I used Woodle to create a word cloud involving my poetry over the last 18 months.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
"Praise Song for the Day" by Elizabeth Alexander
I was disappointed by the poem for Barack Obama's Presidential Inauguration. The poem itself is unremarkable. I was hoping for something moving and sweeping. Obama is from Chicago, the birthplace of poetry slam. I wasn't asking for a slam poem, but a more theatrical reading would have been appreciated.
Elizabeth Alexander was born in 1962 in Harlem, New York, and grew up in Washington, D.C. She received a B.A. from Yale University, an M.A. from Boston University (where she studied with Derek Walcott), and a Ph.D. in English from the University of Pennsylvania.
Her collections of poetry include American Sublime (Graywolf Press, 2005), which was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize; Antebellum Dream Book (2001); Body of Life (1996); and The Venus Hottentot (1990).
Alexander’s critical work appears in her essay collection, The Black Interior (Graywolf, 2004). She also edited The Essential Gwendolyn Brooks (Graywolf, 2005) and Love’s Instruments: Poems by Melvin Dixon (1995). Her poems, short stories, and critical writing have been widely published in such journals and periodicals as The Paris Review, American Poetry Review, The Kenyon Review, The Southern Review, Prairie Schooner, Callaloo, The Village Voice, The Women's Review of Books, and The Washington Post. Her work has been anthologized in over twenty collections, and in May of 1996, her verse play, Diva Studies, premiered at the Yale School of Drama.
About her work, Rita Dove has said that Alexander's "poems bristle with the irresistible quality of a world seen fresh," and Clarence Major has also noted her "instinct for turning her profound cultural vision into one that illuminates universal experience."
In 2007, Alexander was selected by Lucille Clifton, Stephen Dunn, and Jane Hirshfield to receive the Jackson Poetry Prize from Poets & Writers. She has also received a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship, a Pushcart Prize, the Quantrell Award for Excellence in Undergraduate Teaching at the University of Chicago, and the George Kent Award, given by Gwendolyn Brooks.
She has taught at Haverford College, the University of Chicago, the University of Pennsylvania, and Smith College, where she was Grace Hazard Conkling Poet-in-Residence, the first director of the Poetry Center at Smith College, and a member of the founding editorial collective for the feminist journal Meridians. She has served as a faculty member for Cave Canem Poetry Workshops, and has traveled extensively within the U.S. and abroad, giving poetry readings and lecturing on African American literature and culture.
Alexander was a fellow at the Whitney Humanities Center at Yale University, an Associate Professor in the school's African American Studies Department, and currently she is a fellow at the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study at Harvard University.
She was selected to read at Barack Obama's Presidential Inauguration in 2009.
"Praise Song for the Day"
By Elizabeth Alexander
Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other's
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.
All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.
Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.
Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.
A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.
We encounter each other in words, words
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider, reconsider.
We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
the will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what's on the other side.
I know there's something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.
Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,
picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.
Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.
Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?
Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.
In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,
praise song for walking forward in that light.
Elizabeth Alexander was born in 1962 in Harlem, New York, and grew up in Washington, D.C. She received a B.A. from Yale University, an M.A. from Boston University (where she studied with Derek Walcott), and a Ph.D. in English from the University of Pennsylvania.Her collections of poetry include American Sublime (Graywolf Press, 2005), which was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize; Antebellum Dream Book (2001); Body of Life (1996); and The Venus Hottentot (1990).
Alexander’s critical work appears in her essay collection, The Black Interior (Graywolf, 2004). She also edited The Essential Gwendolyn Brooks (Graywolf, 2005) and Love’s Instruments: Poems by Melvin Dixon (1995). Her poems, short stories, and critical writing have been widely published in such journals and periodicals as The Paris Review, American Poetry Review, The Kenyon Review, The Southern Review, Prairie Schooner, Callaloo, The Village Voice, The Women's Review of Books, and The Washington Post. Her work has been anthologized in over twenty collections, and in May of 1996, her verse play, Diva Studies, premiered at the Yale School of Drama.
About her work, Rita Dove has said that Alexander's "poems bristle with the irresistible quality of a world seen fresh," and Clarence Major has also noted her "instinct for turning her profound cultural vision into one that illuminates universal experience."
In 2007, Alexander was selected by Lucille Clifton, Stephen Dunn, and Jane Hirshfield to receive the Jackson Poetry Prize from Poets & Writers. She has also received a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship, a Pushcart Prize, the Quantrell Award for Excellence in Undergraduate Teaching at the University of Chicago, and the George Kent Award, given by Gwendolyn Brooks.
She has taught at Haverford College, the University of Chicago, the University of Pennsylvania, and Smith College, where she was Grace Hazard Conkling Poet-in-Residence, the first director of the Poetry Center at Smith College, and a member of the founding editorial collective for the feminist journal Meridians. She has served as a faculty member for Cave Canem Poetry Workshops, and has traveled extensively within the U.S. and abroad, giving poetry readings and lecturing on African American literature and culture.
Alexander was a fellow at the Whitney Humanities Center at Yale University, an Associate Professor in the school's African American Studies Department, and currently she is a fellow at the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study at Harvard University.
She was selected to read at Barack Obama's Presidential Inauguration in 2009.
"Praise Song for the Day"
By Elizabeth Alexander
Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other's
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.
All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.
Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.
Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.
A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.
We encounter each other in words, words
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider, reconsider.
We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
the will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what's on the other side.
I know there's something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.
Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,
picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.
Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.
Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?
Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.
In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,
praise song for walking forward in that light.
"Air and Simple Gifts" arranged by John Williams
My favorite part of the inauguration of President Barack Obama. Perhaps what made the piece so profound -- besides the fact I knew all the words to the Shaker hymn "Simple Gifts" due to my upbringing as a choir boy in the United Methodist Church, not bad for someone who's been an atheist since age 12 -- is that noon passed during the piece, meaning that under the 20th Amendment to the Constitution, Obama became president during the performance.
Air and Simple Gifts is a classical quartet by American composer John Williams composed for the January 20, 2009 inauguration of Barack Obama as President of the United States. The piece was first performed at the inauguration in Washington, D.C. by Anthony McGill (clarinet), Itzhak Perlman (violin), Yo-Yo Ma (cello) and Gabriela Montero (piano). It was the first classical quartet to be performed at a presidential inauguration. It was performed immediately prior to Obama taking the oath of office.
Williams based the piece on the familiar nineteenth century Shaker hymn "Simple Gifts," by Joseph Brackett. The source piece is famous for its appearance in Aaron Copland's ballet Appalachian Spring. Williams chose the selection from Copland, one of Obama's favorite classical composers.
And what else did John Williams write? That's right ...
... which proves Barack Obama is not just president ... he's a Jedi.
Air and Simple Gifts is a classical quartet by American composer John Williams composed for the January 20, 2009 inauguration of Barack Obama as President of the United States. The piece was first performed at the inauguration in Washington, D.C. by Anthony McGill (clarinet), Itzhak Perlman (violin), Yo-Yo Ma (cello) and Gabriela Montero (piano). It was the first classical quartet to be performed at a presidential inauguration. It was performed immediately prior to Obama taking the oath of office.
Williams based the piece on the familiar nineteenth century Shaker hymn "Simple Gifts," by Joseph Brackett. The source piece is famous for its appearance in Aaron Copland's ballet Appalachian Spring. Williams chose the selection from Copland, one of Obama's favorite classical composers.
-
- 'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free,
- 'Tis the gift to come down where you ought to be,
- And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
- 'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.
- When true simplicity is gain'd,
- To bow and to bend we shan't be asham'd,
- To turn, turn will be our delight,
- Till by turning, turning we come round right.
- 'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free,
And what else did John Williams write? That's right ...
... which proves Barack Obama is not just president ... he's a Jedi.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Sunday, January 18, 2009
She Only Loves Me When The Bars Close
she only loves me when the bars close
and no one else is willing to take her home
spilling drama Ibsen would envy
about this girl or that boy
who said or did something
we must deal with right away
even though the guilty parties
aren’t around to argue the contrary
she comes in the back door
as my roommates sleep oblivious to the impending Armageddon
soon to destroy us all
fights past all my contradictions
to slip into my satin sheets
and call me to bed
no matter whatever late-night duties require my attention
I just want to sleep
without a stranger’s tongue in my mouth
drift off to sleep alone and contented in my loneliness
without her arms wrapping envious tendrils around me
desperate for my attentions, tongue or cock
to remind her she’s human and wanted
I’ve lived my days without a woman
to make me feel like a man
just give me a soft pillow
and dreams of past lovers
or memories of travels
or fictional visions of potential futures
and I drift into dreamland
with a smile until dawn
but she calls me to bed
to wrap myself around her
hold her like all the lovers she’s left behind
I am not them
I am more than a body
with a hungry organ seeking a cathedral
to play my music in
while the seats sit empty of religious devotees
I don’t need the fictions
that tonight is the night two twin souls find each other
one drunk on whiskey
the other loaded up with gin
making long island iced tea love
ripe with thick cigarette smoke on our breath
to stink the air beneath the sheets
she slips off her clothes
throws her panties to floor
as if the only key I needed to her moistness
was the lack of a cotton barrier
my hips learned the motions
the thrust and throb of hips
from wise women who could have taught
a hundred thousand men
the way to love properly
I have been a student of masters
who still make my head spin
years after they taught me how to play
one who showed me how a tongue can speak verse
by the way it flicks and glides across a clit
as if poetry was not the sound of words
but their movement in space
another who wanted to fuck everywhere but the bed
finding the best place of all
was an overloaded dryer
bouncing off-balance
while the buzzer went off every 15 minutes for hours
another who taught me the way to find perfect rhythm
is to pretend you’re a jazz trio
accompanying a polka band
while the titanic sinks
loving a woman with hips and skins
takes intention and concentration
but their arts are wasted when you are, too
she calls for lips
pops a pill to ease herself
pulls close my muscles
and wants the better parts of me
to fill her
but when the competition is eighty proof
I see no reason to trespass on her intoxication
I want to love her
but her stories change too fast to trust
she stretches her limbs
rubs below my belt
to awaken what she thinks she wants
and opens her anime eyes to my otaku desires
but I’ve seen the way this ends
and no one in Neo-Tokyo lives to tell the tale
I am more than her cartoon perfect playmate
I’ve seen her pull the football out from her Charlie Browns
only she’s left unsatisfied and oblivious
while they go off to find
little red-haired girls to love
she treats her pussy like a daytrip destination
instead of somewhere one wants to live
pay a mortgage,
build a white-picket fence
and eventually retire
we’ve all gotten postcards
from those who’ve been there before
and the mystery has become a cheap tourist trap
we only visit for the novelty
of saying we’ve been there, done that
she spreads her legs
to spill honey
but she’s only catching flies
so I zip mine up
and sleep on the couch
by myself at least I’m with someone who loves me
for what I dream of
not what I dangle between my lonely thighs
she only loves me when the bars close
only calls after 2 a.m.
and I can tell her time zone
by checking the clock
each message begins with slurs
about missing me with extra “s”s
and how much she hates me for not calling back by three
but how much she loves me, but hates me, but loves me
whatever my name is tonight
she curses my lovers
points at their photos and says they’ll never love me again
but that’s not why I keep them
they loved me once
and that’s all I have in the end
she hates my wall-hanging lovers
because she hasn’t been one of them
she doesn’t remember
the night I let go of these rules
slipped part of me into her
and watched her writhe with joy
as her hips shook uncontrollably over and over and over
she asked me the next morning if we fucked
they way you’d ask someone
if they’d read a news story
or seen a movie
or cleaned the rain gutters last year
if she can’t remember
why remind her
I’ve fucked for fun
and for curiosity
but not to be forgotten
I don’t need any more stamps in my passport
and I’ve visited countries like hers before
she only loves me when the bars close
but I don’t serve what she’s drinking
I only save her a barstool
pour water and soda until she’s so drunk on her own vintage
that she doesn’t know what year it is
drifts off to sleep in my arms
only then is she finally honest enough
for me to trust her
only unconscious, still and silent
do I believe what she has to say
only then
when she can’t contradict me a thousand ways
I whisper what she wants to hear
and no one else is willing to take her home
spilling drama Ibsen would envy
about this girl or that boy
who said or did something
we must deal with right away
even though the guilty parties
aren’t around to argue the contrary
she comes in the back door
as my roommates sleep oblivious to the impending Armageddon
soon to destroy us all
fights past all my contradictions
to slip into my satin sheets
and call me to bed
no matter whatever late-night duties require my attention
I just want to sleep
without a stranger’s tongue in my mouth
drift off to sleep alone and contented in my loneliness
without her arms wrapping envious tendrils around me
desperate for my attentions, tongue or cock
to remind her she’s human and wanted
I’ve lived my days without a woman
to make me feel like a man
just give me a soft pillow
and dreams of past lovers
or memories of travels
or fictional visions of potential futures
and I drift into dreamland
with a smile until dawn
but she calls me to bed
to wrap myself around her
hold her like all the lovers she’s left behind
I am not them
I am more than a body
with a hungry organ seeking a cathedral
to play my music in
while the seats sit empty of religious devotees
I don’t need the fictions
that tonight is the night two twin souls find each other
one drunk on whiskey
the other loaded up with gin
making long island iced tea love
ripe with thick cigarette smoke on our breath
to stink the air beneath the sheets
she slips off her clothes
throws her panties to floor
as if the only key I needed to her moistness
was the lack of a cotton barrier
my hips learned the motions
the thrust and throb of hips
from wise women who could have taught
a hundred thousand men
the way to love properly
I have been a student of masters
who still make my head spin
years after they taught me how to play
one who showed me how a tongue can speak verse
by the way it flicks and glides across a clit
as if poetry was not the sound of words
but their movement in space
another who wanted to fuck everywhere but the bed
finding the best place of all
was an overloaded dryer
bouncing off-balance
while the buzzer went off every 15 minutes for hours
another who taught me the way to find perfect rhythm
is to pretend you’re a jazz trio
accompanying a polka band
while the titanic sinks
loving a woman with hips and skins
takes intention and concentration
but their arts are wasted when you are, too
she calls for lips
pops a pill to ease herself
pulls close my muscles
and wants the better parts of me
to fill her
but when the competition is eighty proof
I see no reason to trespass on her intoxication
I want to love her
but her stories change too fast to trust
she stretches her limbs
rubs below my belt
to awaken what she thinks she wants
and opens her anime eyes to my otaku desires
but I’ve seen the way this ends
and no one in Neo-Tokyo lives to tell the tale
I am more than her cartoon perfect playmate
I’ve seen her pull the football out from her Charlie Browns
only she’s left unsatisfied and oblivious
while they go off to find
little red-haired girls to love
she treats her pussy like a daytrip destination
instead of somewhere one wants to live
pay a mortgage,
build a white-picket fence
and eventually retire
we’ve all gotten postcards
from those who’ve been there before
and the mystery has become a cheap tourist trap
we only visit for the novelty
of saying we’ve been there, done that
she spreads her legs
to spill honey
but she’s only catching flies
so I zip mine up
and sleep on the couch
by myself at least I’m with someone who loves me
for what I dream of
not what I dangle between my lonely thighs
she only loves me when the bars close
only calls after 2 a.m.
and I can tell her time zone
by checking the clock
each message begins with slurs
about missing me with extra “s”s
and how much she hates me for not calling back by three
but how much she loves me, but hates me, but loves me
whatever my name is tonight
she curses my lovers
points at their photos and says they’ll never love me again
but that’s not why I keep them
they loved me once
and that’s all I have in the end
she hates my wall-hanging lovers
because she hasn’t been one of them
she doesn’t remember
the night I let go of these rules
slipped part of me into her
and watched her writhe with joy
as her hips shook uncontrollably over and over and over
she asked me the next morning if we fucked
they way you’d ask someone
if they’d read a news story
or seen a movie
or cleaned the rain gutters last year
if she can’t remember
why remind her
I’ve fucked for fun
and for curiosity
but not to be forgotten
I don’t need any more stamps in my passport
and I’ve visited countries like hers before
she only loves me when the bars close
but I don’t serve what she’s drinking
I only save her a barstool
pour water and soda until she’s so drunk on her own vintage
that she doesn’t know what year it is
drifts off to sleep in my arms
only then is she finally honest enough
for me to trust her
only unconscious, still and silent
do I believe what she has to say
only then
when she can’t contradict me a thousand ways
I whisper what she wants to hear
Saturday, January 17, 2009
She Only Loves Me When the Bars Close
I've been writing poetry for nearly a decade and I generally stay away from graphic sexual content or references; I think it's part of my conservative childhood. I avoid words that directly reference sex, but my relationship with the girl in this poem seems to revolve around sex exclusively despite my attempts to make it more meaningful.
As such, I include these references in the poem for dramatic effect.
Of Ashley Wintermute
she only loves me when the bars close
and no one else is willing to take her home
spilling drama Ibsen would envy
about this girl or that boy
who said or did something
we must deal with right away
even though the guilty parties
aren’t around to argue the contrary
she comes in the back door
as my roommates sleep oblivious to the impending Armageddon
soon to destroy us all
fights past all my contradictions
to slip into my satin sheets
and call me to bed
no matter whatever late-night duties require my attention
I just want to sleep
without a stranger’s tongue in my mouth
drift off to sleep alone and contented in my loneliness
without her arms wrapping envious tendrils around me
desperate for my attentions, tongue or cock
to remind her she’s human and wanted
I’ve lived my days without a woman
to make me feel like a man
just give me a soft pillow
and dreams of past lovers
or memories of travels
or fictional visions of potential futures
and I drift into dreamland
with a smile until dawn
but she calls me to bed
to wrap myself around her
hold her like all the lovers she’s left behind
I am not them
I am more than a body
with a hungry organ seeking a cathedral
to play my music in
while the seats sit empty of religious devotees
I don’t need the fictions
that tonight is the night two twin souls find each other
one drunk on whiskey
the other loaded up with gin
making long island iced tea love
ripe with thick cigarette smoke on our breath
to stink the air beneath the sheets
she slips off her clothes
throws her panties to floor
as if the only key I needed to her moistness
was the lack of a cotton barrier
my hips learned the motions
the thrust and throb of hips
from wise women who could have taught
a hundred thousand men
the way to love properly
I have been a student of masters
who still make my head spin
years after they taught me how to play
one who showed me how a tongue can speak verse
by the way it flicks and glides across a clit
as if poetry was not the sound of words
but their movement in space
another who wanted to fuck everywhere but the bed
finding the best place of all
was an overloaded dryer
bouncing off-balance
while the buzzer went off every 15 minutes for hours
another who taught me the way to find perfect rhythm
is to pretend you’re a jazz trio
accompanying a polka band
while the titanic sinks
loving a woman with hips and skins
takes intention and concentration
but their arts are wasted when you are, too
she calls for lips
pops a pill to ease herself
pulls close my muscles
and wants the better parts of me
to fill her
but when the competition is eighty proof
I see no reason to trespass on her intoxication
I want to love her
but her stories change too fast to trust
she stretches her limbs
rubs below my belt
to awaken what she thinks she wants
and opens her anime eyes to my otaku desires
but I’ve seen the way this ends
and no one in Neo-Tokyo lives to tell the tale
I am more than her cartoon perfect playmate
I’ve seen her pull the football out from her Charlie Browns
only she’s left unsatisfied and oblivious
while they go off to find
little red-haired girls to love
she treats her pussy like a daytrip destination
instead of somewhere one wants to live
pay a mortgage,
build a white-picket fence
and eventually retire
we’ve all gotten postcards
from those who’ve been there before
and the mystery has become a cheap tourist trap
we only visit for the novelty
of saying we’ve been there, done that
she spreads her legs
to spill honey
but she’s only catching flies
so I zip mine up
and sleep on the couch
by myself at least I’m with someone who loves me
for what I dream of
not what I dangle between my lonely thighs
she only loves me when the bars close
only calls after 2 a.m.
and I can tell her time zone
by checking the clock
each message begins with slurs
about missing me with extra “s”s
and how much she hates me for not calling back by three
but how much she loves me, but hates me, but loves me
whatever my name is tonight
she curses my lovers
points at their photos and says they’ll never love me again
but that’s not why I keep them
they loved me once
and that’s all I have in the end
she hates my wall-hanging lovers
because she hasn’t been one of them
she doesn’t remember
the night I let go of these rules
slipped part of me into her
and watched her writhe with joy
as her hips shook uncontrollably over and over and over
she asked me the next morning if we fucked
they way you’d ask someone
if they’d read a news story
or seen a movie
or cleaned the rain gutters last year
if she can’t remember
why remind her
I’ve fucked for fun
and for curiosity
but not to be forgotten
I don’t need any more stamps in my passport
and I’ve visited countries like hers before
she only loves me when the bars close
but I don’t serve what she’s drinking
I only save her a barstool
pour water and soda until she’s so drunk on her own vintage
that she doesn’t know what time it is
drifts off to sleep in my arms
only then is she finally honest enough
for me to trust her
only unconscious, still and silent
do I believe what she has to say
only then
when she can’t contradict me a thousand ways
I whisper what she wants to hear
As such, I include these references in the poem for dramatic effect.
--Contains sexual content and strong language--
She Only Loves Me When the Bars CloseOf Ashley Wintermute
she only loves me when the bars close
and no one else is willing to take her home
spilling drama Ibsen would envy
about this girl or that boy
who said or did something
we must deal with right away
even though the guilty parties
aren’t around to argue the contrary
she comes in the back door
as my roommates sleep oblivious to the impending Armageddon
soon to destroy us all
fights past all my contradictions
to slip into my satin sheets
and call me to bed
no matter whatever late-night duties require my attention
I just want to sleep
without a stranger’s tongue in my mouth
drift off to sleep alone and contented in my loneliness
without her arms wrapping envious tendrils around me
desperate for my attentions, tongue or cock
to remind her she’s human and wanted
I’ve lived my days without a woman
to make me feel like a man
just give me a soft pillow
and dreams of past lovers
or memories of travels
or fictional visions of potential futures
and I drift into dreamland
with a smile until dawn
but she calls me to bed
to wrap myself around her
hold her like all the lovers she’s left behind
I am not them
I am more than a body
with a hungry organ seeking a cathedral
to play my music in
while the seats sit empty of religious devotees
I don’t need the fictions
that tonight is the night two twin souls find each other
one drunk on whiskey
the other loaded up with gin
making long island iced tea love
ripe with thick cigarette smoke on our breath
to stink the air beneath the sheets
she slips off her clothes
throws her panties to floor
as if the only key I needed to her moistness
was the lack of a cotton barrier
my hips learned the motions
the thrust and throb of hips
from wise women who could have taught
a hundred thousand men
the way to love properly
I have been a student of masters
who still make my head spin
years after they taught me how to play
one who showed me how a tongue can speak verse
by the way it flicks and glides across a clit
as if poetry was not the sound of words
but their movement in space
another who wanted to fuck everywhere but the bed
finding the best place of all
was an overloaded dryer
bouncing off-balance
while the buzzer went off every 15 minutes for hours
another who taught me the way to find perfect rhythm
is to pretend you’re a jazz trio
accompanying a polka band
while the titanic sinks
loving a woman with hips and skins
takes intention and concentration
but their arts are wasted when you are, too
she calls for lips
pops a pill to ease herself
pulls close my muscles
and wants the better parts of me
to fill her
but when the competition is eighty proof
I see no reason to trespass on her intoxication
I want to love her
but her stories change too fast to trust
she stretches her limbs
rubs below my belt
to awaken what she thinks she wants
and opens her anime eyes to my otaku desires
but I’ve seen the way this ends
and no one in Neo-Tokyo lives to tell the tale
I am more than her cartoon perfect playmate
I’ve seen her pull the football out from her Charlie Browns
only she’s left unsatisfied and oblivious
while they go off to find
little red-haired girls to love
she treats her pussy like a daytrip destination
instead of somewhere one wants to live
pay a mortgage,
build a white-picket fence
and eventually retire
we’ve all gotten postcards
from those who’ve been there before
and the mystery has become a cheap tourist trap
we only visit for the novelty
of saying we’ve been there, done that
she spreads her legs
to spill honey
but she’s only catching flies
so I zip mine up
and sleep on the couch
by myself at least I’m with someone who loves me
for what I dream of
not what I dangle between my lonely thighs
she only loves me when the bars close
only calls after 2 a.m.
and I can tell her time zone
by checking the clock
each message begins with slurs
about missing me with extra “s”s
and how much she hates me for not calling back by three
but how much she loves me, but hates me, but loves me
whatever my name is tonight
she curses my lovers
points at their photos and says they’ll never love me again
but that’s not why I keep them
they loved me once
and that’s all I have in the end
she hates my wall-hanging lovers
because she hasn’t been one of them
she doesn’t remember
the night I let go of these rules
slipped part of me into her
and watched her writhe with joy
as her hips shook uncontrollably over and over and over
she asked me the next morning if we fucked
they way you’d ask someone
if they’d read a news story
or seen a movie
or cleaned the rain gutters last year
if she can’t remember
why remind her
I’ve fucked for fun
and for curiosity
but not to be forgotten
I don’t need any more stamps in my passport
and I’ve visited countries like hers before
she only loves me when the bars close
but I don’t serve what she’s drinking
I only save her a barstool
pour water and soda until she’s so drunk on her own vintage
that she doesn’t know what time it is
drifts off to sleep in my arms
only then is she finally honest enough
for me to trust her
only unconscious, still and silent
do I believe what she has to say
only then
when she can’t contradict me a thousand ways
I whisper what she wants to hear
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Mad Mahatma
I knew Gandhi back when he was a fighter
throwing fists in dark, low bars
with bikers and Brits alike
no one called him "the short guy"
without getting a knuckle across the jaw
he was fun in those days
a raging booze hound, his drink of choice
was a screwdriver, straight up
no waitress could pass by
without him grabbing a feel
ah - what a hell raiser
we called him the Mad Mahatma
he could run a pool table blindfolded,
while reciting the Bhagavah Gita
backwards
they said he was the toughest tiger
this side of the Ganges
and he was
i remember the time we got loaded
and drove halfway to Bombay
in a stolen car with a bottle of SoCo
and three six-packs of Natty Ice in the front seat
there was that brief car chase with the cops
in some nameless suburb
after we ran a stop light
sideswiped a rickshaw
and didn't stop to swap information
if it wasn't for his aim with a .38
into the left front tire of the lead cruiser
we might have served some time
instead of waking up hours later
in the shadow of an elephant herd
eyeing us with contempt
we ate well that night
ah, Mad Mahatma,
the man who mixed raw eggs with his
long island iced teas
claiming it cured hangovers
Mad Mahatma
who busted down a bookie's door
for no more than 37 rupees he was owed
Mad Mahatma
who got me drunk and tattooed
"reincarnate this"
across my ass
Mad Mahatma
where have you gone?
Mad Mahatma
where are you now?
Mad Mahatma
i'm tired of drinking alone
throwing fists in dark, low bars
with bikers and Brits alike
no one called him "the short guy"
without getting a knuckle across the jaw
he was fun in those days
a raging booze hound, his drink of choice
was a screwdriver, straight up
no waitress could pass by
without him grabbing a feel
ah - what a hell raiser
we called him the Mad Mahatma
he could run a pool table blindfolded,
while reciting the Bhagavah Gita
backwards
they said he was the toughest tiger
this side of the Ganges
and he was
i remember the time we got loaded
and drove halfway to Bombay
in a stolen car with a bottle of SoCo
and three six-packs of Natty Ice in the front seat
there was that brief car chase with the cops
in some nameless suburb
after we ran a stop light
sideswiped a rickshaw
and didn't stop to swap information
if it wasn't for his aim with a .38
into the left front tire of the lead cruiser
we might have served some time
instead of waking up hours later
in the shadow of an elephant herd
eyeing us with contempt
we ate well that night
ah, Mad Mahatma,
the man who mixed raw eggs with his
long island iced teas
claiming it cured hangovers
Mad Mahatma
who busted down a bookie's door
for no more than 37 rupees he was owed
Mad Mahatma
who got me drunk and tattooed
"reincarnate this"
across my ass
Mad Mahatma
where have you gone?
Mad Mahatma
where are you now?
Mad Mahatma
i'm tired of drinking alone
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 acknowledgements,
index,
and afterward from the publisher,
characters on a page.
and tonight,
I glimpse the reader's eyes
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 acknowledgements,
index,
and afterward from the publisher,
characters on a page.
and tonight,
I glimpse the reader's eyes
Monday, January 5, 2009
Round 4
Unfortunately, the tape failed before Round 4 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.
There is no video recording of Lauren Perry from Phoenix, Maya Asher from Tucson, Tristan Marshell from Mesa, Brian from Flagstaff, myself (Christopher Fox Graham) from Sedona, nor sorbet poet Tara Pollock or the victory poem by Team Sedona poet Sevan Aydinian.
There is no video recording of Lauren Perry from Phoenix, Maya Asher from Tucson, Tristan Marshell from Mesa, Brian from Flagstaff, myself (Christopher Fox Graham) from Sedona, nor sorbet poet Tara Pollock or the victory poem by Team Sedona poet Sevan Aydinian.
Poet Kaila Haas
Kaila Haas,
a 2007 graduate of Sedona Red Rock High School and a current resident of the Village of Oak Creek.
Sorbet poet between rounds 3 and 4 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
a 2007 graduate of Sedona Red Rock High School and a current resident of the Village of Oak Creek.
Sorbet poet between rounds 3 and 4 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Neil Gearns
Neil Gearns, representing Team Mesa in Round 3 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Lindsay Miller
Tucson Slam Master Lindsay Miller representing Team Tucson in Round 3 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Megan Reynolds
Megan Reynolds representing Team Phoenix in Round 3 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Sevan Aydinian
Sevan Aydinian representing Team Sedona in Round 3 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.
Video courtesy of Sevan Aydinian
Video courtesy of Sevan Aydinian
Maple Dewleaf
Maple Dewleaf representing Team Flagstaff in Round 3 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Terence Pratt redeux
Terence Pratt as the second sorbet poet after intermission and before Round 3 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Host Danielle Miller
The slam's host, Danielle Miller, reads a poem to kick off the second half of the slam after intermission. Miller is a local actress and poet.
Sorbet poet before round 3 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Sorbet poet before round 3 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Monday, December 29, 2008
Madaleine Beckwith
Madaleine Beckwith represented Team Phoenix in Round 2 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Dan Seaman
Dan Seaman representing Team Sedona in Round 2 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.
This was my favorite poem of the night.
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
This was my favorite poem of the night.
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Evan
Evan representing Team Flagstaff in Round 2 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.
(To skip the microphone stand problems, advance to time index 1:10, and then ignore me running around like an idiot after Evan finishes)
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
(To skip the microphone stand problems, advance to time index 1:10, and then ignore me running around like an idiot after Evan finishes)
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Jonathan Standiford
Jonathan Standiford representing Team Mesa in Round 2 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Mickey Randleman
Mickey Randleman representing Team Tucson in Round 2 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Jen Valencia
Jen Valencia,
a poet, graphic designer, and resident of the Village of Oak Creek.
Sorbet poet between rounds 1 and 2 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
a poet, graphic designer, and resident of the Village of Oak Creek.
Sorbet poet between rounds 1 and 2 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Team Flagstaff
A group poem by Team Flagstaff, comprised of Evan, Faldwin, Brian and Maple Dewleaf in Round 1 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Tufik Shayeb
Tufik Shayeb representing Team Mesa in Round 1 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Team Tucson
A group poem by Team Tuscon, comprised of Lindsay Miller, Mickey Randleman, Ethan Dickinson and Maya Asher in Round 1 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Jose Magana
Jose Magana represented Phoenix in Round 1 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Gary Every
Gary Every, represented Sedona in Round 1 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Terence Pratt
Terence Pratt as the calibration poet before Round 1 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.
Terence Pratt begins at time index 0:58
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Terence Pratt begins at time index 0:58
Video courtesy of Apollo Poetry, of TravelingPoet.com
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Old Town Shootout Poetry Slam results
Results from the Old Town Shootout Poetry Slam
The third Poexplosion 3
The third Poexplosion 3
Saturday, Dec. 13, 2008, Old Town Center for the Arts, Cottonwood, Arizona, 7:30 p.m.
Calibration poet Terence Pratt, a professor at Yavapai College and a Cottonwood City Councilman
Round 1
Sedona, Gary Every, 28.8 (1:59:47)
Phoenix, Jose Magana, 28.4 (2:41:29)
Tucson, group poem with Lindsay Miller, Mickey Randleman, Ethan Dickinson and Maya Asher, 28.6 (3:00:43)
Mesa, Tufik Shayeb, 29.6 (2:59:02)
Flagstaff, group poem with Evan, Faldwin, Maple Dewleaf and Brian, 26.1 (2:40:56)
Sorbet poet Jen Valencia, a writer from the Village of Oak Creek
Round 2
Tucson, Mickey Randleman, Ethan Dickinson, Maya Asher, 29.3 (2:34:16)Mesa, Jonathon Standiford, 30 with -0.5 time penalty (3:19:25)
Flagstaff, Evan, 26.7, with -1.5 time penalty (3:33:25)
Sedona, Dan Seaman, 29.9 with -0.5 time penalty (3:11:00)
Phoenix, Madaleine Beckwith, 28.4 (2:48:41)
---intermission---
Sorbet poet and host Danielle Miller
Sorbet poet Terence Pratt
Round 3
Flagstaff, Maple Dewleaf, 27.1 (1:32:37)Sedona, Apollo Poetry, 30 (2:58:32)
Phoenix, Megan, 27.7 (2:49:03)
Tuscon, Lindsay Miller, 29.2 (2:24:37)
Mesa, Neil Gearns, 27.6, (2:27:22)
Sorbet poet Kaila Haas, from the Village of Oak Creek and 2007 graduate of Sedona Red Rock High School
Round 4
Phoenix, Lauren Perry, 28.6 with -1.5 time penalty (3:33:06)Tucson, Maya Asher, 28.4 (2:24:24)
Mesa, Tristan Marshell, 30, (3:08:18)
Flagstaff, Brian, 28.9 (1:36:44)
Sedona, Christopher Fox Graham, 30 with -0.5 time penalty (3:11:18)
Sorbet poet Tara Pollock, from Sedona
Victory poem, Apollo Poetry, Team Sedona
Final scores
Sedona, 117.7
Mesa, 116.7
Tucson, 115.5
Phoenix, 111.6
Flagstaff, 107.3
Sedona, 117.7
Mesa, 116.7
Tucson, 115.5
Phoenix, 111.6
Flagstaff, 107.3
Slam staff
Scorekeeper: Alun WileTimekeeper: Danielle "Deeds" Gervasio
Host: Danielle Miller
Organizers: William Eaton, owner of the Old Town Center for the Arts
Christopher Fox Graham, Sedona 510 Poetry
Richard Hazen, owner of Green Carrot Cafe and D'Lish Very Vegetarian
A series of haiku
Traditional 5-7-5 haiku
Jedi Haiku
We are Jedi Knights
our words are our lightsabers
our Force is the Word
Mother's Day Haiku
I blacked out last night
no, this isn't my blood but
happy Mother's Day
Serial Killer Haiku
Funny you should ask
my trunk can fit two Boy Scouts
and a grandmother
Nicholas is in the Will; I'm a Footnote Haiku
I thought my mother
loved both her sons equally ...
until I saw the will
Heavy Pause Haiku
Then, years afterward,
I realized the problem was ...
...
...
...
... I hesitated
American 17-syllable haiku
My Grammar Can Beat Up Your Grammar Haiku
Why isn't "phonetic"
spelled phonetically?
While you think, let's make out
Dirty Old Man Haiku
And old man told me
the way to stay young
is sleep with 18-year-olds
Ella Garrett Haiku
We copy editors judge you,
reporters,
when you use bad grammar
Crucifixion Haiku (stolen from a joke by Dan Seaman)
Why did Jesus Christ
die on the cross?
Because he forgot the safe word
Bruce Haiku
Fathers should suffer
labor like mothers so they
don't bolt on their sons
Why I Act Like a Child Haiku
The older you get
the younger you feel.
At 40, I'll be fetal
Pudenda Haiku
My hand rests on your cleft:
the moist doorway from where
poems and poets are born
Theory of Relativity Haiku
The illusion of light
traps believers in the past
must move faster
Emigration Haiku
America is taxing my dreams
so I'm moving
to Canada
Arboreal Haiku
A tree falls in the woods
and no one is around.
Termites have no crowd
Insurance Haiku
"Drop your pants
and give me $100."
I hate my HMO.
Call Center Haiku
Work is so boring today.
I'll liven it up
with a homicide
Urban Violence Haiku
We were children once,
remember?
why do you now hold a gun?
Lisa Gaston Haiku
Somehow you can make
the words, "fuck me"
the most romantic phrase I know
Atheist Haiku
You ask why I am an atheist?
Fathers are our models
for God
Punk Rock Chick Haiku
Punk band patches
tats, pink hair, pierced attitude ...
I want her to break me
Michael Bay Haiku
If we're really headed to hell
in a hand basket,
I call shotgun
Why I Need My Sins Haiku
The histories we try to forget
end up
defining who we are
Nearsidedness Haiku
I should have seen
fucking you was dumb;
my testicles need spectacles
Thanksgiving Haiku
Before we start, I
want to say I hate you all.
Pass the salt, aunt Beth
Was it True Love Haiku
Loving you was
endless disappointment
with moments of denial
I Need a Front Page Story Haiku
Wildfires threaten Sedona
but I work for a newspaper.
So light up.
My Longest Relationship was 42 Days Haiku
Whales beach themselves
when they know it's over;
We stayed at sea way too long
Head to Head Haikus
Greg Nix Haiku
Greg Nix once said
he admired me.
Will he slobber on my pecker?
Greg Nix Haiku #2
I doubt it
a bottle, his foot and his shame
already fill his mouth
Damien Flores Haiku #1
Damien is cocky
about his haiku
but he still can't buy beer
Damien Flores Haiku #2
Easy way to win:
"Damien is 20, officer,
and he's drunk."
Why it's Hard to Kill Aaron Johnson With My Car Haiku
God damn lefties!
Aaron Johnson hitchhikes
facing oncoming traffic
Jedi Haiku
We are Jedi Knights
our words are our lightsabers
our Force is the Word
Mother's Day Haiku
I blacked out last night
no, this isn't my blood but
happy Mother's Day
Serial Killer Haiku
Funny you should ask
my trunk can fit two Boy Scouts
and a grandmother
Nicholas is in the Will; I'm a Footnote Haiku
I thought my mother
loved both her sons equally ...
until I saw the will
Heavy Pause Haiku
Then, years afterward,
I realized the problem was ...
...
...
...
... I hesitated
American 17-syllable haiku
My Grammar Can Beat Up Your Grammar Haiku
Why isn't "phonetic"
spelled phonetically?
While you think, let's make out
Dirty Old Man Haiku
And old man told me
the way to stay young
is sleep with 18-year-olds
Ella Garrett Haiku
We copy editors judge you,
reporters,
when you use bad grammar
Crucifixion Haiku (stolen from a joke by Dan Seaman)
Why did Jesus Christ
die on the cross?
Because he forgot the safe word
Bruce Haiku
Fathers should suffer
labor like mothers so they
don't bolt on their sons
Why I Act Like a Child Haiku
The older you get
the younger you feel.
At 40, I'll be fetal
Pudenda Haiku
My hand rests on your cleft:
the moist doorway from where
poems and poets are born
Theory of Relativity Haiku
The illusion of light
traps believers in the past
must move faster
Emigration Haiku
America is taxing my dreams
so I'm moving
to Canada
Arboreal Haiku
A tree falls in the woods
and no one is around.
Termites have no crowd
Insurance Haiku
"Drop your pants
and give me $100."
I hate my HMO.
Call Center Haiku
Work is so boring today.
I'll liven it up
with a homicide
Urban Violence Haiku
We were children once,
remember?
why do you now hold a gun?
Lisa Gaston Haiku
Somehow you can make
the words, "fuck me"
the most romantic phrase I know
Atheist Haiku
You ask why I am an atheist?
Fathers are our models
for God
Punk Rock Chick Haiku
Punk band patches
tats, pink hair, pierced attitude ...
I want her to break me
Michael Bay Haiku
If we're really headed to hell
in a hand basket,
I call shotgun
Why I Need My Sins Haiku
The histories we try to forget
end up
defining who we are
Nearsidedness Haiku
I should have seen
fucking you was dumb;
my testicles need spectacles
Thanksgiving Haiku
Before we start, I
want to say I hate you all.
Pass the salt, aunt Beth
Was it True Love Haiku
Loving you was
endless disappointment
with moments of denial
I Need a Front Page Story Haiku
Wildfires threaten Sedona
but I work for a newspaper.
So light up.
My Longest Relationship was 42 Days Haiku
Whales beach themselves
when they know it's over;
We stayed at sea way too long
Head to Head Haikus
Greg Nix Haiku
Greg Nix once said
he admired me.
Will he slobber on my pecker?
Greg Nix Haiku #2
I doubt it
a bottle, his foot and his shame
already fill his mouth
Damien Flores Haiku #1
Damien is cocky
about his haiku
but he still can't buy beer
Damien Flores Haiku #2
Easy way to win:
"Damien is 20, officer,
and he's drunk."
Why it's Hard to Kill Aaron Johnson With My Car Haiku
God damn lefties!
Aaron Johnson hitchhikes
facing oncoming traffic
Monday, December 1, 2008
State teams converge for Old Town Shootout Poetry Slam
The art of competitive spoken word returns to the Verde Valley with the Old Town Shootout, a high-energy, high-stakes team poetry slam on Saturday, Dec. 13.Performance poetry communities from around Arizona are sending their best four-poet teams to face off in four rounds of poetic competition. Tickets are $10.
The Old Town Shootout is the third “Poexplosion” team slam poetry event in Arizona. The first took place in Flagstaff in October, the second took place in Tucson in November and the fourth will take place in Phoenix.
Starting at 7:30 p.m., on Dec. 13, teams from Flagstaff, Tucson, Mesa and Phoenix will face off with a local team at the Old Town Center for the Arts, 633 N. Fifth St., Cottonwood.
Your local team consists of veteran slam poets from Sedona including Apollo Poetry, Gary Every and Christopher Fox Graham and Prescott poet Dan Seaman.
Poets from around the Verde Valley will also break up the competition with featured performances between rounds, including Terrence Pratt, a Yavapai College professor from Cottonwood, Jen Valencia, from the Village of Oak Creek, and Sean Mabe, from Sedona.
Team Sedona:
Born in Jerusalem and raised in New Jersey, Apollo Poetry is preparing for a nationwide spoken word tour, "Traveling Poet," being shot for The Travel Channel.Apollo was featured on MTV's "True Life" with over 10 million viewers, watching in a dozen different countries. In 2007, he became the first spoken word artist to perform at the Billboard Awards.
Apollo's major appearances include VIBE Magazine, The WakeUp Show, Source's Unsigned Hype, Showtime at Apollo, along with performances at Madison Square Garden & America West Arena.
Gary Every has been a geology explorer, carpenter, chef, piano player, punk rocker, dishwasher, photographer, mountain bike instructor, soccer coach and bonfire storyteller.Published nearly a thousand times, he has four books to his credit, "Cat Canyon Secrets," "Barrio Libre Poems," "Inca Butterflies" and "Drunken Astronomers." Every's poetry has appeared in the last three Rhysling Antholgies and he won the 2005 and 2006 best lifestyle feature awards from the Arizona Newspapers Association for his articles "The Apache Naichee Ceremony" and "Losing Geronimo's Language."
Christopher Fox Graham has been a performance poet since 2001 and represented Flagstaff and Sedona at four National Poetry Slams. In 2002, he co-founded a four-poet, three-month poetry tour in 2002 that performed in 26 U.S. states and Canada.Graham has performed for MTV's "Made" and on The Travel Channel's "Your Travel Guide" episode of Sedona. He has performed poetry in nearly 40 states, Canada, Ireland and Great Britain. Graham has self-published four poetry chapbooks and been published in three Northern Arizona poetry journals, three poetry slam anthologies, two spoken word CDs and two slam poetry DVDs.
One of the most distinguished voices in Arizona poetry, Dan Seaman is a second generation Arizona native and has lived in the Prescott area for 36 years. In 1997, Seaman formed the Prescott Area Poets Association to promote poetry as performance art and has been hosting open mics and special poetry evenings ever since.Seaman co-founded the Arcosanti Statewide Slab City Slam in 2000 and hosted the event until 2007.
Seaman hosts “Two-Lane Blues,” a blues and spoken word show aired Sunday evenings on KJZA 89.5 FM, the Prescott affiliate of National Public Radio.
What is slam?
Created in Chicago in 1984, poetry slam is a competitive artistic sport. Poetry slams are judged by five random members of the audience who assign numerical value to individual poets’ content and performance.
For tickets or more information about the Cottonwood poetry slam, call the Old Town Center for the Arts at 928-634-0940.
Additional ticket outlets include Green Carrot Café, Jerona Café and the Desert Dancer in Cottonwood; Golden Word Bookstore and Crystal Magic, in Sedona; The Worm bookstore in the Village of Oak Creek; and The Sage Post, in Jerome.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Vacancy Sign Over the Bed
embraced by solitude
a vacancy sign hangs over the bed
I expect no takers in the near future
nor do I advertise the free space
over coffee or pints
the cornucopia of hips and thighs
parade pheromonic aphrodisiacs
and carressable limbs
languidly eager for a lover’s touch
they pass my ascetic indifference
drawing xenobiologic attention
but not the primal leers
of a potential mate
I take mental notes for later publication
in an alien script
but feel no urge beyond curiosity
to explore hot breath or racing pulses
CNN holograms or Renaissance art
holds the same interest to look on
mumble an analysis
and pass on to other distractions of equal import
perhaps my pipes need lubrication
in the alcoholic bliss
that used to guide nightly paths
even penmanship has changed form
lacking the swirls and flourishes
that used to impress shoulder-huggers
now small and architectural
as articulation marries form
while the grace finds conviction
in the precision of each character
betraying emotionless observation
of the passing details without suspecting ulterior motives
my bed has no space
for conventional deceptions
the minor untruths spoken between mediocre lovers
if she’s hunting for me,
my exiled absence is the only quarry to discover
unless she breaks down the door
to kill me in my sleep
but I’ve long since given up the misguided assumption
that I’m chase-worthy
blank stares now purged of judgment
lacking younger preconceptions
I’ve played out all the manipulations to inevitable endings
leaned the tricks of chess masters
sighing at the impossibility of innovations
knowing all the results,
I seek other sports
something in four dimensions
worth the time and effort to maintain my interest
but lacking an adversary
such drive is just masturbatory exercise
that just leaves me spent and still hungry for more than this
I yearn for a match of
multiple-centenary plural-dimensional global thermonuclear chrononavigational hopscotch
but the world is still mastering 8-bit Pong
and my lightsaber hasn’t been invented yet
video pixels can’t encapsulate a proper opponent
worth the quarters I could waste to reach the credits
in the meantime I leave the vacancy wide open
stack pages of poems in place of a person
and look over my shoulder
hoping she’s caught me in her crosshairs
a vacancy sign hangs over the bed
I expect no takers in the near future
nor do I advertise the free space
over coffee or pints
the cornucopia of hips and thighs
parade pheromonic aphrodisiacs
and carressable limbs
languidly eager for a lover’s touch
they pass my ascetic indifference
drawing xenobiologic attention
but not the primal leers
of a potential mate
I take mental notes for later publication
in an alien script
but feel no urge beyond curiosity
to explore hot breath or racing pulses
CNN holograms or Renaissance art
holds the same interest to look on
mumble an analysis
and pass on to other distractions of equal import
perhaps my pipes need lubrication
in the alcoholic bliss
that used to guide nightly paths
even penmanship has changed form
lacking the swirls and flourishes
that used to impress shoulder-huggers
now small and architectural
as articulation marries form
while the grace finds conviction
in the precision of each character
betraying emotionless observation
of the passing details without suspecting ulterior motives
my bed has no space
for conventional deceptions
the minor untruths spoken between mediocre lovers
if she’s hunting for me,
my exiled absence is the only quarry to discover
unless she breaks down the door
to kill me in my sleep
but I’ve long since given up the misguided assumption
that I’m chase-worthy
blank stares now purged of judgment
lacking younger preconceptions
I’ve played out all the manipulations to inevitable endings
leaned the tricks of chess masters
sighing at the impossibility of innovations
knowing all the results,
I seek other sports
something in four dimensions
worth the time and effort to maintain my interest
but lacking an adversary
such drive is just masturbatory exercise
that just leaves me spent and still hungry for more than this
I yearn for a match of
multiple-centenary plural-dimensional global thermonuclear chrononavigational hopscotch
but the world is still mastering 8-bit Pong
and my lightsaber hasn’t been invented yet
video pixels can’t encapsulate a proper opponent
worth the quarters I could waste to reach the credits
in the meantime I leave the vacancy wide open
stack pages of poems in place of a person
and look over my shoulder
hoping she’s caught me in her crosshairs
Monday, November 17, 2008
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Smoking a Menthol
This poem was sent to me from a fan after a poetry slam in Flagstaff last Wednesday:Love, Ithaca
a little girl in love with a man
because he spits like nobody can
i only write angst but it's not sad this time
you've given a soul to my immature rhyme
a beautiful poet exposing himself
wih words that others would leave on the shelf
a time and a place and a moment in space
when each of your words explode in my face
you've officially released my epitomized hunger
.....
if only,
if only,
you were about ten years younger
My reply:
Smoking a Menthol
Age is just a footnote
a rank and role occupied for the convenience of labeling
name it to own it
but it defines the owner instead
i am no man
just a boy in well-worn skin
who still says "when i grow up ..."
in the days when i still thought
i could count all the stars
if I just kept trying
I believed there some faraway day
would welcome me to the adult fraternity
with pomp, circumstance and silly hats
but the calendar cycles never changed gears
and i'm still that boy counting stars
those who know four score and seven
but still see wonder in sunsets
are boys no older than me
and i've met old men
in the eyes of children
who stopped listening to strangers' fairytales
they're dying before growing tall enough to live
when generations divide at dinners
i prefer the kids' table
because the conversations are more honest
and imagination is just another utensil
i don't squirm to say the right thing
or earn favor through pleasantries
adults are done learning
they speak to be heard not to answer
glance nervously when i dangle a spoon from my nose
or crash land asparagus into mashed potatoes
with sound effects in stereo
a decade ago
i was too ripe off the vine
too raw to taste
it took ten years
shaken, stirred and slammed
by our wars of words
to ferment a vintage worth savoring
to shake loose the stems which formed me,
try on a thousand different skins,
ingest the angst, swallow the sins
let the teachings of sages sink in
and find new wisdoms to spill out
onto my pages in poems and prose
ten years passed
ten-thousand miles traveled
ten million words spit
to siphon out what needs saying
what needs burning
and what needs sanctifying
for students seeking guidance
assuage your hunger with our wine
each word is a sacrament
passing from speaker to speaker
assembling into our three-minute sermons
reciting scripture while hallelujahs await witness
hold each word holy
because the only gods worth knowing
are the stories we choose to teach
break your body
spill your blood
and spit "let there be light"
in your own tongue
to taste divinity on your breath
pull the unused words off the shelf
give them purpose with conviction
pack them tighter than dynamite
and detonate poems
to move the mountains
between you and the stage
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