadow lives there
inhabiting the shell
a squatter in a house
I longed to inhabit
secured a loan and put in escrow
I could blame the housing bubble
and economic downturn
the credit crunch
for the foreclosure
she made me outgrow you
swell into a man
with 44-inch chest
too large for your narrow sleeves
eager to teach
she gave me more in less
than you did
shoved me into high school
while you were at recess
you’re no different
the same mathematical equations
processed in a mainframe
grown obsolete with technology’s growth
but the girl you were
with fire in your belly
wrath in your chest
blazing roads into the constellations
dimmed in day
lost passion in dusk
and emptied all the contents on the floor
the stars are specks now
instead of destinations
while you forget to reach up
I learned to chart them
we are strangers
it only took too long to notice
I don’t know if I could have saved her
kept her skin intact
instead of the permeated husk
that bled out in my absence
and in the months since
has weaved her way back into my atmosphere
but a derelict devoid of reason
to find interest in the hows and whys she’s around
fruitless lovers and vapid moments
bear no interest anymore
not since the heroine protagonist
ceased to inspire the reader
your haughty lovers can think they've cuckolded me
then strut and preen their self-interest
forgetting how vents carry sound
or that recycling isn't theft
something can't be stolen
if it's already tossed aside
we can’t go back
not now
not with the paths overgrown
you still lost in the woods
and me overlooking the shining sea
I’ll remember our moments
but you’re still too forgetful for them to matter
but I can’t wait anymore
there are fire-bearing girls still out there
somewhere along this shore
reaching for stars
longing for a boy eager to meet them
if you reach this place
I will leave you markers to follow
show you where I’ve gone
but you won’t be coming
the signal flares I send up
merely light my way
because you only see
how they cast your shadow
you’ve stopped looking skyward
and my toes no longer touch the earth
She Would Have Been Three By Christopher Fox Graham
she would have been three I’m guessing I never wrote things down in a calendar especially dates I slept with someone I do keep a list of names I’m one of those because lovers’ last names are too often forgettable call them notches in the bedpost if you must judge me, Philistines pretend you don’t have a similar list hidden in shoebox written in code in a diary or recounted in living memory leaving no trace should death come suddenly we’re all whores those who aren’t, are virgins, saints or liars
I am no saint
she would have been three not sure of the months I never understood at what point a child is no longer counted in years as if there’s a threshold when time stretches into longer periods I am 372 months now I would have been 348 then, give or take
she would have been three could have been mine I was not her your only lover then I was a name on your list a notch on your bedpost
I only heard what happened secondhand years later flush of fluid damage within a loss, the swallow a haphazard explanation a medicalized synonym for bad plumbing to seemingly make the justification less crushing “your pipes, dear, just can’t hold water must have been the installation” you always bore a tough exterior but fragile around the edges I knew how to hurt you with flippant words about how you waste your time knowing now if I could unsay those things knowing what time would mean later I would chew them back into my tongue spit them back into my bowels until they dissolved into my blood and I could bleed them into a sink
I would do this
but breath has a way of mixing with air to make itself irretrievable hiding as ninjas among other atoms of nitrogen and oxygen if we only lived in vacuum
I can not ask if she was mine I was never meant to know told in secret confidence why you had grown so distant in vino veritas in nox noctis he assumed I knew had already heard through gossiping grapevine understood the absent months the quiet reemergence the unanswered messages ignorant of the earthquake that flattened your city
I can never know her name ask if it was Rachel or Penelope I always loved your name the way it rolled of the tongue like it was made to live there explore the space between us did you name her for your mother had she been born instead of bled nine months whole instead of shattering brevity you would have told me father or not
she would have been three standing knee-high now, with my eyes or those of a stranger but your smile
she would have been three but in her absence I have no name to call her so in mind when I imagine all she could have been and that she could have been my daughter I know the name I would have chosen
every morning, the finches feed outside my window they come each season their mustard seed brains containing physics equations of aerodynamics instantly calculating how to move weight and mass with the precision to dodge hawks and avoid power lines their grey matter specks contain songs passed down generations from father to egg to coax mates from other lovers the architecture of building a home from twigs where to house themselves inconspicuous from snakes and housecats on the prowl synapses hold cartography of this country tracking paths from one feeder to the next returning here with such regularity I should charge them seasonal rent or give them each a name
amid that mess of maps and math buried beneath sonnets of bird-speak oratory I can see their curiosity as some gaze back in my window and wonder where you went they remember seeing us bare skinned weekend mornings wrapped around each other as discarded gloves they were the only ones permitted to see us naked slumbering until past noon content together even if the rest of the world imploded beneath its angry weight only these feathered peeping toms could give testimony of how my arms sheltered you describe unbiased the concavity of man and woman their mathematics can still see the geometry of your trapezoid torso my lithe limbs four unclawed bare feet two unfeathered heads rising from beneath sheets my face buried in your raven hair
they come now and wonder why you’ve been gone so long ponder perhaps there’s a nest in another room they can’t see where you may be raising young or whether you’ve flown away gone north or south for the season but note the vast bed we shared still has space for you a wide ocean of sheets visited only by slim limbs reaching finding nothing to fill them then retreating home to my sides
they feed and fly on to their next destination wondering if they may see you elsewhere when they can tell you if you stray too far away too long you may forget you way home back to the warm shelter where they fell in love with how we fit together and gave them a reason to always visit
type, type, send
type, type, send
the revolution begins not with a bang
but with a text message
we weep with you, Wael Ghonim,
you did not sign a declaration
shoot a gun
nor take an assassin's bullet you ran a Facebook page
Egyptian secret police held you blindfolded for 11 days
promised you would be buried nameless, anonymous
as a Facebook event,
your ghost of Khalid Said
brought down a dictator
we weep with you, Wael Ghonim,
you unintentional revolutionary,
sob as the names of boys fallen
crawl across the screen
as Mona el-Shazly asks you to gaze up
swallow the Facebook photos and off-kilter photographs
taken at parties or late-night on-the-towns
images become epitaphs,
boys like us
who before Jan25
watched girls pass by
traded albums and downloaded music
called their mothers on birthdays
and never thought their country
would ever be theirs
if we could stand with you, Wael Ghonim, we would
embrace you as man to man
wrap arms around you to hold you standing
convince you to believe us
that your hands are clean
your soul is unstained
the blood of brothers and sisters on them
wasn’t spilt by you
use it to paint flags
touch it to your childrens’ foreheads
and tell them “this was shed for you,
by men and women who gave more than we did,
it is why you now have a voice
why freedom is more than a noun”
wash it off in the Nile
let it taste of the mother river
swim upstream to the sources
and down to the delta
tell all of Egypt
from Luxor tombs
to pyramid shadows
to the library halls in Alexandria
that your country is free
shake the earth
so dead pharaohs wake trembling
living tyrants flee from their thrones
we weep with you, Wael Ghonim,
we stood with you in Tahrir
we were the breath of bravery
you felt beside you
when the enemy rode in on camels
we stood beside you
five times a day
when you knelt to pray to Allah
we, atheists, Christians, Buddhists
Hindus, Sikhs, and Jews
we watched your back
stood guard in silence
we were the ghosts you felt
assuring you the world was listening
we don’t know your language
but understood each word
in your prayers because
“freedom” never needs translation
it feels the same
no matter the shade or age of skin,
we weep with you, Wael Ghonim,
because your tears are too heavy for one man
let us carry them for you
permit us bear their weight
because we could not physically stand alongside you
allow us sing our lullabies in 1,000 languages to your children
let us tell them our words for "liberty"
so no matter where they travel
we have that in common
we weep with you, Wael Ghonim,
because you are not alone
you never were
now, sleep,
guiltless
weightless
and free
Wael Ghonim is an Egyptian computer engineer and head of marketing of Google Middle East and North Africa who was living in the United Arab Emirates. He ran the Facebook page that organized the Jan25 movement to protest Egyptian President and dictator Hosni Mubarak. In January 2011, Ghonim persuaded Google to allow him to return to Egypt, citing a "personal problem." Planning only a six-day visit for the protest, he was captured by Mubarak's security forces and held blindfolded for 11 days and the protests swelled in Tahrir Square, Cairo. The day he was released, he appeared on DreamTV, where I first saw him.
The video is below. The last five minutes will bring anyone to tears.
On 9 February, Ghonim addressed the crowds in Tahrir Square, telling the protesters: "This is not the time for individuals, or parties, or movements. It's a time for all of us to say just one thing: Egypt above all."
The scholar Fouad Ajami writes:
"No turbaned ayatollah had stepped forth to summon the crowd. This was not Iran in 1979. A young Google executive, Wael Ghonim, had energized this protest when it might have lost heart, when it could have succumbed to the belief that this regime and its leader were a big, immovable object. Mr. Ghonim was a man of the modern world. He was not driven by piety. The condition of his country—the abject poverty, the crony economy of plunder and corruption, the cruelties and slights handed out to Egyptians in all walks of life by a police state that the people had outgrown and despaired of—had given this young man and others like him their historical warrant."
the world once fit in her hands she could hold it like a egg to break or raise into a feathered dream but the weight of world bent her back the taste of drugs warmth of a warm body the belief that like her mother she could not rise above left her swirling in mediocrity she owns the men who chase her they obey her whims unaware of their adherence to her religion
behind her brown eyes the fire burned curiosity sought stories macheted a path to my doorstep no world would halt her
but unrequited, unanswered she diverted course to smoother seas let the doom of days pull her to simpler courses the blaze forgot the taste of wood let the ashes swallow the rage to burn
extinguished flames smolder blacken the skies with the dreams she told me of near her longing eyes one can’t see the sun she stands broken tongue cut from throat unarmed Lavinia ignorant of the crime dancing delirious in Titus’ shadow
I share tea with Time tell him of the story lost in tragedy forgetful of the narrative try to wipe away the stain of her eyes how they burned into skin coughing on the smoke she passes me in shadows now forgets herself from her history the ancestry come ’round the egg broken underfoot
she wanted poems about clouds but never rose to meet them just curses the sky for damning her blames the heavens for circumstances over which they lacked control the faded fire lurks in photographs reflects in mirrors in moments unclaimed the girl who burned them gone into shadows her mother remade as Time marches on
She Loved Me Better On Paper By Christopher Fox Graham
she loved me better on paper it was easier to forgive my sins the ones deletable or ascribed to fast typing or bad penmanship on second reads it was simpler to prepare herself for previously discovered ones
she loved me better on paper flesh was too temperamental too harsh with spoken words too adaptive to her moods
when she got fed up with the content therein she could not close the pages and place me on the shelf then grow to forget the offenses, fondly recall the quotables reinvest herself in the mystery of footstep word after word marching reincarnate on the same path from moment to moment pull me back into her wearied hands and relive the story again from the beginning
paper was easier to throw away to set ablaze and watch burn skin, it seems, has a fouler odor scratches and scars don’t heal with the same cleanliness as those pencil marks needing erasure
even now, she still loves me better on paper prefers the me captured in moments frozen in ink on pressed wood pulp the notations she marks remain without my trademark forgetfulness or willful delusionary deception
in print, she owns me as she likes without having to concave her ego bend to match me in mutual reverence admit she, too, could be mistaken sometimes on the pages, she is always right, my errors unrepentable a good lover can shamelessly admit wrong confess to death-penalty guilt even when in the right
she loved me better on paper but forgets to understand those dead words will never breathe unchanging youth frozen immortally vampiric, they will one day suck the life from her pull her into the longing for more but unanswered they will be just a tombstone of text made by a dead man years ago
there is no ghost here, child, he does not inhabit these pages buried in your backpack or bookcase his soul is still dancing elsewhere breathing in the sunrises with wine-stained lips somewhere else, he kisses the moonlight and whispers to stars who’ll still listen about how he loved this girl
she adores those paper words but they can never hold her never caress her bare gymnast’s back soothe her into sleep wake her into daybreaks remind her why lovers always come in pairs
she loved me better on paper in the same way I loved her better in absence because our present was untamable it demanded too much compromise too much acquiesce to the other
she loved me better on paper but he can never say he was sorry never reiterate that love — the kind of love that forever tugs at all that aches demands a heart break itself open when she traipses through the mind from photographs — that kind of love does not require reciprocation saints, martyrs, crazies and dogs teach us this
while the flesh me has no one to say those things to just lets the words fall from his lips spill out into the ether crawl into new pages onto new paper so she can love it instead
revere, write, abide papers yearn for her it will suffice it must it has to
This poem obviously alludes to Shane Koyczan's "We Are More," performed at the opening ceremonies at the 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver, and The Klute's "Canadian Dawn." The references are meant for Azami. If you do not catch them, do not fret, you are not meant to.
There is a Girl in Your Country: An open letter to Stephen Harper, the Prime Minister of Canada
Dear Prime Minister of Canada The Right Honourable Stephen Harper, PC MP
On behalf of your neighbor to the south, we surrender. Since you set ablaze our White House in 1814, we have tried to resist you we have mocked your accent rejected your poutine stolen your best actors filmed Oscar-winners in Vancouver and called it Seattle and neglected to learn the geography of your provinces
that ends today. invade us, we now offer no resistance. bring us your socialized health care your mandatory two-week paid vacations your high literacy rate and clean streets
we will begin adding extra “U”s to our words pronounce Honour, Colour and Armour as they are intended we will adapt our tongues to “A-Geinst” and “A-Boat” remeasure miles in kilometers pounds in kilograms turn our thermostats down to minus-15, in Celsius, not Fahrenheit and adapt our skins to the inevitable northern winds soon to blow hence,
just to show you we’re serious we’ll even submit to two years military conscription — even through Canada doesn’t have the draft — our kids would do better building Third-World clinics and schools rather than blowing them up
send your Mounties south we’ll great them with open arms, our citizens will drive just below the speed limit and start smoking copious amounts of marijuana, but do so responsibly as you so nobly taught us
we will begin shortening our sports from four quarters to three periods for nostalgia’s sake, baseball will stay at nine innings, but we’ll concede to call it American Cricket.
Dear Prime Minister Harper, welcome us as your brothers and sisters in the Commonwealth put in a good word for us with the Queen we will rename the U.S. Congress the Parliament of the United Provinces of Southern Canada — it was due for an overhaul anyway — and spend the next decade learning how that shit works let us keep Governor-General Obama during the transition until Her Royal Highness appoints a new French-speaker to the post
By first prefixing the pedestrian “USS” with the regal “Royal” the Royal American Navy will begin renaming warships and sail home to merely protect our shores
The Royal American Marines will inscribe “Toujours fidèle” beneath “Semper Fidelis” on all their stationary
in revenge for Terrance and Phillip, we’ll execute Trey Parker and Matt Stone to make amends but since capital punishment is banned in Canada, we’ll sentence them to creating tourist videos for the CBC
Once your conquest is complete once our schools have risen to your minimum standards once “Bonjour!” and “Hallo” is as common as “Howdy” and “ ’Sup dawg?” then I ask one favor one small request in payment to the unconditional surrender of our bald eagle sovereignty to your maple leaf dominance:
with the border fluid and immigration law a mute point I’m searching for someone
there is a girl in your country she is easy to overlook because she stays in the shadows avoids the cameras on busy streets though you can find her at festivals dancing barefoot at the center of the world as though the stars forged visas from heaven slipped passed the earthly border guards to stand in the plazas sleeve their glow in human bodies around her and dance until the setting moon revokes their passports calls them home to press their lips into constellations you will not know she is here until someone asks later if you saw the midnight sun swirling the street in the afterglow of the stage lights I’ll admit I’ve never seen an aurora but I imagine it feels like her laughter and I know why polar bears and icesheets stay north of the Arctic Circle because that’s as close as they can get to her
do not stake out hotels thinking she’ll slip in some night she can sleep in ditches, on strangers’ rooftops, the beds of pickup trucks or backyard trampolines, anywhere she can find 10 square feet and quiet until the dawn
instead, you can search for her on the wide open Trans-Canada Highway somewhere between St. John’s and Beacon Hill Park I know it’s 8,000 kilometers, so keep your eyes peeled if you see her, it’ll be by outstretched thumb first I know Canadian winters can be harsh but you will identify her by her smile because it will keep you warm no matter the season now, her unpasteurized joy will take longer first, she’ll get comfortable in the seat, ask you your history and wait for your story
speak slow, tell your story as best as you can recall she asks many questions and will cross reference your answers she will forgive a faulty memory as long as the words as spoken sincerely and know that even if she’s not listening to your every word she’s interpreting the sound of your voice so be honest do not lie to her she will see your fabrications before you can erect them sweep kick them out from under you and leave you splayed out on the floor before the lies can even leave your lips
she will play the role of stranger drop lines of prepackaged wisdom play her preshuffled hand of cards but this is still her shell, her way to test your defenses judge whether you’re worth a second try here, I can offer no advice — she still gauges me with every phone call — the game has no trick to win it; it’s a measure of character or honor something no one can give you and none can take away if you don’t have it, you can drop her at the next stop for gas, and thanks for the lift, but if she sees it, she knows you’re worth more than a ride
she will start to unpeel herself like cloves of garlic each one covered in its own thin armor let drops of stories unshelter their instruction she’s taken the hammer and nails of her ambition and realized potential to build bridges for the rest of us to walk across
and somewhere between Havana and San Salvador on the Black Rock City playa over a bento box lunch in Sapporo, her joy will hit like a hidden tsunami you didn’t see coming sweep you away from shelter or shoreline as those waters fill your lungs you’ll wonder just how you were so oblivious for so long how could you have not felt the energy she bottled
in her stories she will teach you that borders are lines drawn by men in office buildings who live a fluorescent fiction of a world still flat men who believe maps and flags and anthems mean more than blood and handshakes and laughter men who’ve never dreamed beneath stars she counts nightly men who’ve never felt the first kiss between sun and Grand Canyon shake morning reds into the eons-old stone men who’ve never heard peasants thank Dios for a vote that finally counts in a country that is finally theirs
in these life stories of her travels you’ll understand why she cast off worn shoes to walk barefoot in the dirt and spin fire from her arms in the desert but leave no footprints to follow just the earthquakes and scars in those of us who ache for her return the way zealots pray for messiahs in their late night confessions the day before martyrdom she’s a first-aid kit for boys like me who didn’t know they were broken-hearted before her she moves in like chess pieces on a board of checkers brings a Howitzer to knife fight lets loose a Pamplona herd in a china shop but will offer to sweep up afterward
I’ll admit her tomboy tongue blindsides on idle Tuesdays as if the ancient six-day week cleaved open just for her, added one more day and said “fuck the mathematics of calendars” if she could sleep for days cuddled in a boy’s arms she’d surrender the world but the urge to burn and rage at end of day pulls her back into the dreamlessness there are too many stories to live too many fingertips to touch tornadoes can’t stay stationary either despite the scenery
if you can’t find her on the road you can search the boxcars, ask hobos about a girl made of hula hoops whose pulse thumps in rhythm to railroad ties pickup all the hitchhikers you find and en route between points A and B subtlety ask if a dark-haired, brown-eyed dancer with weathered hands and a black bandana has recently shared a meal with them offered to manufacture a tutu or sew leg warmers from leftover sleeves
know that in summers she melts into the woods to reforest what we clear make amends for civilization’s sins with a shovel and bag of saplings: maybe this one will grow up to be a peace table, this one a roof for a homeless family, two lovers will kiss beneath this one, and their grandchildren will be buried beside its roots
Yukon men won’t admit it but they came century too early and weren’t looking for gold they came to clear the roads for her give the earth a wound for her to heal to train her surgeon hands
if all else fails, you can coax her into the open by leaving out a plate of melted cheese and fresh garlic I guarantee she is unable to resist them it make take years, so make it fresh every few hours and she’ll track you down one day
once you find her give her a warm bed with no annoying alarm clocks keep her unchained and unlocked left free to roam or return on her whim she may pilgrimage to ashrams or overlooks or cathedrals cut into stone awaken the third eye in prophets and psychics who’ve never looked too deep but foresaw her coming she instigates greatness in those too afraid to birth it themselves
she may still wander away in the day call down the sun and the moon to dance at dusk beg Orion to share her arms and press her lips against new strangers
but if she leaves you, do not chase her, she befriends guerrillas and revolutionaries who give her sanctuary like she was a daughter they will fight to keep her unyielding know that she growls back at coyotes chases them from her playgrounds and though she may ache for warm limbs beneath bedsheets she can find midnight outdoor air just as soothing she’s too fierce to hold on to too tightly she can bite open a boy she loves from the eyebrow down so imagine what she does to transgressors
I will not fault you if she leaves just let me know where you last saw her point me in the general direction of her last appearance she’s worth the pursuit whatever you may think of her she is more
Dear Prime Minister, if you vow to search for her if you promise to give it your all you can have this country take whatever you want from it import our monuments like the caesars did obelisks rename our parks after your heroes impose your laws or revoke ours redraw our states into a grid or the image of Pikachu it doesn’t matter to me anymore just demolish the borders between us erase the lines that divide
leave the office building to share the blood and handshakes and laughter without the nomenclature of nations dream beneath her stars feel the sun kiss canyons and mountains give us the freedom of movement to find each other because whatever you believe I think of her she is more
As per The Klute: "Persona piece. 'Red Dawn' meets the 'Joe Canada Rant' set in an alternate universe for some reason."
February 28, 2010 A date which will live in infamy.
We should have seen it coming, When our boys in blue were beaten, Before the eyes of the whole world, At the game of ice hockey. We all wept when Americans were forced to stand beneath that maple leaf, Made to listen to someone else's national anthem for a change. You could almost hear the collective licking of our northern neighbor's chops As they realized America's one weakness: We're not that good on the frozen pond. So a cabal of generals of the Canadian Armed Forces hatched a plan. Using an eco-friendly, green technology doomsday device, They would erode our long-standing line of defense Against Great White Northern agression. They reversed global warming! A new ice age was upon us.
Their advance, Like Quebecois tourists driving in the fast lane, Was slow and methodical. With no NHL team to defend it, Seattle was the first city to fall. We tried to fight back, but it was no use. Flocks of suicide geese grounded the Air Force. Our Navy was crippled by strategically-placed icebergs. The Army? Let's just say you don't bring a machine gun to a polar bear fight. When they blasted George Washington's face off of Mt. Rushmore And replaced it with Gordie Howe, The resistance collapsed. Panicked American refugees began to pour over the Mexican border, The Red Maple now waving over the White House.
We survived in the United American Provinces of Lower Canada, But they began to change us. We were more polite, Less eager to wave around a loaded handgun shouting "Who wants some!?! Who Wants some!?!". Distances were measured in meters, Temperatures reported in centigrade. No one knew what the fuck was going on. They denied our God-given right to die in a gutter, Broke and penniless, Of an easily treatable illness. I remember when my father was taken away... On a government-mandated two-week holiday, Clutching the plane tickets to Aruba in his hand, he shouted "AVENGE ME!!!" We tried, Papa, but we were too busy getting drunk on Labatt's Blue And planning our next trip to the Edmonton Folk Festival... I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.
Now, due to the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, I must begin this poem over in French:
Nous devrions l'avoir vu venir. Quand nos garçons dans le bleu ont été battus, Avant les yeux du monde entier ...
No! This is a bridge I will not cross. They cannot make me speak in French! I will resist, Proudly dipping my freedom fries in ketchup, and not poutine, Replacing my tuque with a foam-dome filled with two cans of shitty American beer And I will not let them change everything about us, from A to Z - Because it is "Z", Not Zed, Z!!! We will drive you syrup drinkers back across the 49th parallel north, Raise Old Glory once again, Take away everyone's health care, Give the upper-class a tax cut, then really stick it to the poor, Like we used to do when were still remembered what it meant to be American! So let me say it so you can understand it, O Canada:
Je n'ai pas encore commencé à combattre, I have not yet begun to fight!
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.
Tomorrow, Friday, Feb. 18, I will be in the “for sale” in The Bold & the Beautiful Bachelor Auction. The auction is a fundraiser for Sedona Red Rock High School hosted by the Scorpions Booster Club.
The auction includes a bachelor and a date package. Bidders have the option of taking the date package and the bachelor, or just the date package, so women with husbands or significant others aren’t technically obligated to take their bachelor if they choose not to.
Schedule: 6 to 7 p.m.: “Man-tini” Cocktail Hour... 7:15 p.m.: Dinner Service and Program Intro 7:30 p.m.: Bachelor Auction Begins
“The Bold & The Beautiful” Bachelor Auction items include: A Muse Gallery, $50 designer hand bag Allie Ollie $25 Art of Wine - $50 gift Best of Show & Music, $50 guitar gift pack Bliss Extraordinary Floral, $25 bouquet flowers Cheers (2) $2 Cowboy Club $50 Cucina Rustica $50 Dahl & DiLuca $50 Dirty Hairys Pet Wash & Grooming $40 Elote Café $50 Estebans/Zonies, $50 designer bowl (pottery) Hearline Café $50 Hummingbird House, $75 (3) glass vase collection Naja, $50 in perfume and lotions Sedona Art Wear, $40 Sweatshirt Sedona Rouge Spa , $55 facial gift certificate Toy Town at Tlaquepaque, gift item UPS-Program Printing, $125 printing Urban Gypsies $50 Well Red Coyote $25
Name: Johnny Romero Birthday: Nov. 29, 1985 Occupation: Chef at Red’s
Name: Karl G. Samter Birthday: Feb. 1, 1980 Occupation: Trainer, instructor and manager
The Bold & the Beautiful Bachelor Auction takes place Friday, Feb. 18 from 6 to 10 p.m. in the large dining room (on the right, not the bar on the left) at Olde Sedona Bar & Grill, 1405 W. SR 89A, West Sedona.
Dinner includes a choice of pasta primavera, Cobb salad, or tilapia with mango salsa. Tickets $25 in advance, $30 at the door, available at: Sedona Red Rock High School office, Bashas’ in West Sedona, Best of Show and Music and Isadora Handweaving Gallery at Tlaquepaque. Limited seating.
For more information, contact Kathy Gorchesky at (928) 221-7837.
Donations are tax deductible. SRRHS Scorpion Booster Club Tax ID #86-0768722
This photo fills me with joy: This photo, tweeted by Cairo resident Nevine Zaki, who wrote, "A pic I took yesterday of Christians protecting Muslims during their prayers."
For the last three weeks, I've been watching the street protests in Cairo online, mainly on Al Jazeera English, which often has streaming coverage from Tahrir Square and great coverage for non-Arabic speakers. I've seen and heard about acts of heroism from everyday Egyptians, from army officials who refuse to interfere with the peaceful protesters to volunteers who set up checkpoints to prevent bombs and weapons from entering the square, and internationals who've left Sweden, England and the United States to join the crowds in solidarity, but this image is my favorite thus far.
The human shield of Coptic Christians protecting their Muslim countrymen returns the favor -- thousands of Muslim Egyptians kept a candlelight vigil outside churches as Coptic Christians celebrated Christmas Mass on Jan. 10.
Since the street protests began in Cairo on Jan. 25, Egyptian Copts and Muslims have protected each other. Pro-government mobs attacked demonstrators before the Egyptian Army created a buffer between the two groups.
Egyptian police have also used water cannons on Muslims during prayers in the streets: Now, I'm an atheist and no fan of organized religion ... but you don't fuck with someone when they pray.
“We either live together, or we die together,” was the sloganeering genius of Mohamed El-Sawy, a Muslim arts tycoon whose cultural centre distributed flyers at churches in Cairo Thursday night, and who has been credited with first floating the “human shield” idea.
Among those shields were movie stars Adel Imam and Yousra, popular preacher Amr Khaled, the two sons of President Hosni Mubarak, and thousands of citizens who have said they consider the attack one on Egypt as a whole.
“This is not about us and them,” said Dalia Mustafa, a student who attended mass at Virgin Mary Church on Maraashly. “We are one. This was an attack on Egypt as a whole, and I am standing with the Copts because the only way things will change in this country is if we come together.”
In the days following the brutal attack on Saints Church in Alexandria, which left 21 dead on New Year’ eve, solidarity between Muslims and Copts has seen an unprecedented peak. Millions of Egyptians changed their Facebook profile pictures to the image of a cross within a crescent – the symbol of an “Egypt for All”. Around the city, banners went up calling for unity, and depicting mosques and churches, crosses and crescents, together as one.
The attack has rocked a nation that is no stranger to acts of terror, against all of Muslims, Jews and Copts. In January of last year, on the eve of Coptic Christmas, a drive-by shooting in the southern town of Nag Hammadi killed eight Copts as they were leaving Church following mass. In 2004 and 2005, bombings in the Red Sea resorts of Taba and Sharm El-Sheikh claimed over 100 lives, and in the late 90’s, Islamic militants executed a series of bombings and massacres that left dozens dead.
This attack though comes after a series of more recent incidents that have left Egyptians feeling left out in the cold by a government meant to protect them.
Last summer, 28-year-old businessman Khaled Said was beaten to death by police, also in Alexandria, causing a local and international uproar.
Around his death, there have been numerous other reports of police brutality, random arrests and torture.
By Daily Mail Reporter Last updated at 5:46 PM on 3rd February 2011
Striking photos of unity have emerged from the chaos in Egypt as Christian protesters stood together to protect Muslims as they prayed.
A group of Christians joined hands and faced out surrounding hundreds of Muslims protesters left vulnerable as they knelt in prayer.
She shared the images over Twitter, writing, 'Bear in mind that this pic was taken a month after z Alexandria bombing where many Christians died in vain. Yet we all stood by each other.'
The suicide bombing, shortly after the New Year's Day, killed 23 Coptic Christians, who make up 10 percent of Egypt's 80 million population.
Muslim radicals have been blamed.
One Colorado resident posted an email online that he received from his mother, who is Cairo visiting her daughter, the poster's sister.
She described a scene like those captured in the photos.
'Some Muslims have been guarding Coptic churches while Christians pray, and on Friday, Christians were guarding the mosques while Muslims prayed.'
This poem was written in the early 1900s by the Tunisian poet Aboul-Qacem Echebbi during the French occupation of Tunisia. It has found new meaning for Egyptians rebelling against dictator Hosni Mubarak.
ألا أيها الظالم المستبد
حبيب الظلام عدو الحياه
سخرت بأنات شعب ضعيف
و كفك مخضوبة من دماه
و سرت تشوه سحر الوجود
و تبذر شوك الاسى في رباه
رويدك لا يخدعنك الربيع
و صحو الفضاء و ضوء الصباح
ففي الافق الرحب هول الظلام و قصف الرعود و عصف الرياح
حذار فتحت الرماد اللهيب
و من يبذر الشوك يجن الجراح
تأمل هنالك انى حصدت رؤوس الورى و زهور الأمل
و رويت بالدم قلب التراب اشربته الدمع حتى ثمل
سيجرفك سيل الدماء
و يأكلك العاصف المشتعل
To the Tyrants of the World...
You, the lovers of the darkness...
You, the enemies of life...
You've made fun of innocent people's wounds; and your palm covered with their blood
You kept walking while you were deforming the charm of existence and growing seeds of sadness in their land
Wait, don't let the spring, the clearness of the sky and the shine of the morning light fool you...
Because the darkness, the thunder rumble and the blowing of the wind are coming toward you from the horizon
Beware because there is a fire underneath the ash
Who grows thorns will reap wounds
You've taken off heads of people and the flowers of hope; and watered the cure of the sand with blood and tears until it was drunk
The blood's river will sweep you away and you will be burned by the fiery storm.
