dirtyverbs on the airwaves

I'll be on the University's KJACK radio this Tuesday from 7pm-8pm, MST talking up the Grand Slam and probably doing a poem or two. Tune in via streaming mp3 or streaming window media player. This will be the second radio program I've been on in the last two weeks, last week Emilie Vardaman featured my poem "La Viejita de Sonora" on KBRP, 96.1 LP FM Bisbee during her borderlands poetry show. She explains the "LP" stands for "low power," meaning the broadcast just reaches Old Bisbee, they're hoping to boost power to cover Warren soon.

English at the Peaks Conference

@ DuBois Center, NAU, Flagstaff. More information. I'll be presenting "Beyond Page vs. Stage: Slam Poetry as an Accessible Form" with Dan Seaman of Prescott. Here's the abstract:

Beyond Page vs. Stage: Slam Poetry as an Accessible Form logan phillips and Daniel H. Seaman

Since it’s inception in the mid-1980’s, the competitive art of Poetry Slam has only continued to gain popularity, media exposure and momentum. This year, the fifteenth annual National Poetry Slam will be held just four hours from Flagstaff in Albuquerque, NM. This offers a unique opportunity for our thriving literary community to reflect on the influence and discourse of slam poetry here in Northern Arizona.

Our brief presentation, followed by a small panel discussion, will seek to debunk the “stage vs. page” myth by exploring the characteristics of slam poetry not as the opposite of “page poetry,” but rather as another poetry form. Equally as valid of a form as a sestina or sonnet, slam poetry draws on a long tradition of oral expression and is marked by specific characteristics which define it clearly. These characteristics include distinct uses of repetition, length, subject matter, and yes, even meter. Equally informed by hip-hop, popular culture, stand-up comedy, forensics and “traditional” poetry, slam is very visible and accessible, often acting as an entry point into the literary arts for those who may not have been exposed to them otherwise. This initial exposure often leads to further involvement in the literary community, as we will show using examples from our own area.

Far from being mutually exclusive, slam poetry and the more traditional literary arts stand to gain much from each other. Nowhere in poetry are popular culture and our society so clearly reflected, defined and critiqued as within slam. One could liken the young form to a flash flood entering the wider river of words, adding not only new audience and power, but also seeking to define itself and find its place within the flow of the literary arts.

The wind and the words: the Binational Poetry Reading

There were six of us packed the truck, three more in another car we picked up in Phoenix. Ever south, blasting cumbias through the gridlock, flying without flaw. Leaving Tucson always begins to make me think of home, the rolling hills that can't decide if the desert has ended or not, endless arroyos and a sky that dwarfs the earth. It was three in the afternoon when the Huachucas came over the horizon. They're where I grew up, those mountains, a country on both sides. Spring was laughing at how excited I was, and it's true, I've never returned home with such a sense of bringing something with me.

We stopped at la casa del sol long enough for my parents to start telling stories, then it was back to cars with the phrase of the viaje, vamanos pues. The border reading was on the west outskirts of Naco, about half an hour east on highway 92 from the house. The highway runs parallel to the border, somebody said "So you're telling me that those mountains are in the US," pointing to the Huachucas, "and those are in Mexico?" Eso es.

They're clinging to the arroyos with lawn chairs and potbellies. 92's route makes it the logical place for the Minutemen to perch, every time an arroyo comes carving down the mountain and across the highway, there they are, all walkie-talkies and sunburns. This can be said right now: the Minuteman Project is blown out of all proportion. Consider: 1000 were to show up, less that 150 actually did. Yes, it is still a dangerous and ridiculous situation to have them armed in a land that they don't understand, but small tailgate parties of SUV's and sunglasses doesn't impress me.

Every other car has a green stripe down the side: the Border Patrol's budget is all around us and obvious.

We finally turn south again onto Naco Highway, coming down onto the tiny town while flying by signs on both sides of the pavement:

"[Presidente] Fox's WMD's: illegals and drugs."

Others too, that I let fly in one eye and out the other. Naco itself is half ghost town. Once thriving, the militarization of the last few decades has left it with a 12' rusted wall cutting down its middle. Each side suffers for the want of its twin. The afternoon sun pushes through broken windows.

Then, a few turns, past the last golf course of Amuurica, then, de repente, por fin llegamos: a small sign reading "POETRY -->," pot holes, curves and a crowd.

The Wind. It is arguing with the earth in a constant 40 MPH gust, sin parrar. I open the car door, the wind swings it wide and sucks me out into the whipping afternoon. I forget my jacket, along with almost everything I meant to remember. I can't wait any longer, it's there: rusted and huge, patched and ugly, just as I remember it. We're moving along the wall, 30 or so of us in loose groups, walking past the cameraman from Univision and down the wide white road made of dust. The reading itself is about a mile down, they're telling us. We're walking into the low sun, into the stubborn wind. It's surreal, we look at each other, head shaking, laughing, moving off the road to let BP cruisers pass.

A dreadlocked man offers up the bed of his pickup truck, it strains under our tenfold weight. We're all here, many of my best friends, mi novia, my sister, my mom.

The wall drops down after a mile to only a steel girder about 2' off the sand. Here's where it is: a few cars, a bigger crowd, a man in a purple tie-dye shirt hooking up a PA to two car batteries. I'm smiling into the wind, there are people of every stripe: the Bisbee hippies, the Brown Berets, students from all over, a sunburned crowd wearing white shirts that read "ACLU LEGAL OBSERVER," gente de todas partes. My mom and sister huddle against the wall as more and more continue to arrive.

It's about 70 people as the cowboy MC calls the first poet, but still not a soul on the Mexican side. A few people are blaming the wind, but eventually a few do show up, so do los federales in two trucks. They keep their distance and scowl some, hats low over their eyes. The wind is vicious.

I feel like meeting every person standing there, and I mostly do: Isabel from Derechos Humanos, Rocío from Chihuahua, a million others, each involved in a their own project: a radio show, studies, protests, change and optimism.

Then my name is called, my crew makes some noise, I'm up there trying to convey how far we've come and how worthwhile the trip has already been. I perform "La Viejita de Sonora," which is probably my favorite border poem of the moment. I keep having to grab the mic to keep it from falling over in the wind. Like always, it's a blur. Looking at the crowd, about a third have some kind of camera in front of them. I think Tabor describes it best when he says it's like looking out at a Sony catalog. But there I am, screaming

I choose people, I choose the wind, I choose the beginning not the end.

I believe in the songs she sings, I believe that words are wings, people have always moved and borders will be removed.

I chose people...

As that very wind is tearing at me and around me, causing the wall to shudder and eyes to squint. My eyes are either watering or crying, I fall into a crowd that's hugs, handshakes, smiles, video release forms. Univision asks to interview me, I say something like "Ahorita vengo de Flagstaff, pero yo soy de aquí, crecí por las afueras de Sierra Vista. Está es mi lucha, está es mi tierra. Estamos aquí para declarar que el pueblo de la frontera es un pueblo unido y no estamos de acuerdo con los vigilantes que han llegado de otras partes tratando de dividirnos. Aquí no somos racistas." Then the reporter, who is short a cameraman, has me hold the camera as he does an intro for his piece.

My best friend, Biskit reads and has the crowd in stitches, I'm in the back shouting his refrain with him into the wind.

There is a film crew there from Russia, they talk to me briefly but seem to be too terrorized by the wind.

I'm called back up to read again. Derechos Humanos has brought a milk crate full of white crosses with names and dates of inmigrantes who have died in this area, it's sitting to the side next to the car batteries. I ask the crowd to give me a second. "This is for them," I say, placing it in front of the mic, "este poema es para ellos." I read ¿Sin Voz?.

I remember when I was younger bringing home Adam Sandler comedies to my parents. When I had watched them with my friends, they were hilarious. When I watched them with them with my parents, every off-color joke and cuss was suddenly painfully evident. It was a completely different movie.

In a way, it is like that reading ¿Sin Voz? down there. I am literally standing with the wall on my right and the Huachucas on my left, the US in front and México over my shoulder. I believe that every work of art has its time and place. It may always be good, but there is a moment where it is at its most poignant. It was that for ¿Sin Voz?

...And it's not that they're voiceless, no me digas esa piche mentira otra vez, it's that sometimes numbers speak louder than verbs. 60% of all eight million illegal Mexican immigrants living in the United States crossed through our state of Arizona.

150 dead in 2003, over 200 dead in 2004, 14 dead in a single December day 2003, the average Mexican makes $4,000 a year. How much did Jim Gilchrist make last year?...

There were so many moments. A 70-year-old woman holding up a young girl's sweater she had found in the desert and reading a poem imagining the girl's crossing as if she were her granddaughter. A young student reading pure passion from the Mexican side, her voice breaking and beautiful. People hopping back and forth over the girder border, laughing.

I am so thankful for all of the people who put this reading together, it was the most powerful event I have ever read at. Thanks to all who came. Les agradezco tanto... NOS VEMOS.

Special thanks to Tabor for the photos.

Watch video of the reading.

Gadsden in Sestina

During full moons on the border, the helicoptersare violent in the midnight air, fighting to fly and spy the footsteps that are called illegal in moonlight. My house seems to shudder and move and I'm expected not to notice,

no one is ever expected to notice. The border is a breath caged in steel, created with the movement of a pen, drunk, violent across parchment, never mind that it was almost illegal, this line drawn across footprints.

They say the American, Gadsden, his footsteps crooked, didn't notice how much tequila he drank while debating the particulars. He signed the 1853 treaty for half of what he had been told to: the border was to be pushed halfway to Mexico City without a violent shot fired, but Gadsden, a woman on each knee, was moved to compromise.

If he had been too drunk to move that pen at all, I would have taken my first baby steps in Mexico instead of the U.S. The subtle violence of coincidence almost doesn't exist until you notice it, like the border almost didn't exist until a law was passed to raise a twelve-foot steel wall,

a law was passed to begin patrols with helicopters, to regulate the air moving between two countries, to electrify the border fence, to put landmines under footsteps, to take down bilingual notices, to institutionalize the violence

instead of find the cause of the violence. It shouldn't be legal, this game of noticing effects instead of causes. An American moves into a gated community, a Mexican puts one foot in front of the other, both thinking of the border.

Gadsden, father of border helicopters and my baby steps, father of illegal violence that no one cares to notice: we're all waiting to see how your wild night will end.

•

La Venta de la Mesilla

En la frontera, durante las lunas llenas, los helicópteros son violentos en el aire de medianoche, luchando para volar y espiar las pisadas llamadas ilegales debajo de la luna. Mi casa parece estremecerse y moverse, y esperan que yo no lo note, esperan que nadie lo note. La frontera es un respiro enjaulado en acero, creado con el movimiento de una pluma borracha, violenta tras el tratado, no importa que fuera casi ilegal esta línea dibujada sobre las huellas de las pisadas. Dicen que el gringo Gadsden torció sus pisadas, no midió cuanto tequila tomó mientras debatía los pormenores. Firmó el tratado de 1853 por la mitad de lo que a él le ordenaron: la frontera se extendería casi hasta la ciudad de México, sin un sólo tiro disparado, pero Gadsden, con una fichera en cada rodilla, fue motivado a cambiar de idea.

Si hubiera estado demasiado borracho para mover aquella pluma, yo hubiera dado mis primeros pasos en México en vez de los Estados Unidos. La sutil coincidencia de la violencia casi no existe hasta que la ves, como la frontera que casi no existió hasta que una ley levantó una muralla acerada de cuatro metros,

una ley que aprobó el patrullaje con helicópteros, reguló el movimiento del aire entre dos países, electrificó el alambrado, colocó minas anti-personales bajo las pisadas, quitó letreros bilingües, institucionalizó la violencia en vez de hallar la causa de la violencia.

No debería ser legal este juego de notar los efectos en vez de las causas. Un gringo se muda a una comunidad cerrada, un mexicano va paso a paso, ambos van pensando en la frontera.

Gadsden, padre de los helicópteros fronterizos y de mis primeros pasos, padre de la violencia ilegal a la que nadie le presta atención: ahora nosotros estamos esperando para ver como aquella borrachera tuya terminará.

•

Sedona Centerpalooza

@ Sedona Center Park. More info TBA, such as a specific time.

NORAZ Poetry Grand Slam

@ the Orpheum (15 W. Aspen St), Flagstaff.
It's the biggest event of all year! buy tickets!

From the M.A.D. Linguist in Prescott. From Studio 111 in Flagstaff. And from the Canyon Moon Theatre in Sedona, over twenty poetry slams have rocked this quietly beautiful community of Northern Arizona into a force to be reckoned with. “What the heck are you talking about?”, you ask? I’m talking about the hard work, the determination of over 80 performance poets spittin’ metaphoric fire, rippin’ stages and grippin’ fist fulls of microphones to be part of a team of poets representing Northern Arizona and performing in Albuquerque, New Mexico at the 2005 National Poetry Slam this August.

At 7:30 p.m. Saturday, April 23rd at the historic Orpheum Theatre in downtown Flagstaff, after a couple of heartbreaking semi-finals, 10 poets have been chosen to compete for five slots on the team and the coveted honor of being the 2005 NORAZ Grand Slam Champion. So if you’ve never been to a poetry slam before this is your chance to a part of one of best times you’ll ever have witnessing this increasingly growing art form.

A poetry slam is a competition between poets where 5 members of the audience, chosen at random, with no affiliation to the poet, choose their favorite poet by holding up score cards that range from zero points to a perfect ten. Poets have to perform their own original poems in three minutes or less and can use no props or music to accentuate their poems. Just the poet and the microphone for three full rounds of the most cathartic, emotionally intense artwork ever verbally expressed. WARNING: you may go away inspired to write.

This evening will be hosted by and featuring the man who created the first poetry slam in Flagstaff, Nick Fox as he tries to keep the poets in line. Music to sooth the savage beast will be provided by the beautiful “Screaming Blue Viking”. Doors open at 6:00 p.m.

General admission tickets are only $10, $7 for students and can be found at Animas Trading Co. 1 E. Aspen, The Rainbows End 12 E. 66 ste.101, Gopher Sounds 22 E. 66, The Orpheum Theatre 15 W. Aspen or by calling the Orpheum Theatre at 928.556.1580. Proceeds go to helping Team NORAZ get to Albuquerque and back safely.

All this is brought to you by NORAZ Poets, a nonprofit, 501(c)(3) organization dedicated to promoting and organizing poetry events as well as making poetry more accessible to the community of NORthern AriZona. For more information about the 2005 NORAZ Poetry Grand Slam or poetry in NORthern AriZona, please call our toll free hotline at 866.698.8790 or go to norazpoets.org.

Binational Poetry Reading Across the Wall

Borderlands Poetry: A Reading Across the Wall. Time: 4-6pm. West end of the Naco/Naco border wall. I'll be reading border poems with toda la fuerza que tengo. Directions to Naco: Take I-10 (East if you’re coming from Tucson/Phoenix, West if you’re coming from Texas) Take the Benson exit #303 to Tombstone and Douglas Pass through Benson and get on Hwy 80 past Tombstone to Bisbee. Go through the tunnel, past the pit, and to the traffic circle. Take the first exit on the traffic circle toward Sierra Vista onto Hwy 92. Go about 2-3 miles to the second stoplight at Naco Highway. Turn Left onto Naco Highway heading south. Go about 4-5 miles to Naco.

For Poetry: Head down Naco Highway about 4-5 miles and take first Naco turn onto Newell. Pass the golf course Turn Left at first stop sign onto Towner. Go across the tracks and about three blocks to Martinez. Turn Right on Martinez Take the second Left onto dirt road called Pratt Drive – Just past the big trucks. Go one bumpy block on Pratt to the border wall and park AWAY from wall. Take a shuttle ride one mile down the road to the event.

Tucson Poetry Festival Paintball Slam

@ The Screening Room (127 E Congress), Tucson. Hosted by Gary Mex Glazner. I'll be slamming. More information.

The Poetry Paint-Ball Slam with MC Gary Mex Glazner

Poetry Paint Ball Slam is a fast paced event, where words replace paint and flying spit replaces splattering pigments, where the thawp of the ball becomes the twang of rhyme, where the rhythm of the paint gun becomes the don't stop of hip hop. So put your right hand in the air and your left hand in your underwear and pull our your best paint ball poem. Any subject, any style, any kinds of poem. Extra points and special prize for a poem that includes paint ball.

7 p.m. Sunday, April 10th

$5 at the door (cash only). No advance tickets.

Sign-up at 6:45 p.m. First come; first served.

The Screening Room, 127 East Congress

FIRST PRIZE: $100

Prizes also for 2nd & 3rd places and Best "Paint Ball" Poem

Phone: 620-2045

A call for words & passion at the border

When we militarize our borders, we militarize our imaginations.

This is a call for writers, for thinkers, for raza, for gringotes, for all of us. This Saturday, April 9, there will be a Binational Poetry Reading Across the Wall just outside of Naco. I believe that border issues along with water are the two most critical sets of issues in this half of the United States, and this is the front lines. I'm leading a caravan from Flagstaff, Arizona all the way to the wall, filled with voces and passion unparalleled. Join us.

...no one is ever expected to notice. The border is a breath caged in steel, created with the movement of a pen, drunk, violent across parchment, never mind that it was almost illegal, this line drawn across footprints...

News Release

For Immediate Release March 29, 2005 Contacts: Bisbee: Angelika Johnson: ***.***.**** Tucson: Kat Rodriguez, Derechos Humanos: ***.****.**** COMMUNITY GROUPS JOIN TOGETHER FOR APRIL UNITY EVENTS

(Arizona-Sonora)—Community groups have joined together in an effort to promote unity and peace on the border for the month of April in response to an increased anti-immigrant sentiment and presence in border communities. In particular the Minuteman Project, which promises to bring hundreds of outsiders, who know nothing about the region, into Arizona border communities, presents a disturbing development, especially for migrants and local residents.

The April Unity Events are a collaborative effort of Borderlinks, Citizens for Border Solutions, Coalición de Derechos Humanos/Alianza Indígena Sin Fronteras, Healing Our Borders, No More Deaths, Women in Black – Bisbee, and Frontera de Cristo, and will consist of a month of binational, nonviolent community activities.

These events include: April 2, 1pm: Women in Black Vigil in Naco, Arizona April 9, 4pm: Binational Poetry Reading Across the Wall at the Naco/Naco border April 17, 5pm: Interfaith Vigil Service at the Naco/Naco border April 24, 4pm: Volleyball Over the border at the Naco/Naco border April 30, 3pm: Unity Celebration to be held in Naco, Sonora

“Community members wish to promote the message that the majority of Arizonans are committed to a peaceful and unified border community,” states Father Bob Carney of Healing Our Borders. “We have joined together to work for justice along the U.S.-México border.”

The activities, which are interfaith and open to the public, are intended to celebrate the diversity and solidarity of those who live on the border. The April Unity Events, which will include participation from the Sonora side of the border, are open to any individual or group that is committed to nonviolence, peace, and just border policies. Complete logistics, details, directions, and sponsors of the events are available at: http://www.derechoshumanosaz.net/aprilunity2005.htm.

Many thanks to Liz for finding this press release and giving me a lesson in Googology.

Michael’s Fever

20s-era rental built of bent boards,bad carpet and brick. A falling value, south of downtown and neglect by landlords. But at night, through the windows pass drafts and views,

I find him standing when I get up to piss. His shoulders defeated, his open mouth holds a yellow tongue in bubbling bliss, his eyes unkempt. I ask if he's ok.

There’s a sun in the south,

he replies, standing dead asleep. The windchime is the breeze's punching bag, the curtains are canvas sails burning and they leap to catch us, doors slamming, our clothes in red rags.

Forensics will find us tomorrow, but still none can explain the smoldering window sill.

•

I Confuse the Dead Man,

his bony chin playing the washboardof his knuckles as he thinks me over. He sends moths to burn in the lamp, his hollow eyes fixed from the rocking chair, his teeth, bleached monuments.

Dead men don’t have tongues, some god keeps those for himself. Forget the soul, it’s overrated: you should see this god’s long cape of squirming pronunciations.

I ask the dead man if the rain falling outside is my ancestors running into gutters. There are two cracks running like thoughts at the base of his skull. Time moves in sputters and stops. The room fills with the

sounds of his dry creaking joints as he stands, his jaw moves in words he lacks the tongue to pronounce.

•

Words at the wall!?

The Minuteman Project offically kicked off on Friday in Tombstone. It's ironic and sad that this is what my home is receiving international recognition for. "Southern Arizona? Oh, ain't that where the vigilantes were on the border a few years ago?" We'll see about that:

From the Sierra Vista Herald, 26 March 2005 in an article titled "Locals plan to counter minutemen," describing the anti-Minutemen activities planned:

Angelica Johnson said residents in response to the project will have a vigil at the border, a poetry reading at the wall on borth sides of the border, a volleyball game in Naco, Sonora, an interfaith vigil and a fiesta. (italics mine)

So now it's on. The article proclaims that Naco, AZ and Naco, Sonora residents have declared this April "a month of unity," but it doesn't mention where or when these events are to be held.

Tengo que ir y traer mis palabras a esta lucha mía. I must find out when this is. So far I've been working frantically to find Angelica Johnson's email address or better, her phone number. From searching around a bit, the newspaper may have gotten the spelling wrong on her name, it may be Angelika Johnson. If anyone has any information, por favor dime.

I will drop anything, everything to read at this event. And I'm bringing y'all with me. Andale pues.

A semifinal fuego

Así ando ya.

The final scores of the semi-final, finally semitasticallitious:
Semi-Final Champion: Logan Phillips, #7 seed, 88.4
2nd: Sharkie Marado, #12 seed, 85.0
3rd: Aaron Johnson, #1 seed, 84.2
4th: Al Moyer, #3 seed, 82.0
5th: Ryan Guide, #14 seed, 80.1

6th: Kimmy Wilgus, #16 seed, 79.5
7th: Justin Powell, #8 seed, 79.4
8th: Sarah Knurr, #19 seed, 73.4
David Rogers "Doc" Luben, #9 seed, was unfortunately unable to attend the slam and will not compete this year for the Team NORAZ.
From the NORAZ Poets Grand Slam page

Saturday, April 23rd. The 2005 NORAZ Poetry Grand Slam. Be there.

Giving the Check to NACASA

So it's been almost a month since the Siren Slam, the FlagSlam's celebration of women's voice in poetry. It was hosted by Suzy La Follette and Andrea Gibson as part of their Siren's Iris tour and was a huge success: over 15 women from all over NORAZ threw down to a crowd that was the biggest we've seen all spring. Check out the audio that I recorded to hear what I mean. All of the proceeds, plus donations made during the slam were to be given to NACASA, the Northern Arizona Center Against Sexual Assault. When we decided on the NACASA donation idea, I really didn't know as much about them as I thought they did. Actually, I still didn't until today. Today I gave the check for $288.10 from NORAZ Poets to Nancy Hiatt, the executive director of NACASA.

It was absolutely one of the most positive things that poetry has ever allowed me to do. Nancy's eyes lit up, her hand found her mouth, "I really didn't think it would be this much," she said, "we were expecting around $100." I told her the story of the night, how the donation jar came back with $80, filled with 5's and 10's, how Suzy decided on the spot that the Siren Slam would be a yearly event, the explosive crowd, the laughter. Then she stopped me, as we were joined by Sara Thome, who is the SART Advocate/Coordinator.

"I don't want you or anyone else to think that this is a small amount of money," Sara said. "$288.10 pays for half of the training we give to a nurse so that they can work here. $288.10 helps us pay our staff." She went on to say that the money would go toward a prophylactic given to women when they come in after an assault to help prevent the transmission of STD's.

This was, and is the real thing. There I was, handing the money to the people that fight for the things so many of us believe in. We have quite literally put our money where our collective mouth is.

Sara and Nancy also spoke of how much they loved the Siren Slam poster, so much so that one of their copies was currently being framed to hang in the front room. They were both still disappointed that they hadn't been able to make it to the slam, there had been an important board meeting that night. They wanted to make up for it by coming to next month's Grand Slam, where they'll have a table with literature and information.

I tell this story in thanks to everyone in our community who made the Siren Slam so incredible. Sure, I went to NACASA today, but it was all of us who handed that check to Nancy.

Thank you.

Semifinals: April 1, Echale Leña

So word just came down on the 2005 NORAZ Semifinals: I'll be slamming in Sedona at the Canyon Moon Theatre a week from tomorrow: Friday, April 1st. This is going to be an absolute blast. Hearts will be broken, that's for sure, but nothing is for certain, which makes all of this so much fun. Get your tickets early, they'll sell out by early next week. Oh, and the one and only Danny Solis from Albuquerque will be the featured poet. He's one of my favorites, I've learned a lot from him. So come to Sedona! The full list:

April 1, at the Canyon Moon Theatre in Sedona o Sharkie Marado o Al Moyer o Sarah Knurr o Aaron Johnson o Kimmy Wilgus o Ryan Guide o Justin Powell o Logan Phillips o Doc Luben

April 12, at Studio One Eleven in Flagstaff o Greg Nix o Christopher Lane o Patrick DuHaine o Eric Larson o Christopher Fox Graham o Rowie Shebala o Lindsay Chamberlain o Meghan Jones

Last FlagSlam of the Regular Season!

After this, it's the semifinals on April 12th, but this is the last open slam.

Also, if you're gonna be in Tempe this Friday night, I'm featuring at Green Eggs & Slam. New poems!

Oh, and did I mention how absolutely hawt this kdog poster is? Yet again?

Running with Ove & el poema japones

So this week has been insane in a land of insanity. My man Oveous Maximus from NYC arrived in the PHX at 12:45 Monday morning, I picked him up & we drove to Sedona. I again spent all of Monday in Sedona Red Rock High School, teaching with Christopher Lane as part of NORAZ Poet's Young Voices, Be Heard program. The lesson of the week was haiku. Now let's get this straight. I have never come across a haiku written in Spanish, and after talking it up with some Lit professors I know, it doesn't sound like it's very common. So I say it's never been done, which means that the Spanish-speaking students of SRRH wrote some of the first Spanish haiku ever. Yes indeed. These kids rock. Un poema japones, viene de un juego que jugaba los poetas japoneses hace tres siglos. Está caraterizido por ser corto, como un pedazo de la vida, usualmente se trata de la naturaleza. Imaginense una foto poetico... no se puede incluir todo ¿no? Por eso, eligimos una imagen y la presentamos en menos de diez palabras...

Then the FlagSlam Tuesday night, Ove rocked the house and I got it all recorded crystal clear. Look for it soon on a compliation of the 2004-05 FlagSlam features... We performed on Wednesday at NAU as part of the University Hunger Project, another cool, if very different, gig. We freestyled together for the last poem of the night, there will be video of that online sometime in the future.

So that's life, remembering that the poetry is the fire in the piston... Ove discovering silence in the Grand Canyon and stars in the night sky...

In Ciudad Juárez, They Say the Night Is a Thief

but it was not the night that stole you,night wrapped warm around forehead and under your arms, it was men whose shadows have climbed into their hearts.

Jalisco verde, a childhood in seabreeze spent naming clouds: libélula, golondrina. Then older, to the north, to work. But it was not the night that stole you.

The face of Mamá argued with itself, tears over smile. Papá, moustache black and words: bye, cuidate mucho, there are men who have swallowed their own shadows.

El Norte means hope and hope is a four-letter word spoken between bleeding fingers, between shifts. Then the night stole the day and you waited

for the bus, thick footsteps in sand behind you. Men whistled and called. Then their fingers tore, their shadows swollen inside you.

It is said the longest night births the most beautiful sun. You, far away in wind. May it never be said that it was the night that stole you, for it was men who still walk wearing badges but cast no shadow.

•

En Cuidad Juárez, culpan a la noche

pero no fue la noche la que te llevó,
la noche envuelta tibiamente en la frente y bajo tus brazos,
fueron hombres cuyas sombras se han infiltrado a sus corazones.

Jalisco verde, una niñez en la brisa marina
que transcurrió llamando a las nubes: libélula, golondrina. Luego al crecer,
al norte, a trabajar. Pero no fue la noche la que te llevó.

La cara de Mamá peleaba consigo misma,
lágrimas sobre su sonrisa. Papá, bigote negro y palabras: bye, cuídate mucho,
hay hombres que se han tragado su propia sombra.

El Norte significa esperanza y esperanza es un insulto
proferido entre dedos sangrantes, entre turnos de trabajo. Luego
la noche se llevó al día y tú esperaste

al autobús, graves pisadas en la arena detrás de ti.
Unos hombres silbaron y llamaron. Luego sus dedos te atravesaron,
sus sombras invadieron tu ser.

Se dice que la noche más larga procrea al sol más hermoso.
Tú, alejada en el viento. Que nunca se diga que
fue la noche la que te llevó, pues fueron hombres que aún caminan
con sus brillantes placas pero sin arrojar sombras.

•

versión en español: Raúl Gallo Calvo

Dirtyverbs2005 Goes Live!

After weeks of learning PHP, Wordpress, CSS and XHTML, it has all come together! There still isn't too much content, I'll still be importing all of the poems & media from the old site, so if something doesn't work, check back later. What do you think?