Remembering Christopher Lane 10 years after his death

10 years ago today, a mutual friend called me early in the morning to let me know Christopher Lane had died. As I wrote 14 days ago on what would have been his 50th birthday, Lane and I were friends, enemies, rivals, collaborators and competitors. I wrote that we were often confused for the other by people in Sedona, mainly by older residents who met one of us -- as two 20ish/30ish slightly balding white guys with goatees who did slam poetry both named "Christopher" -- we were objectively very similar. They would ask me about his children thinking they were mine or ask him about my newspaper stories. 

We had had a falling out in 2006 that we never really rectified. In February 2007, Sedona Monthly ran an article of Lane's franchise of the Alzheimer's Poetry Project and accidently ran my name instead throughout the story and in all the photo captions, to which I took great delight; the reporter had never met me but somehow confused us. Lane later visited the Sedona Red Rock News to tease me about it and congratulate me on the story about him.

By 2009, when I started host the new Sedona Poetry Slam, he was doing his own poetry events, working with youth at Sedona Red Rock High School and the Alzheimer's Poetry Project. I thought, and I think he have too, that we would some day make peace as we had more in common than not.

Sober for over a decade, went to his old stomping grounds in Dallas in 2012 and died later in Sedona from drug-related complications, 14 days after he turned 40.

Christopher Michael Lane

Aug. 5, 1972 — Aug. 19, 2012

Christopher Lane, 40, of Sedona, died unexpectedly at home Sunday, Aug. 19, 2012. Lane is survived by his wife Akasha, sons Oren, 8, and Zephryn, 3; mother Jo Anna Lane; sister Becky Sherrill and J.B., and their children Jennifer, Jonathan and Jordan; brother Eddie Lane II and Sue, their two children; and brother Stephen Lane and Tina, and their two children. Founder of NORAZ Poets, Lane joyfully worked with local high schoolers and Alzheimer’s patients spreading the healing power of poetry. A memorial is Saturday, Aug. 25, 2012, at 5 p.m. at Indian Gardens Park. Carpooling is mandatory.

Our History

Christopher Lane grew up in Dallas. His father Eddie Lane died while they were at a lake east of Dallas when Christopher Lane was 11. He wrote about it in the poem "This Arizona Red Dirt."

Lane worked to open Best Buy locations in the late 1990s. He and met one of his buddies from those days at a restaurant in Scottsdale where they rehashed the crazy things and drugs they did. Lane famously had to often clear his upper sinuses with this snort-inhale thing he did because the cocaine and meth had torn up the cartilage between his upper nostrils. Lane left Dallas to get out of the drug scene, moving to Sedona to live with family and detox, telling me later that if he hadn't, he would have died in Dallas.

In a weird karmic twist, I now live a few houses away from his relative's former house, in whose basement apartment he got clean and sober, though his relative lost it to foreclosure in the Great Recession, seven years before I moved into my now-house. Lane later moved into a tiny trailer behind and above Indian Gardens Cafe & Market and Garland's Jewelry Store in Oak Creek Canyon. He worked in the market, as a waiter at Garland's Lodge further north in the canyon was the de facto night watchman over the jewelry store, which had loads of silver and turquoise and, aside from Sedona Fire District Station 5, not another neighbor for miles. Every few months he had to scare away someone, though I don't think anyone every successful broke in.

I met him a short while after at the first few Flagstaff Poetry Slams at The Alley Bar, which has since gone through several incarnations before becoming Firecreek Coffee Co., on Route 66.

We were on the first Flagstaff National Poetry Slam Team in 2001, with slam champion Joshua Fleming, slammaster Nick Fox, hip-hop poet Eric "A-rek" Dye, and our beloved coach and future college professor Andy "War" Hall.

A lot of his history is in 2002 poetry book, "Who Is Your God Now?"

After a year as slammaster of the Flagstaff Poetry Slam, I toured the country for three months in the summer of 2002 with poet Joshua Fleming, playwright David Escobedo and singer and songwriter Keith Breucker. 

After the tour, I moved to Phoenix. I would slam in Sedona and Flagstaff for bigger events. I moved to Sedona in March 2004 to help Lane run NORAZ Poets, our 501(c)(3) nonprofit, on whose board I was treasurer. Lane's wife was pregnant with their first son, Oren, and Lane needed someone who could run around Sedona promoting NORAZ Poets and chaparoning touring poets and putting them up for a few nights on my sofa.

Judges at the Canyon Moon Theatre for a Sedona Poetry Slam 

We were going to compete for real, no holds barred, on Friday, April 23, 2004, at the NORAZ Poets Grand Slam at the Orpheum Theater, but Akasha went into labor with Oren.

At the time I wrote: 

"Christopher Lane and Akasha had a baby at 8:17 on Friday night, Oren Jacob Lane ... 7lbs, 9oz. Already has more hair than Lane, and his beard is coming in the same. Oddly enough, I hear he's already taller than Chris. I am a surrogate uncle. But it means he was out of the slam ...." 

Then I wrote about my strep throat, adding, "by the Slam, I was feeling OK, more or less."

"More on the Slam later. Suffice it to say, the venue rocked, the audience was fucking huge, the host Bill Campana, feature (one of my best friends and former touring partner) Josh Fleming, calibrators Rebekah Crisp, John R. Kofonow, Dan Seaman, and Suzy La Follette, and slammers Justin "Biscuit" Powell, Sharkey Marado, Cass Hodges, Aaron Johnson, (and my NORAZ Teammates:) Brent Heffron, Logan Phillips, and Eric Larson were amazing. I was honored to share that stage. Everyone I know, poetry-wise in Northern Arizona was there, in addition to my Mom and step-dad Bill, and my Phoenician best friends Michael 'KuK' KuKuruga, Nikki Kaufmann, Kevin Crawford and his wife Erin Crawford." 

"Oh, and I won the slam. By more than 4 1/2 points while everyone else was fighting for the 1/10ths of points between them. Whoopty-fucking-do."

Because what Lane and I wanted was a real head-to-head. But Lane clearly loved being a father to Oren:

In 2005, Lane made the grand slam. I took third, after Logan Phillips, but ahead of Meghan Jones and Aaron Johnson. Logan Phillips made a DVD:

The DVD

NORAZ Poets won the Arizona state championship at the 5th annual Arcosanti Slab City Slam

The Arizona State Championship title has returned to NORthern AriZona. The NORAZ Poets won the Arcosanti Slab City Slam on April 28, by 16.5 points.
"That's two touchdowns and a field goal," Christopher Lane, NORAZ Poets executive director and Team NORAZ member, said.
The fifth annual Arcosanti Slab City Slam featured 10 teams from all across the state. The NORAZ Poets included three teams of four poets each. Team NORAZ, Team Prescott, Team FlagSlam, faced off against Team Tucson, Team Arcosanti, The Loose Nuts, Hangover Express, a third Phoenix team, The X-Hosts, a team of slam hosts from the East Valley of Phoenix and Team NORAZ's cross-state arch-rivals Team Mesa Nationals, who has won the last four This year's Mesa team includes Brent Heffron a member of the 2004 Team NORAZ.
The championship team consisted of 4 of the 5 members of Team NORAZ:
Christopher Lane, of Sedona
Meghan Jones, of Flagstaff
Christopher Fox Graham, of Sedona, and
Logan Philips, of Flagstaff.

Team Prescott:
Eric Larson, of Prescott, and a member of 2004 Team NORAZ
Patrick David DuHaime, of Prescott
David Rogers "Doc" Luben, of Prescott, and
Greg Nix, of Flagstaff

Team FlagSlam:
Aaron Johnson, of Flastaff, the fifth member of Team NORAZ
Kimmy Wilgus of Flagstaff
Rhett Pepe, of Flagstaff
John R. Kofonow, Slam Master of Flagstaff

The tournament consisted of all 10 teams competing in two preliminary rounds.
Christopher Lane, kicking off the slam with "if this poem," starting in the middle of the crowd and moving to the microphone as he performed. At the end of the first round, Team Mesa was ahead by a slim margin. But Meghan Jones' poem, "Where's Your Microphone?," a plea to the women poets in the crowd to become slam poets started off the second round with Team NORAZ in the lead, and the margin of victory only increased. Christopher Fox Graham's "We Call Him Papa" and Logan Philips' "The Boy's Pockets" cemented their lead.
As round two rolled around, Team Mesa came in fierce in the first slot. Team FlagSlam was in the third slot, followed by Team Prescott, and Team NORAZ in the sixth slot. Logan Philips started off with "Worth of Words," followed by Meghan Jones' "Patches", Christopher Fox Graham's "Spinal Language" and closing out the last round of the bout with Christopher Lane's "poetry is still."
The final bout would be the top 4 teams: Team NORAZ, Team Prescott,, Team Tucson and Team Mesa Nationals.
The night's poetry feature was Luke Warm Water, an activist, poet, epidemiologist an enrolled member of the Oglala Lakota (Sioux) Tribe, born and raised in Rapid City, S.D. Author of John Wayne Shot Me, Luke Warm Water, has performed across the United States, England and Germany, in 120 venues within the last 4 years. He was preceded by 2005 NORAZ Poets semi-finalist Rowie Shebala, of the Navajo Nation.
Team NORAZ now had a comfortable lead of 12 points. The finals bout was a "feature" round for the team. Christopher Lane performed "for Jessica…". Christopher Fox Graham brought out perhaps the most anticipated poem of the night, "The Peach is a Damn Sexy Fruit." Meghan Jones, made the night a hot one with the sensual, sexy "Honey." The line "caramelize me," melted the audience in their seats. To top out the night, Logan Philips performed "La Viejita de Sonora."

In the end:

Team NORAZ 339.4
Team Mesa Nationals 322.9
Team Prescott 320.9
Team Tucson 315.6

The night ended with a bronze pour at the Arcosanti Bronze Foundry where the Arconauts created the 40-pound bronze trophy, followed by a fire performance by Flam Chen, and a huge after-party that rolled until dawn.

Note that NORAZ Poets, not just Team NORAZ won the tournament. Of the 40 poets who competed, 13 of them were NORAZ Poets. We are a community of poets, not just a team, and not individuals. The victory and the trophy represents our strength as a community, unified in our diversity.

The 16th National Poetry Slam was held in Albuquerque, N.M.:

Logan Phillips, John Kofonow, Christopher Fox Graham, Meghan Jones, Christopher Lane and Oren, and Aaron Johnson at the 16th National Poetry Slam in Albuquerque, N.M.

We were joined by a cadre of Flagstaff poets, including Rowie Shebala. I was made the temporary legal guardian of my 16-year-old friend Sarrah Wile for the week because she wanted to go and her parents trusted me and the other poets. As I spent a good portion of the nights buzzed or drunk, she babysat me more than I did her. I wrote it was then and still is "one of the best organized NPSes. All venues were within walking distance of the Hotel Blue. The hotel manager lost his job for what he allowed us to do, but won the Spirit of the Slam Award."

Chris Lane and Logan Phillips performing at the 2005 National Poetry Slam

We had a group poem that year too

THIS POEM IS A TEST OF THE EMERGENCY BROADCAST SYSTEM

Team NORAZ 2005. 22junio2005. Assembled by logan phillips. Version 5.

opening sales jargon, all poets overlapping

 

Lane:

you want a candle that will burn for twelve fuckin years? We got that too

lane starts ebs tone

CFG:

We got Abba Zabba, poets love that Abba Zabba

cfg joins tone

Meghan:

Wheel of Fortune is taped on sight in beautiful California,

where the women are cheap, the gas is expensive

but none of that matters

meghan joins tone

Logan:

Beautiful uptown Sedona, Arizona

and more turquoise kokopellis than you could shake a camera at

Just don’t forget to pay the fees to see the forest

can’t see the forest for the fees

logan joins tone

Aaron:

It’s called Poetry Slam, now brought to you by

American Spirit tobacco, reminding you that Indians smoked too

Poetry Slam, institutionalized revolution

aaron joins tone

five count, then tone quits abruptly

poets snap to attention

All:

We inturrupt this slam to bring you a test of the Emergency Broadcast System

CFG:

The poets of your area

 In voluntary cooperation with authorities 

Have developed this system to keep you informed in the event of an emergency.

CFG & Aaron:

Remember, this is only a test

Logan:

But this is an emergency

Lane:

The poets of this room are not acting in concert with authorities.

CFG & Meghan start tone again

Aaron:

The Emergency Broadcast System tone

echoes like a 

Aaron & Logan:

glass blast

tone abruptly ends on ‘blast’

Aaron:

and wedding rings clashing.

My father, pierced with pieces of beer bottle

Meghan begins singing (from tone)

Aaron:

A pin cushion in the middle of the floor:

A casualty of domestic violence,

Reflected in the wide eyes of my sister.

We ignore violence unless it is in our own home.

Dialing 911 won't erase these memories.

Aaron & Lane:

THIS IS THE EMERGENCY!

to officers, neighbors, and siblings

cling to these precious angels.

Lane & Aaron picks up tone from Meghan singing

Meghan stops singing

CFG echoes numbers while Meghan is speaking

Meghan:

Every 9 seconds, a woman is battered.

95% of domestic violence victims are women.

30% of adolescent relationships are abusive.

Half of all rape victims are between 14 and 17

Aaron joins tone

Logan:

nine one one

nine one one (repeats)

Aaron & Lane  fade out tone as CFG speaks

CFG:

we replaced names with numbers

prefixed people with dollar signs

grew entrepreneurial enterprises

into economic empires

now most of us

have never shaken hands with those we work for

CFG & Meghan:

our success is killing us

CFG:

still starving, it burst past borders

so no nation is safe from it now

CFG & Meghan:

this is how cancer kills

Logan:

This is the emergency: we cut arts funding in schools

and more children cut themselves down in schools

This lack of urgency is the emergency, 

Logan & Meghan:

my mother leaving third grade after teaching for 18 years

Logan:

to teach kindergarten 

Logan & Lane:

where there are no standardized tests

Logan & Aaron:

this poem is not a standardized test

Logan & Meghan:

this poem is not a third grader taking a test

All:

this is a test of the emergency broadcast system.

Lane:

this is a repeat transmission. echoes of poets past.

finding a wittier way to say, 

Lane & Aaron:

"america, go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.", 

Lane

again 

Logan

and again 

Lane

and again.

you media implanted switches. party people twitchin' 

Lane & Logan:

on the next 'right thing to do' just broad-branded voodoo.

Lane:

poets, our podcasts need refreshin'. turn them into dust, 

somethin' i can touch, compost and bury. 

Lane, Meghan, CFG:

results will vary 

Lane:

'cause a poet's death is in their words 

resurrectin' 

Lane & CFG:

10,000 more poets

Lane:

to retransmit an emergency 

that keeps emerging as if a new word could save us...again 

Logan:

and again 

Lane:

and again...

All, cascading:

Poets have answers for everything

melt down, all poets overlapping

Lane:

who's that on the radio? is the a/c on? turn it down. i can't hear, 'drop it like it's hhhoooottt, drop it like it's hhhooott'. 

Logan:

yeah i'll hold on. i can't hear you! poets are too fucking loud. is he speaking, i can't hear you. poets are too fuckin' soft. 

Aaron:

i'll have a #6, medium size with season fries and a large dr. pepper. mayo on that...do you hear me...mayo muthafucka! 

CFG:

yeah i said he said she said one minute 'til eBay auction closed! She said ‘I see you eyeing the grocery girls’ 

Meghan:

I mean what the fuck, America, when can I go to the grocery store and buy what I need with my good looks?

overlapping stops

Logan:

This poem is going to shit

Lane:

Poets sayin the same ol crap

Aaron:

Naw man, This poem is

All:

a test of the emergency broadcast system

Meghan:

Cardboard sapping the moisture from my palms.

The society has created a caste system.

Classes of the rich and barely getting by.

Meghan & Aaron:

Religious 

Meghan & Logan:

and agnostic.

Meghan & CFG:

white, 

Meghan & Lane:

black, 

Meghan & Aaron:

brown.

Meghan:

You're looking for an emergency?

How about the lack of common decency?

It IS a civil emergency that we can't be civil to one another.

When's the last time you fed someone else

when you could hardly eat yourself?

CFG:

underneath cotton and etiquette

behind cash registers and caution tape

we are hunters with memories of the 

CFG, Meghan, Logan:

Serengeti, 

CFG:

now in the 

CFG & Lane:

United States of Arithmetic

CFG:

how many friends would you die for?

All: I bet it's less than 

CFG & Meghan:

20

Aaron:

Naw, the emergency is

Domestic abuse 

Logan:

Naw, the emergency is

cutting funding in schools

CFG:

Naw, the emergency is

turning people into numbers

Meghan:

Naw, the emergency is

lack of decency

Lane:

I’ve heard this all before

Aaron starts tone

Lane:

This is the emergency

Logan joins tone

Lane:

everyone just trying to fix problems from behind a microphone

CFG & Meghan  join tone

Lane:

meanwhile, outside this room

beyond these walls it’s all really happening

tone ends

Lane:

The emergency is us in here while this poem is out there.

But don’t worry because this poem

All cascade ‘this poem’

Lane & Logan:

This poem is just a test

Aaron:

We now return you to your regularly scheduled slam

The end of NORAZ Poets Slam Team

Lane "retired" from slam in 2006 and didn't compete for the team. The team was a mess with a clash of egos, two members quit and Lane suspended the slam team and kicked me out of NORAZ. 

It was ugly, it was petty, there were five or seven of us ultimately who tore the team apart for stupid selfish reasons in a game of brinksmanship that ultimately meant nothing. I missed out on two National Poetry Slams in Austin, Texas. I can't get those experiences back. But I was 16 years younger and more foolish.

Some day, I'll apologize to Meghan Jones for what it's worth. Not for what was said or what we did to each other, which I'm certain we both feel was justified at the time, but for the damage we caused each other and our scene afterward.

We should have been better. I should have at least.

Rather than rehash that, or trying and spin it, I don't want to pretend I did write these things 10 years ago. I'll just quote raw from my blog: 

Thus began the Sedona Poetry Civil War, as one of our mutual friends called it in 2010. For the first year, I was "banned" from competing in NORAZ slams, but still went to a few in Flagstaff while avoiding those in my own town. I still co-ran a relatively popular open mic with Greg Nix at the Szechuan Martini Bar.

Greg Nix was the voice of reason for both of us, writing:

i have been bothered for months about what has been happening b/w two very good friends of mine.  attached is a poem i think you should read, and below is a rant as well.  i know of no other way to communicate my concern about this bullshit between the two of you than what follows.  -greg

fucks fucking sake.  that's what i say to both of you.  i love both of you.  i wouldn't be a friend to either one of you if i didn't make an attempt at helping two friends with heads up their asses make amends.

lane, its your organization.  i absolutely respect that.  i always will.  i don't put an organization down as one of my primary beneficiares out of a sense of, well, lemme think, hubris?  i think what you do to promote this art form as a participatory community function is amazing.  fox, you're a mother fucking poet.  end of discussion.  i've always been taken aback by your words and your talent and i always will.  you hold a position in this community that is respected and admired - else, you wouldn't be the person that you are.  end of discussion.

maybe to set it straight as to where "greg's coming from" - is this:  i work in a field that brings me in to intimate encounters with the shit (on the walls, literally) and the misery and the disgust of human life that the two of you dance around.  yup - that is exactly what i am saying.  dance around.  people are inherently flawed.  people fuck up and make mistakes.  the mistakes that the two of you make are nothing to the fuck ups and idiocy that i get to spend my working day dealing with.  i deal with people who fuck up so bad that they might end up killing a child.  either of you care to "whip it out" now? 

lane - you have created an organization that is bigger than yourself and you are continuing to learn how to manage that.  fox - you can be an arrogant, shit headed asshole.  actually - both of you are capable of this.  so am i - so is everyone else on this fucking planet.  lane has an organization he has created that, well, for better lack of terminology - feeds his kid.  fox - you're too fucking full of pride to sit down and admit that you behaved in a manner that was immature and arrogant.  both of you - take a bite of humble pie.  trust me - it doesn't taste all that great, but it is something we all have to do from time to time.  i have to do it quite often, so fuck both of you if you think are "too good to do so".  you're not. 

as for why i decided to write both of you this email - all i can say is that you are both my friends.  two of the best friends i have made in this world.  on par with the two friends i have from childhood.  i can't stand "watching from the sidelines" as you both endeavour to fuck it all up.  i can't stand to sit around and listen to two people "posturing" over fucking bullshit.  life is fucking short.  you both are two great individuals and it pisses me off when i see two people who are such decent, good, moral individuals fuck things up because of the simple matter of pride.

lane - you don't have a right to tell fox what to do. 

fox - you don't have the right to be an asshole to everyone. 

both of you are free to be pissed off and angry at me.  i put up with it for a living  - trust me, it doesn't bother me.  seeing the state of affairs that you two are in, does bother me.  please, sit down, and quit being angry and pissed of and hurt at each other.  be friends and be adults. 

i love both of you,

greg

 

On March 12, 2007, [Lane] called for a truce and we met in a neutral location at a restaurant [Reds at the Sedona Rouge] to discuss the terms. 

"monday was the meeting between myself and christopher fox graham. and i have to say that it went very well. 

as some of you may know, i attended a seminar over a month ago where i experienced the greatest love i have ever known. for sometime now i have needed to move to a greater level in my spirituality and this seminar did it. there i discovered that before any real healing takes place i had to get rid of the "stuff" that i owned, which really owned me. i mad a decision to come from a loving place in all of my interactions with people as much as possible, of course, i am only human.

with that, i also decided to come from a loving place in our meeting on monday. there i saw how sincere mr. graham is. i do believe now that mr. graham has good intentions in mind. there was much emotion exchanged. we expressed our feelings and came up with a way where mr. graham can be a part of NORAZ once again. attached you will find the new NORAZ Community Code of Conduct. we will have this for ALL of the poets that wish to perform in slam. please review. the Code of Conduct will be voted on as soon as we assemble our Slam Sub-Committee next week. if any of you have any concerns about the Code of Conduct please feel free to contact me or aaron johnson.

i came away from the meeting happy there was resolution. i feel confident in NORAZ's intention to make this community a more vibrant and expressive. i feel confident we as advisory board members will communicate to one another if any issues come up with anyone representing NORAZ Poets. but as all of us already know, professionalism is key.

again please review the Code of Conduct. if you have any questions about it please ask.

graham has assured me that if any issues come up for him in the future he will contact me directly. and i assured him i would do the same for him.

Again, from my blog in 2012: 

We negotiated a code of conduct for NORAZ, the terms of which he changed when he sent a final draft on March 27, 2007, adding in a whole series of rules about drug and alcohol use, which in a poetry scene or any civil setting were superfluous and unnecessary for a simple nonprofit. 

After all, I held a poetry open mic at a Sedona bar and banning minors from entering was the job of the bar and the bouncers, not Nix and myself.

At the same time, Nix and I were hosting the Sedona Poetry Open Mic, an event which Lane wanted to put the NORAZ Poets logo, but which Nix and I declined as long as the alcohol portion of the code of conduct was still in question. In any case the dialogue fell apart by mid-April.

Nix and I called our Sedona poetry open mic the Sedona 510 Poetry Slam because, well, Lane was 5'9" and we thought it was funny to say you had to be 5'10" to read.

In the meantime, Lane apparently rethought trying to control all poetry slam events in Sedona. In April 2007, he wrote this:

This was our last email about the NORAZ Code of Conduct

We had some rough back-and-forths in the late spring and summer of 2007 regarding some Flagstaff slams. He was flippant, I was unrelenting, we were both unkind. There's no point rehashing those as they were just rhetorical nastiness. I regret that period as it set the stage for why we never reconciled.

In November 2007, Lane made his departure from slam official:

first i want to thank everyone who has been part of my spiritual growth since i moved to sedona in august of 2000. since then i have achieved great things and it's been with the help of all of you. all of you showing up evening after blessed evening for slam poetry to experience the excitement, the drama, the catharsis. it was fun wasn't it?
so to most of you that truly know me will not be surprised to learn that i am letting the slam go at the canyon moon theatre. mary and i sat down and after her kind of listening only a dear friend could give decided to let our good memories of the slam ring in our minds. so how did this happen? how did christopher come to this conclusion?
after seeing the growth my wife experienced in her first year at the university of santa monica , i decided, "i didn't want to be left behind." so i too sought the place of her growth.
now we've traded positions. she's watching oren and i'm attending my first year of a two year masters program in spiritual psychology.
my priorities are spiritual growth, serving my family, and serving my community of friends.
i also came to the conclusion that "you can't transmit something that you haven't got." - wise words i've heard for years but never quite grasped. i feel one must focus in on the things that fill one's heart. so i choose the children and their ways of teaching me. and i choose the elders for the ways they teach me. everything in between is life.
and personally, the messages i hear in slam resonate a different frequency in me. i'm choosing to listen differently. my personal work and projects are important and quite honestly, i have neglected them for a long time. so i choose to have a new album coming out in the beginning of 2008 consisting of my poetry and music written and performed by my nephew, jonathan sherrill. and a couple zeppelin covers. ;)
now after seven years of living in sedona, i am changing again. and i love how i can tell all of you this because i hold each of you with great joy and "in the knowing."
although some of you may be bummed that the slam will not be at the canyon moon theatre anymore, i am proud to announce a new event combining poetry and music making a new class of spoken word come alive. on friday, january 25th Blues Dawgs (myself and joe neri and his band, blues dawgs) david mills and gary every (Mighty Minstrels) will give sedona something they've never experienced. i hope all of you will give it some serious thought and join us that evening. we promise to make it fun!!
so there you have it friends. i felt all of you should be informed. if you still crave the poetry slam, check out the one aaron johnson, our assistant director, hosts every wednesday evening at the applesauce tea house in flagstaff (213 So. San Francisco st.) he has a regional or national touring slam poet every week that will rock your world! plus i'm sure someone will start up a slam again in sedona sooner or later.
again, thank you. i hold all of you dear to my heart and hope to see or hear from you soon. the following is few other places you can catch what i'm up to, but if we run into each other around town, that's even better:

In May 2008, Rochelle Brener died. She owned a small business, Write Here, in the Bashas' plaza. It as an office space for writing workshops and some light retail. NORAZ Poets had a desk and computer in the back. I was one of the poets who read at her funeral; Lane did not. I had also left the Sedona Red Rock News to take a job at the Managing Editor of Kudos. Afterwards, he wrote:

i just wanted to to acknowledge you on your new position!! congratulations!! i heard your reading at rochelle's memorial was a smash! great work!

I never responded. I should have.

Again, from my blog in 2012: 

In 2007-2008, Aaron Johnson stepped down as FlagSlam Slam Master. NORAZ. The new FlagSlam had little to do with NORAZ afterward, and in late 2008, the FlagSlam poets asked me to feature. That marked the end of Lane's involvement with the adult slam as he turned to Brave New Voices, the youth slam teams, and one for which there was more grant money to be had to run the nonprofit. I made a point to fill the void for all ages slams in the Verde Valley, first hosting a team slam at the Old Town Center for the Arts in Cottonwood, then later starting the Sedona Poetry Slam in 2009.

I went to Canyon Moon Theatre and told the director, Mary Guaraldi, that I had been approached by Sedona Studio Live to start a poetry slam. With 10,000 people, Sedona can't handle more than one slam, so I gave Canyon Moon the right of first refusal. To her credit, Guaraldi said she was waiting for Lane to restart the slam, which he had ended in 2006 so she didn't want to commit. He was done hosting competitive poetry slams.

I started the Sedona Poetry Slam in 2009 and ran it at Sedona Studio Live until it closed in June 2013. Then I took the slam to the Sedona International Film Festival's Mary D. Fisher Theater, where we've been since then.

Again, from my blog in 2012: 

By 2009, the civil war had become a cold one; he didn't attend or support any of my events and I didn't attend or support any of his; the exception being one Sedona Poetry Slam featuring a former 2001 teammate, Josh Fleming, which he attended but did not speak to me.

I stylized the Sedona Poetry Slam to be what NORAZ Poets had began as, and opposite of what it evolved into. I wanted Sedona Poetry Slam to be open to all without regard to poets' personal lives, democratic, supportive both artistically and financially, and I set the ground rule that under no circumstances would I make any profit from poetry slams. All money from the slam returns to the poets via prize money, feature poets' pay, or team registration. In the intervening years, I heard stories from other poets and arts organizers about questionable financial and personal behavior; money or support for programs promised, then retracted, then promised again, then retracted or renegotiated, and various poets in Northern Arizona had falling outs over projects he supported then backed off from.

Lane also began to refer to himself as Ya'ir, a Hebrew word meaning "he who enlightens," and putting "Christopher" into quotes. Lane was raised Catholic, but had become a Buddhist by the time I met him in Sedona. He converted to Judaism before marrying his wife, but the name change was a bit much. I mean, we used to make fun of poets with stage names, going so far as suggesting he starting slamming under the stage name "Moniker" and I start slamming as "Pre-10-Shus" (pretentious). 

Toward the end, I suppose someone in the scene should have seen the decline, but his charisma just made him seem like he was getting more and more eccentric.

Chris Lane with Navajo poet and writer Sherwin Bitsui in April 2012.

At some point in this process, when he was working with kids and the Alzheimer's poetry project, Lane decided to nix the "NORAZ Poets" name change the nonprofit to LARC or Literacy Arts for Rural Communities.

Lane and LARC did some good work with the Alzheimer’s Poetry Project, founded by Gary "Mex" Glazner, the official Minister of Fun for Poetry Slam Inc. who also created the first National Poetry Slam in 1990. 

The Alzheimer’s Poetry Project wrote a memorial for Lane on its website: We were deeply saddened to learn of Christopher's death in August of 2012. In the early stages of the APP Lane was the first person Glazner asked to help expand the APP to other states. He was an amazing advocate for poetry. On working with elders living with dementia Lane said, "I just see them as my Grand Ma and Grand Pa and hug them just like I would my own loved ones." He will be truly missed.

Lane was the director and founder of the Arizona chapter of the Alzheimer's Poetry Project, sponsored by Northern Arizona Poets, (NORAZ Poets) began in 2003, under Lane's direction and became an official 501(c)(3) organization in 2005.

Among Lane's awards include: the 2010 Bill Desmond Writing Award; Arizona Commission on the Arts, the 2009, Mayor's Arts Award; City of Sedona Individual Category, the 2009: Artist Project Grant; City of Sedona Arts and Culture Commission, the 2008, Gardens for Humanity; Visionary Grant and a 2006, Emerging Artist Grant; City of Sedona Arts and Culture Commission. He has been a featured reader at Desert Nights, Rising Stars Writers Conference at Arizona State University and the Tucson Poetry Festival. Lane was the author of "who is your god now?" published by Woodley & Watts. 

Lane had been in AA and NA since moving to Sedona. Without going too much into detail because I had to piece this together from about a dozen folks in the year after his death and someone of the specifics are unverifiable, what I know is at some point after waiting tables, he got a job as a sommelier at a Sedona resort. In the months (maybe longer, I have no idea) he began drinking a bit with a coworker of his I knew and told mutual friends he felt like he could handle his alcohol -- none of this I knew until after he died.

While at the newspaper, I found his name in a traffic stop for a potential DUI, which struck me as very odd considering I only knew him to be clean and sober, but trusting how reckless and resilient we artists are, just assumed he had briefly fallen off the wagon, was shocked back to sobriety by the traffic stop, and would the be the substance-free straight-edge poet we all knew. I heard he then left the sommelier job and began working at a local health food grocery store. A few times in that last year I would see him walking along State Route 89A as he lived right across the road. At some point nearing his 40th birthday, he went back to visit friends in Dallas. I don't know for certain if that's where he got the stuff he got or if it was local, but again, from my blog in 2012: 

On Aug. 19, 2012, at 7:05 a.m., Lane was pronounced dead at his home from benzodiazepine and narcotic intoxication, according to the Coconino County Medical Examiner's Office. I received word from a mutual friend later that morning and got a copy of the autopsy in September. Reading an autopsy is a odd experience -- an antiseptic description of a person's body you once used to share conversation and meals.

I always expected that at some point, Lane would have apologized and our years of enmity would have come to an abrupt end. I'm not vindictive without cause and I'm quick to forgive when I believe in the sincerity of an apology. With his accidental overdose, we never had the luxury of repairing our friendship, but deep down I always thought it was inevitable.

The civil war -- a melodramatic title but one I like, being a poet -- did make me into a better organizer and public figure simply because I tried to be his opposite. In the end, knowing him longer than nearly anyone outside of his family, and seeing both his light side and dark side, I feel like I knew him better than most and I hope in the end, he respected me as only a rival could. Coming to terms with his death was difficult because few people understood what having a sincere arch-rival or arch-nemesis is like. One mutual friend asked if I felt like Superman, Batman, or Obi-wan Kenobi hearing Lex Luthor, the Joker or Anakin Skywalker had died, but another [Bernard "The Klute" Schober (Feb. 8, 1973-July 18, 2022)] said it was more like Iron Man and Captain America: we were rivals and didn't get along, but in the end, we were on the same side, promoting poetry and inspiring other poets to take the stage.

Lane's funeral Saturday, Aug. 25, 2012. Due to our history and unreconciled animosity, I could not and would not go. He was cremated and has no burial site to pay my respects. I never got that closure, which is why his absence still haunts me.

The one upside is that one of his students was Claire Pearson. A year after Lane's death, a mutual friend suggested we meet. We bonded over our shared loss as I helped her join the Flagstaff Poetry Slam scene. 

In the end, we poets are our words. 

We leave a children behind, but of ourselves, just our words. 

Here are some of Lane's:

Lizard Brain

By Christopher Lane

the smell of your absence makes a recoil.

deep retreat past a broken darkness.

it is the waiting for annihilation from the beyond i had forgotten.

thousands of cars have past my window tonight. each without your headlights and all of them continue in your direction,

away.

we were not going to talk about this were we?

you, a onesided silence. me, punching at my words i regret already.

either way, this moon less night will cut jagged pieces of us echoing into quiet places where the sky is full.

this poem is hard.

as granite, as my proud legacy of which i have been dethroned.

as sharp as the reasons i write.

as tragic as the sound of passing vehicles carrying the laughter of others who have come to terms and extinguish their rage, tumbling from a slightly cracked window that circulates a welcoming coolness.

those are the lucky ones.

those are the blessed, yet subjects of my envy.

for they may never write hard words like broken, away or jagged,

or never pray to be the one to die first.

Sycamore

By Christopher Lane

if we were friends,

shadow dancing in shallow alleys

if i confided in you what poetry i have left

if i ended this new fight to keep their claws from your skin

would you still forgive my hipocracies?

would you still give your names to our children?

You, a poem in celebration of my youngest son’s homebirth

By Christopher Lane

Jan. 20, 2011

You, born in 2/4 time.

An 87 minute movement. Allegro.

Bath water still running.

Father focused but flailing.

Mother focused and firm.

Hands ready and soft.

I first feel your hair. Like mossy soft algae with whispy dirty strawberry highlights and I take full responsibility for that.

Next touch…your skin is made from the ghosts of all the flower pedals that have ever lived, lined with October clouds.

The rest of you is shaped by your mother.

You. Breathe.

You. Move.

This night, your birth-night, fills my belly with it’s stars.

At times your brother will sing to you when your frustration drowns your throat.

Your father has moments when the temples pillars become his bones.

And your mother can quilt all of this into a home.

You. The peace you make greets me in every doorway.

In your lungs my son, is your name, inhaled by Shakespeare’s and bums.

Tyranny and Jesus drank from the same rain that falls into your Sippy Cup.

And this Arizona red dirt has a story of gratitude. Wings for lovers under it’s skin and a front porch of infinite mornings – stars fading where birds begin.

And you.

You begin your crisp mornings making overjoyed ramblings. Tis a workout following hard you big brothers footsteps. And yet sometimes I doubt the wind.

Find too much red in the landscape. That Manzanita is twisting the wrong way. My sinuses confirm Gods’ hate for me…Juniper!

And too many men having too many meetings wasting too many minutes on the future.

My how your father forgets that words make thoughts heavy; become fists when formed and hurt when delivered.

How your father can loose himself in the final thoughts of Pompeii streets, the graves of fallen soldiers, the hard-drives of archaic machines…anywhere but now.

So it’s you.

You, born.

Wind upon wind.

Layered crescendos.

Into my hands, soft grace against you mothers chest.

You, starting you art career early with black marker, distracted parents and blank rented house walls.

You, rolling over, crawling, shuffling, running, peddling, swinging, swimming, climbing.

“Hey, where ya goin’?”

“Ok. Well, come home soon!”

It’s you. That reminds me that i was never born a poet, I was raised to be a bender of dark lines so the illuminated seem brighter.

And I raise you right here, in deep red dirt.

Surrounded by arroyos, coyotes and people that can’t really explain why we stay so we paint, sing, sculpt, play our reasons.

We bend light by opening our front doors on infinite front porch mornings. Fill our bellies with what’s left of stars and listen to song…

“You see? They're my sons. 

This

is where

birds

begin.”

Lane's "if this poem" was written in 2004, when we were just a year into the Iraq War. He and Akasha had gone to Indonesia along the Andaman Sea, prior to the December 2004 Indian Ocean earthquake and tsunami that killed 170,000 people.

if this poem

By Christopher Lane

yes jesus loves me,

yes jesus loves me,

yes jesus loves me.

if you are hearing this poem you are fine. nothing is wrong with you. you are perfect.

if tree falls in the forest, if no one else, a poet will be there to catch it. gathering the gift of its leaves to write these words. again. sharpen its branches to make spears. to make arrows. to make war. again. to lift up another martyr to crash it down. again.

poets. move another. 

no longer should we be allowed to speak to another poet unless we have answered the questions, "what, where, who have you helped today?"  no longer can we use the metaphor of our blood in ink unless we bleed for another. no longer can we use paper for our words unless it is recycled. the reason is in my son's name.
his name is OREN.
it's hebrew. look it up.

if you are reading this poem you are fine. nothing is wrong with you. you are perfect.

right now a soldier, he is your brother, shakes too much. "this is not right sarge. too many. to catch. is that a baby or...what is she carrying? HALT!! IDENTIFY YOURSELF..I SAID HHHHHHHAAAAAA.......!!!"

right now a palestinian boy. 13 years full of rage. see's the red black green and a book of old poems as freedom. wears a vest of sunlight. waiting til allah tells him to shine.

if you want to support our troops, do not place a magnetic "yellow ribbon" on the vehicle that drove them to war. these are my brothers too do not insult them.

do not be scared if you are muslim. do not be scared if you are jewish. be concerned if you are christian. there's a right wing, fundamentalist, FREAK in charge and heÕs making you look very bad.

yes, i know jesus loves me...a book of old poems told me so.

if you are feeling this poem, if you are feeling anything you are fine. nothing is wrong with you. you are perfect.

my sister in law, she is the strongest person i know. struggles her with breaths and never complains and has a hard time keeping her head up and my brother, sometimes finds her slumped in her wheelchair, her permanent fixture. she knows only of time because it is the only thing that stays with and takes from her as it hears, sees, feels fit. 

mothers and all potentials. mothers like mine. like my wife, omnipotent love. play for your children your favorite songs. wake them, to your singing. pour your foundation with ani defranco then spiral your way up. fathers, you owe it to yourselves to listen close too, but it's mr. defranco to you.

affirm your children. touch their chest then the sky, 

you are hashem and sarhai. 

muhammad and allah.

you are yeshuah and adonai.

buddha. buddha. buddha.

but don't let a book of old poems tell you so.

tonight, i pray. the thai muslim boy, gift from the andaman sea. the one i fished with all day, who taught me how to make a net out of nothing, who learned how to skip sea shells, this was our trade. i pray he listened to the animals. ran away from the vibration. listened, watched and felt enough to live on. live life perfect. that he was caught in the arms of Allah's light. because tonight i'm trying to listen, to hear my own words...

...so one day...sssshhhh...

...when my son falls in the forest and he will...

...a poet will be there

to catch him.

This was my first poem about Lane (and other poets who we have lost):

 

Lumberjacking

By Christopher Fox Graham

lumberjacking is the world’s most dangerous profession
falling trees and limbs slay lumberjacks at a rate
30 times higher than average
breaking bones a dozen times daily

these arms are not built to fell trees
these hands not built to wield axes or chainsaws
I am no lumberjack
but I know the sound of a tree falling in a forest
we do not know how many died
to build this stage
to erect these room
to raise this roof

poetry is the world’s most dangerous art form
suicide and addiction and overdose slay poets
at a rate not measured by the Bureau of Statistics
because we do not list "poet" as a profession
no matter how deep is in our bones

but I am a poet

these arms were built to climb trees
these hands to wield pen and microphone
the sound of a poet falling in a forest
sounds so much like a tree
even the Earth can't tell the difference
we do not know how many died
to raise this roof
to erect these room
to build this stage

I know no dead lumberjacks
but if I were to inscribe the names of all the dead poets
this body would be inkwell:

one drowned in the heat of lonely city
swallowing pills to stay afloat

one who found refuge in a bottle
until his liver took his heart in the divorce

one who shotgunned the worst of him
across pages of the best of him

one with the Will of a Haymaker
now Basquiating himself
with a heroin needle
refusing to hear us say "stop"

one who swam into the river
never intending to reach the far shore

one who took us "Up"
but only if we said it with him

one whose rooftop heart
can only be seen from So-Hi

one who conquered oceans' depths
to swim with men in grey suits
but died in the desert

one who relived his golden age
overdosing on methadone

one who named his son Oren
and told us to look it up
wrote that one day his son would fall,
but a poet would there to catch him

and another poet

and another

and another

I know no lumberjacks
but I know they must weep like I do
whenever these names come flooding back

we do not build furniture or homes or monuments or empires
tangibility that can exist without the living
we only leave behind our words
which yellow and age over time
only existing if we read or speak them
but there are too many words now
and not enough time
and I'm beginning to forget
and there's no one here to help

lumberjacks take refuge in the woods
work beneath the leaves
take revenge on the limbs and trees
that slew their brothers
but we poets have nowhere to go
but back to these pages
to these microphones
to these slam stages
where we pour out our rage
it's why we're always shouting
a Dead Poets Society
is trapped in our throats

I'm not even supposed to be here
there's too much sin,
sloth
and pride
to be a Speaker of the Dead
to bear this burden of survivor
I am the Devil's bad luck
and the Grim Reaper's off days

I am tired of burying our dead
of toasting our fallen as conquering heroes
of retelling all the same old stories
to those old poets who can remember
before the needle drained
the pills slowed
the bullet shattered
the depression became too much to bear

I am tired of telling new young poets
about who came before
or how their newest stanza
can make me weep
because it sounds so much like someone
they can read but never meet
they don't need this added weight
while learning to fly
I am tired of telling still-living poets
with one foot in the graveyard
and one hand on a needle
that I don't deserve to outlive them

one poet named his son “Pine Tree” in Hebrew
wrote that one day he would fall
I am no lumberjack
but I will ready to catch him
because a poet said to

I can build nothing
but this
this is a promise I can keep

and my final poem about Lane:

Autopsy 394494
By Christopher Fox Graham

When the medical examiner offers,
decline the autopsy report

instead remember him
as a photograph,
a memory of frozen time
of some long, far-off roadtrip
when you got too drunk to navigate
feet
in the right
or left
order
and he carried you
shoulder to shoulder
back to the stranger’s sofa

but if you must
if curiosity or some sense of honoring the dead
sways to accept,

ignore the REPORTED CIRCUMSTANCES OF DEATH
you already know the date
seared into your skull
turning mind to tombstone epitaph

make note of the time
“found unresponsive”
always in military notation
“in his residence”
always approximate
“by his wife”
and you can count the minutes
“pronounced dead”
292 minutes exactly from discovery to notification

EXTERNAL EXAMINATION
does not describe the man,
no, he is internal
the external is the zippered bag
which carried him
394,494 is an even composite number composed of four prime numbers multiplied together:
2 × 3 × 37 × 1777
the mnemonic device is easy to compound
2: the number of his children
3: the number of his survivors
37: the age he was when you last spoke
1777: the Battle of Saratoga
because you were never certain if you were his Benedict Arnold
or he was yours

CLOTHING AND PERSONAL EFFECTS
are the inconsequential pajamas
multicolored, plaid
the kind he always wore
when you drank coffee
and his wife made breakfast
the wedding band
devolved from its sacraments
now just “a white metal ring”
divorced from its vows
“with black paint”
faithlessly cold
“on the left ring finger”
you remembered when he swore those vows
on the grassy lawn in Oak Creek Canyon
you kept the black kippah from the service
though you have never been to a Jewish wedding since

EVIDENCE OF MEDICAL INTERVENTION
will not express the failure in the hands of the paramedics
who knew him from the grocery store
or saw him in the newspaper
the paragraph only notes the remnants
of the attempt to stop this destination
defibrillator pads
clear!
on the lateral aspects of the torso
clear!
EKG pads on the deltoids
clear!
bilaterally on the medial aspects of each leg
there is no followup paragraph
describing how the firefighters told his sons he was gone
you will not find footnotes describing the wail of his wife
how the glass in the house reverberated

EVIDENCE OF INJURY notes the “¾ x ½ inch abrasion
over the lateral aspect of the left knee cap”
but will not state that it was from a last moment with his boys
playing in the yard
the injury will fail to describe this as
the last memory of them in sunlight

SCARS, TATTOOS AND OTHER IDENTIFYING BODY FEATURES
measure the weight of lines and cuts
ink and healed wounds
a 5 x 1/8 scar curvilinear scar on the posterior parietal portion of the scalp
was unhidden by his shaved head
the report omits the motorcycle accident
that caused the oblique scar
adjacent to the superior margin on the left clavicle
you will have to remember he always told that the same way
like a goddamn war story
how the bike went down on the asphalt
the drugs in his system
which kept him alive and unfazed
until the paramedics arrived
not like this time

the report will note the tattoo of what “may be a Chinese character”
on the upper right pectoral area
there will be no attempt to identify the language

ADDENDUM from the poets:

 It was Chinese

and we knew him 

by it

On the upper central portion of the back is a large bar code tattoo

there will be no attempt made to scan it

but he did it once for you at a bookstore

you will remember the code is for 

“Slams: Volume One Dallas-March 1999”

available for $15.99

his tracks are Nos. 7 and 18

“God, Stadium Seating and Little Girls” is a ballad to Texas

the self-aware irony one sees in small towns

“True Power” is a sin caught in the throat

all the words spit for naught

considering the manner of his death

but the examiner overlooked the bulldog tattoo
the guardian hound on his forearm
earned in the Texas National Guard
shared with his brothers in arms

ADDENDUM from the poets:

this is the one secret we still have

not notated in the public record

the mark we alone remember

that the county will not take from us

we who knew him 

will speak of it in whispers

do not add it to this report

it was not there for the state

leave it omitted

so we may know each other by it

when we weep

the GENERAL EXTERNAL EXAMINATION notes
well-developed
well-nourished
Caucasian male
compatible with the reported age of 40 years
body is 66 inches in length and weighs 128 pounds
there is no notation indicating the change from his birth certificate
facial hair: goatee
corneas opacified
irises blue
conjuctivae congested
the teeth and natural and in good condition
there is no mention of the words they once held
the trachea is in the midline
no comments made about the force of breath
per line or stanza
the fingernails are intact
there is no measure of the layers of ink that have been buried beneath them
no commentary in how the fingers worked a typewriter
the impression of keys in the fingerprints
the soles of the feet are not remarkable
the report says
but they are, remember
when you got too drunk to navigate
feet
and he carried you
shoulder to shoulder
back to the stranger’s sofa
the soles of the feet are goddamn saviors
and they kept you alive more than once

INTERNAL EXAMINATION
involves a Y-shaped incision
the examiner calculates a 340-gram heart
which, must be noted, is larger than average
but you knew this already
despite his 128 pounds
he had the heart of giant twice his size
now unbeating
it will be a dead weight in his chest that you cannot restart
no matter how much you want to

FINAL SUMMARY is a misnomer
it has no measure of the man
it only states the cause of death:
benzodiazepine and narcotic intoxication
it will make no commentary on his fatherhood
it will offer no final weight of his impact
it does not calculate the number of poems written
nor left unfinished
it will not say if he wanted to forgive you
for all the unkind words you spoke to each other
nor will say he wanted your forgiveness
so you could be brothers again

you will have no catharsis

no resolution to your civil war

you will remain incomplete,

unfinished,

unanswered,

now go

and live with that

"Now, gods, stand up for bastards" performed by Riz Ahmed

 

Riz Ahmed speaks Edmund’s soliloquy from the start of Act I, Scene 2 in "King Lear." Edmund reflects upon being an illegitimate son and plots against his half-brother, Edgar.

from "King Lear," spoken by Edmund, the illegitimate son of the Earl of Gloucester

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law

My services are bound. Wherefore should I

Stand in the plague of custom, and permit

The curiosity of nations to deprive me?

For that I am some twelve or fourteen moonshines

Lag of a brother? Why bastard? Wherefore base?

When my dimensions are as well compact,

My mind as generous, and my shape as true

As honest madam’s issue? Why brand they us

With base? With baseness, bastardy? Base, base?

Who, in the lusty stealth of nature, take

More composition and fierce quality

Than doth, within a dull, stale, tired bed,

Go to th’ creating a whole tribe of fops

Got ‘tween asleep and wake? Well then,

Legitimate Edgar, I must have your land.

Our father’s love is to the bastard Edmund

As to th’ legitimate. Fine word-,’legitimate’!

Well, my legitimate, if this letter speed

And my invention thrive, Edmund the base

Shall top the legitimate. I grow, I prosper:

Now gods, stand up for bastards! 

Friends remember The Klute, aka Bernard Schober (1973-2022)

The Klute, aka Bernard Joseph Schober
(Feb. 8, 1973-July 18, 2022)

Photo by David Jolkovski/Larson Newspapers

The Klute, aka Bernard Schober (Feb. 8, 1973-July 18, 2022), died following a hike on Monday, July 18. There is a new story at the bottom of this post if you want to read the specifics. If you don't, stop when I write about Klute's last public post.

Memorial SERViCES

It is with profound sadness that the family and friends of Bernard Joseph Schober announce his passing. Please find information on both his viewing and remembrance ceremonies below.

Green Acres Mortuary & Cemetery
401 N Hayden Rd
Scottsdale, AZ 85257

[Map]

Viewing Ceremony
Saturday, July 23, 2022
3pm-7pm
Green Acres Mortuary & Cemetery
Main Building.

Celebration of Life
Saturday, August 13, 2022
4pm-8pm
Green Acres Mortuary & Cemetery
In the chapel
First hour dedication
Food and drinks available

Aug, 12, 2022
Hi everyone-
This is Bob. Thank you for your patience as we worked through the details to be able to webcast the Celebration of Life for Bernard. The event is tomorrow [Saturday, Aug. 13], and the details of time and place are listed on his website, theKlute.com.
This event will be live-streamed on Facebook, via this official page, The Klute, located at: https://www.facebook.com/TheKlute
While the service begins at 4pm, we will initiate the stream at 3:45 MST (or Pacific Time), or as close to it as we can. Please know that during the stream:
- We will not be able to respond to comments, and comments will not be shared with the live audience.
- Quality may suffer based on Internet availability. While we have secured an exclusive hotspot for access to stream with, it is still a wireless connection, and subject to the limitations of such.
Thank you all for the outreach to make sure that you had a way to be a part of this event. Should you have any questions, please feel free to DM Bob Nelson or message on The Klute's Page.

In the meantime, I process my grief I suppose the way any newspaperman does, by publishing the words and photos and stories of others so that you, dear readers, can use your own wisdom to weigh the measure of a man. I don't know how else to act. I will write about my feelings is a later post; I worked on this for the last 7 hours. This is still too fresh.

My wife Laura holding one of our oldest daughter's favorite stuffed animals. Athena loves sharks and loved when Klute would talk to her about them when visiting our house.

The last time I saw Klute in person was May 26 just after we brought our newborn twins home from the hospital. Klute performed in Sedona and was heading home when I begged him to turn around and pop in to see Athena because she had gotten all of her sharks ready to show off.
He visited and made a little 3-year-old girl feel very special.

I'll just say this:

I knew Klute 22 years. He helped me grieve the death of Christopher Lane when I could not grieve with anyone else. He was a slam rival and ally (the two are simultaneous in our sport), was groomsman at my bachelor party and wedding and one of my best friends. We talked politics and life in person and online and I valued his counsel in all things. 

Klute was a good man. 

I loved him as a brother.

I mourn him now.

See what all his others friends have to say:

Jessica Ballantyne-Keller

My best friend passed yesterday. 

I loved Bernard Schober like he was my family. 

He was my family. 

I cherished his friendship so much. 

He saved my life literally three times. 

I am currently completely lost after finding out this morning.

In lieu of flowers please donate to https://sharkangels.org

Bernard Schober was my best friend. 

I don’t just mean he was my best friend because we were like family,

I also mean he was the best person who was also my closest friend. 

I keep looking at his page, because I’m amazed at all the good Bernard did. I watch in real time as another story rolls in, how good of a human he was. 

To be honest, I always knew he was a good person. Seeing it posted in real time from hundreds of people is a completely different story and I didn’t fathom on any level how amazing of a human my best friend really was. 

Grief is selfish. 

Grief says he was mine to mourn on a level that I didn’t think anyone else deserved to. 

But that just isn’t true because everyone lost him,

And to think of all the good he was going to do after all the good he had already done is just mind blowing and I can’t possibly hold all of that to myself. 

It’s an impossible feat. 

He was an impossible feat. 

From open heart surgeries to diving with sharks to writing his poetry. 

There are some of you out there who have told me how much this man respected and loved me. 

I know he did. Even on days I didn’t deserve it. 

But I also know how many of you he loved and respected. And exactly the reasons why. 

It’s no less than every single one of you who has a Klute story. I’m dead serious. 

He saw the good in everyone. 

He was sometimes the only good thing about me. 

I walked a little taller when I was with Klute. 

I sent him my poetry to go over, and he sent me his. 

I could never be the poet he was because he could arrange words like houses of cards.  I always felt like I was grabbing bingo balls from a cage. 

I beat him one time at slam. One time. 

I rode that victory for two weeks straight. And he let me. He made it to almost every single one of the birthday parties I had for as long as I knew him. 

We sang karaoke together. 

He would call me while he was visiting his dad in Florida while walking home from the bars, would miss his turn by two streets and somehow would still navigate home ok. 

We had a mutual hatred of United Airlines. 

And then there was the one time we flew to Texas together for Grand Slam on United, and I’m pretty sure that’s the only time I can remember we didn’t run into problems. 

I say Bernard saved my life three times. 

And on three seperate occasions he absolutely did. It’s not a figure of speech. 

He loved me unconditionally, just like he did with everyone in his inner circle. 

To say I miss him is a complete understatement. It’s the pain that keeps on giving. I’ve said before and I’ll say again it feels like I’ve lost a limb. 

I have gone to send him a text no less than a thousand times over the last two days and that’s the kind of pain that breaks a person. 

But I’m trying to remain steadfast. 

He wouldn’t have left if he didn’t think we couldn’t handle it. 

So I’m handling this. 

And because of him and his influence, I have so many of you to help lift up and who are helping lift me up. 

I will never forgive Bernard for making me make friends. 

Also he would have laughed at that. 

I have said a few times over the last few days that words have become very hard for me. And they still are. But I needed all of this to get out while I still had them rumbling around in my brain. 

I love you, Bernard.

Partners Bernard Schober and Teresa Newkirk

Lauren Perry

For the first two minutes of my morning when I woke up today Klute, it’s as if it never happened. As if the phone call at 2:29pm on July 18th hadn't occurred at all and it had just been a really awful dream, as so many nightmares tend to be. I remember this time years ago, when you dramatically called me and said “Lauren! I had a dream I was walking along the River Sphinx! And the toll man asked for my coins so I pulled them from my eyelids.” 

My birthday 2021. He made everything so much more special!

It's as if our entire friendship, you have been preparing me for this day and even still, I feel as if I am on stage with a blank piece of paper and my poem unmemorized. 

Classy tiki adventures at Captain's Cabin.

It still doesn't seem real; not hearing your voice again calling me through the phone, that you’ll never again stand in my doorway before we head to Captain's for tiki drinks with your newest tiki mug that is always better than mine. 

Tiki adventures: Cthulhu addition with his fancy new birthday tiki!

Where you will no doubt regale us with videos of the ocean of these beautiful sharks and massive stingrays from your adventures scuba diving in sunken, lost cities. We never got to go together. There’s so much we’ll never do again. I swear that someday you were going to tell me you had grown gills; it seems almost silly now I think about that now, but I was so happy for you when you found the ocean and fully embraced it. You deserved so much to be happy, you had so much love in your heart and you gave it without wanting or needing anything in return! 

Favorite memory, back in 2010. We'd just crushed a duet on stage and got a perfect 50 at the SLC Utah Arts Festival. We were clearly the coolest kids in school!

Your friendship was the best gift I could have ever received while still feeling undeserving of. To say you are my best friend is the understatement of the century, you are my other half! The Giles to my Buffy! I god damn love you so much more than I ever felt I could ever love another person and I'm so very appreciative that I had almost 20 years of knowing you while being in awe of your achievements, you're unending strength to push through challenges that would have crippled a normal person. To always know the right thing to say at the right moment. How did you always do that? You used to joke that I'd save your life at least two or three times but really, you saved mine.

Klute's birthday 2022. He was so happy and had such a great night!!!!

You never gave up on me or our friendship. In truth, I think we only truly ever fought a handful of times which is pretty great considering all those twelve-hour road trips, late night flights to Florida and poetry competitions, crammed together in overly priced hotels with the stresses of getting scored a perfect score on stage. 

Haunted house adventures 2021. We finally made it out of that blood corn maze after 30 minutes!

I'll never forget when you finally told me your real first name was Bernard or that you were actually from Illinois and let me think you were from Florida. Like who keeps that a secret?! You are so incredibly funny and only ever really messed with me a few times, but when you did it was really something! Like when you calmly said “oh yeah, my father is the zodiac killer” like it was nothing then just turned away to watch tv, letting it hang there casually in the air, and just let me sit there thinking your dad was actually the zodiac killer for thirty minutes then laughed at me for believing you! 

Dream team, killing it on stage 2013 at Copperstate with a duet.

Your sarcastic sense of humor was unmatched; a secret layer of your personality that you shared in the rarest of moments. You were so damn funny! You loved haunted houses but hated horror movies. Last year when we got lost in that corn maze when it was so bloody cold and had to have a clown walk us back to the front so we could go through the zombie house twice even though you hated zombies, but still waited 18 years to tell me because I love them. You believed that sharks were kind and gentle creatures so you saved clippings of newspaper articles about them in your journal. You wrote beautiful fun journal entries about food you’d tasted on your trips and were a phenomenal cook. You loved to dance but were very specific about to what kind of music. 

Nerd Slam, IWPS Flagstaff edition.

There are so many tiny details that make you up that I can't even begin to describe them all even as I think about every single one of them, every memory, every moment; I'm breathing through them, missing you. This is the longest we’ve ever gone without talking. All my life, I will cherish the time we had together, even as I wish there have been more. You are the true last king of Egypt. Klute, you’re dearest person close to my heart. Not a day will go by that I will not feel the absence of your presence. All my love.

نرجو أن تعيش إلى الأبد في حقل القصب. أفضل صديق لي. توأم روحي. لقد كنت جيدًا جدًا بالنسبة لهذا العالم.

May you live forever in the Field of Reeds. 

My best friend. 

My Soul Mate. 

You were too good for this world.

13th Floor Haunted House 2021. He jumped numerous times. It was awesome!

David Tabor

It is a thing. Most of us will remember “The Klute” in this way or some other variation being behind a microphone etc. Most of my time with him was spent with Bernard Schober if that makes any sense to anyone. 

I could probably say the same thing in some ways that most of you know “Tabor”. A larger than life version of myself that I present and manicure for others entertainment. It’s not that it is an bit per say, but it a cultivated part of my life.

Especially the last two years with the pandemic lingering. We moved our long standing Saturday coffee drinking to his backyard and was one of the few pillars of normalcy in my life left. That and work.

I feel like we’ll have something to commemorate at some point. It’s a tough call when you realized that you are probably that person who does this or should be a part of that. As another one who is in the “double income- no kids” club and also had a brush with mortality; I have wondered about who does what when I pass on.

Bill Campana

there is no way to ease into something as devastating as losing one who has been a part of your life for 22-years.  in a world gone haywire, Bernard Schober always made sense of the chaos.  he lived his life doing what he loved.  he won his final slam last week.  out with a bang.  he was the supreme traveling companion, soundboard for all incorrect comments, purveyor of good times, and always seemed to enjoy it when on saturday mornings during our 22-year coffee klatch he would freshen my coffee and i would say, "thanks, doll face."  we are all going to miss you, my friend.  the inner circle is going to spin out off balance for a long time.  word from teresa is while hiking on monday morning had a heart attack and dialed 911 on his cell phone.  doctors worked on him for an hour.  this is going to take some time to sink in.

The Klute and Marc Schaefer, dive buddies and partners in crime

"Awake"

by The Klute

(2015)

I swim through the Blue Eternal.

She feeds me.

Truth told, that's all I've ever cared about.

Her waters are an endless buffet.

Bring me a Harp seal, 

Tender mackrel,

Robust tuna!

From each meal to the next, I devour the seas 

One bite at a time.

At the top of the game,

Atop the food chain

Who's the Great White Shark.

Who's an eating machine to all the fishes.

They say that's shark's a bad mother...

Shut your mouth!

I *can't* shut my mouth.

If I do, I'll die.

Mother Ocean and I are tied together

Bound by the oxygen I take from her body.

Five gills fluttering as bloody flags in the briny breeze

Keep me alive and in your nightmares,

Chasing you through REM sleep,

Waking you up in a cold sweat, 

Your heart pounding so hard

I can hear it whisper to me as I ply through the shoals

Close to your shore-hugging homes,

Tickling my senses with promise and delight.

I envy you.

Wishing I could stop and drift away

Stop my constant forward motion.

I know other residents of the deep can do it.

I have felt the wings of stingrays pull covers of sand over their bodies

Suprised dreaming dolphins bobbing in the waves,

Watches eels slip into crevices and disappear.

It looks wonderful.

To be able to stop, feel the wave's embrace

Cradling me in her arms,

The only movement a gentle tidal dance. 

Dolphins always talk of dreaming.

When they close their eyes

They can let the currents carry them to places long forgotten,

To places never been.

They can swim with the dead that my kind took from them,

Or simply float to half-heard whale song from the unfathomable depths.

It looks and sounds wonderful,

But I can't stop, not even for a moment.

My life is a series of forward motions,

Punctuated by 

Dive,

     Speed up, 

              Surface,

ATTACK

Dive,

     Dive,

          Dive,

Keep moving forward

NEVER STOP,

Forward! Forward!

Surface, 

Attack, ATTACK, ATTACK!

Forward, forward, 

Never stop moving forward.

I am forever swimming towards death.

Mine, yours, theirs...

The line between such trivialities grows thinner

With each passing flick of my tail, each meal, every mate.

The hourglass will always be half-empty to someone 

Who can never stop to turn it over,

But sometimes I imagine what it would be like to stop.

If destiny wants me to keep moving,

Who am I to argue with destiny?

But I can slow myself down until I'm just... barely...

Moving.

      

I cannot close my eyes, 

So I let myself sink to where the light does not reach

My tail barely moves,

And I begin to think I know what it must be like

To live without perpetual motion.

So deep that the sounds of waves against rocks grows ever silent

I sink deeper,

              deeper,

                     deeper

Into the endless black of the infinite sea.

I feel my fins flutter gently and twitch

I begin to feel Mother Ocean embrace me

And it feels wonderful.

I cannot stop.

This is not what she created me to be.

Sometimes though, I think I know what dreaming is.

I do not need to stop,

I only need to slow down.

I only need to sleep. 

Laura Lacanette

Bernard Schober your time here was over too soon but you really lived the hell out of this life. I’m absolutely devastated for your family, your partner, and your many dear friends. 

Thank you for always being so kind and welcoming to an awkward newbie, for making space and encouraging others, for supporting the weird and offbeat without judgement. Your talent with poetry and comedy was something I looked up to and I feel honored to have been able to share space and get my ass kicked by you on stage. 

You always used your larger than life presence to bring people up. I’ll never forget when I performed a nerdy poem that bombed, only to look out into the crowd and see you and Lauren standing up cheering your heads off. I wish I could tell you how much you meant to me and how much you will be missed. 

I hope you’re somewhere swimming with sharks, winning all the slams, and pissing off online trolls. So long Klute, and thanks for all the fish.

Laura Lacanette, Russ Kazmierczak, the Klute and Lauren Perry at Phoenix Fan Fusion, or, 

Julie Elefante

Dear Klute,

Bernard Schober. I hate that you died because you were so damned good at living. My torso is a heavy fist, but it loosens its grip when I read all the eulogies collecting on your page and feel the love that you put out coming back in with the tides. The affirmation, the ebb and flow, is soothing. We grew up next to oceans on opposite ends of the country, but we always celebrated the kinship. When people are born and bred by the sea, it threads its silver hooks and fine white lines along their spines and sways them into sleep. In turn, people of the sea leave their lines in everyone they touch. What a wonderful net you wove through all of us, and how well you filled it. 

Here are stories, things I’m grateful for:

A lot of people have talked about their poetry friendships with you. You did all that for me, too. And even after I left slam behind, you always asked me if I was going to read whenever you saw me at poetry events. There’s something so validating when a well-known, well-loved writer tells you they want to hear your words, and you did that for a lot of us. Thank you for that.

Looking through my hard drive, looking for memories of you, I’ve found hundreds of documents—photos, art, and of course poems. All the edits, layouts, and final proofs for so many of your chapbooks and books from the last 17 years. I loved that you asked me to take care of these, partly because you knew I’ve always loved layouts and editing, and partly because you trusted me with it all. AND, for every book, I was guaranteed a delicious home-cooked meal, some fine drink, and an evening of cartoons and conversation. Thank you for giving me all these opportunities to let me express my own passions, for believing in me and trusting me with your own. 

For a few months, when you needed a place to stay, I offered you a room in a house I was renting. Thank you, Klute, for being one of those rare roommates who was easy to live with, for cleaning up after yourself and around the house, for paying your share of the rent and bills on time, for just adulting so well. Sorry you had to clean up that chicken bone in a sock; the previous roommate wasn’t so good.

At one point, I was struggling with money but too stubborn and proud to take handouts, so I was picking up side jobs here and there. You took me aside and told me you were looking for a sort of personal assistant. You’d find random chores and errands that I’m sure you were just making up—putting all your printed poems into a binders, sorting out a pile of stuff you said you wanted to list on eBay, stuff like that. You paid more than the work was worth, that you could’ve done yourself in far less time and much more efficiently. I told you I’d tried pawning stuff, and during one visit to my place, you asked if I still used my old bike from college. It was several years old, well-used, and banged up, but you said you’d been meaning to buy a bike and asked how much I originally paid for it, and that’s just about how much you gave me for it. I don’t know if you ever rode it, and I can’t imagine you pedaling along with your long black duster flapping behind you in the breeze. You said you were enjoying it, though. That made me feel better. Thank you for treating me with dignity and generosity in equal measure. 

So your body is gone, but your light is still with me, inspiring me with everything you accomplished while you were here and were still pushing to do, ever so intrepid. Thank you for your friendship and your part in making me a better version of myself, thank you for weaving me into your life and letting me weave you indelibly into mine. 

Love you, Klute,

-J

"Another Planet" by B-Jam

B-Jam, aka Benjamin Gardea, performing "Another Planet" at The Rebel Lounge in Phoenix, AZ on May 24, 2022.

Ghost Poetry Show is committed to creating a community of writers from the greater Phoenix area (and beyond) to share their work on stage. We take pride in having poets that have never performed their work in front of anyone, all the way up to poets that have competed at the national level. No matter gender, race, religion, ethnicity, sexual orientation, or age anyone can take the stage and compete in the three round poetry slam.

"You common cry of curs," Coriolanus, performed by Paul Mauch

Paul Mauch performs as Coriolanus, in "Coriolanus" Act III, Scene III. 

Gnaeus Marcius is a Roman general who earns the toponymic cognomen "Coriolanus" after his military feats besieging the Volscians at the town of Corioli in 493 BC. Following his success he seeks to be consul in 491 BC, two years after Coriolanus' victory over the Volscians, as Rome was recovering from a grain shortage. A significant quantity of grain was imported from Sicily, and the senate debated the manner in which it should be distributed to the commoners. Coriolanus advocated that the provision of grain should be dependent upon the reversal of the pro-plebeian political reforms arising from the First Secessio Plebis in 494 BC. The populace were incensed at Coriolanus' proposal, and the tribunes put him on trial. The senators argued for the acquittal of Coriolanus, or at the least a merciful sentence. Coriolanus refused to attend on the day of his trial, and he was convicted. 

Coriolanus makes this speech berating the plebians before fleeing to the Volsci in exile. 

There, he was received and treated kindly, and resided with the Volscian leader Attius Tullus Aufidius. Coriolanus and Aufidius led the Volscian army against Roman towns, colonies and allies. Roman colonists were expelled from Circeii. They then retook the formerly Volscian towns of Satricum, Longula, Pollusca and Corioli. Then the Volscian army took the Roman towns of Lavinium, Corbio, Vitellia, Trebia, Lavici and Pedum.

Coriolanus's mother Volumniam Coriolanus's wife Virgilia and their child, dissuade him from destroying Rome, urging him instead to clear his name and he signs a peace treaty on behalf of the Volscians. When he returns to the Volscian capital of Antium (Anzio), conspirators, organised by Aufidius, kill him for his betrayal.

"The Other Solos" are a series of Shakespeare monologues that deal with issues of identity, migration, power and exile, performed by actors whose mother tongue is not English. This project was developed in response to recent world events and the increasing sentiment against migration in the media and Western society.

from "Coriolanus," spoken by exiled Roman General Gnaeus Marcius Coriolanus

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate

As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize

As the dead carcasses of unburied men

That do corrupt my air, I banish you;

And here remain with your uncertainty!

Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts!

Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes,

Fan you into despair! Have the power still

To banish your defenders; till at length

Your ignorance, which finds not till it feels,

Making not reservation of yourselves,

Still your own foes, deliver you as most

Abated captives to some nation

That won you without blows! Despising,

For you, the city, thus I turn my back:

There is a world elsewhere.

"If," by Rudyard Kipling, read by Sir Michael Caine

"If"

By Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you   

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

    But make allowance for their doubting too;   

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   

    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same;   

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

    And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   

    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

    If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   

    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son! 

"To Be or Not to Be," performed by Adrian Lester

Adrian Lester speaks Hamlet’s soliloquy from "Hamlet" Act III, scene 1, in which Hamlet, the prince of Denmark, reflects on mortality and considers taking his own life.

from "Hamlet," spoken by Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

To be, or not to be: that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;

No more; and by a sleep to say we end

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;

To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause: there's the respect

That makes calamity of so long life;

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscover'd country from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprises of great pith and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry,

And lose the name of action.