You are viewing foxthepoet

About this Journal
Current Month
 1234
567891011
12131415161718
19202122232425
262728293031
Oct. 10th, 2008 @ 06:36 pm I no longer post to LiveJournal. Find me online through my blog.
About this Entry
Capt'n Graham
Apr. 11th, 2006 @ 01:25 am Remember when ...
MB&CFG

Sigh, I miss that guitar.
About this Entry
Capt'n Graham
Mar. 6th, 2006 @ 10:59 pm Photobucket
New photos on Photobucket.com.
About this Entry
Capt'n Graham
Feb. 24th, 2006 @ 12:41 am Sedona International Film Festival and Workshop
Current Mood: draineddrained
Current Music: Metric "The Twist"
I spent the last six hours at the 12 annual Sedona International Film Festival and Workshop. It's a four-day long event that features 127 films and 3 sets of short films. Six hours tomorrow, after work, and then 14 hours on both Saturday and Sunday.

I'm a huge film junkie, so this my crack.

Thus far, I've seen:
"The Beauty Remains," the sound was way fucked up and the cuts were rough. OK plot.
"The Legend of Lucy Keyes," spooky in all the right ways. Good characters, plot, and twists. A standard, "There's some ghost in the woods haunting the new family" without being cliche.

Shorts:
"Public Bath,"
"November,"
"Road Kill," awesome characters, dialogue, premise and plot.
"Texas Hospitality,"
"Smartcard," stark vision of the future and what information control, credit/ID cards, and cash will amount to in the next 50 years.
"Broken Luck," made at the Zaki Gordon Institute of Independent Filmmaking in Sedona. I wrote about the director, Michael Paris Graue, in a "Sedona Underground" column for the Sedona Red Rock News and I'm friends with most of the cast and crew.
"K-7," one of the best and my personal favorite. Superb casting.
"Dead Girl," basically a death metal rock music video. Would have been just as fine without the band's song, replaced with dialogue and sound.

I've been listening to a lot of the band Metric. Fans of Rilo Kiley, Death Cab for Cutie, Postal Service and Sia would like this crew.






Els says I'm silly for cinema.
About this Entry
Capt'n Graham
Feb. 18th, 2006 @ 12:08 pm Coffee and Cigarettes in Sedona
Current Mood: rejuvenatedrejuvenated
Current Music: Metric "Rock Me Now"
Image hosting by TinyPic
Photo by Emily Caldwell


For no reason whatsoever, I just slept for 15 hours. Not sick, not depressed, not particularly tired. I came home after work for a nap at 6 p.m., woke up periodically, but didn't get up until 9 a.m. this morning. I think I did it for the fun of dreaming.





Els said my dreams are worth taking days off to experience
About this Entry
Hobbes
Oct. 22nd, 2005 @ 08:20 pm Party of the Sedona Underground
Current Mood: contentcontent
Current Music: The Wiseguys "Put the Body in Motion"
Since May, I have been writing a weekly column called "Sedona Underground" for The Scene which publishes in the Friday edition of the Sedona Red Rock News. The cloumn features on various underground artists, most of us are all friends. This party, on Oct. 21, was for Zac Perkins' 24th birthday party.

Sedona Underground partyCollapse )
About this Entry
Capt'n Graham
Oct. 17th, 2005 @ 01:00 am Name the Furthest Star
Current Music: Mr. Show, episode 303 "Peanut butter, eggs, and dice"
Name the Furthest Star
inspired by Danielle Gervasio
10.10.2005


I surround artists seeking to know myself
art translates the ephemeral into substance
that one can swallow, decipher, translate
into the emotion of movement

musicians do it with vivacious notes
poets with lines heavy in the metal declaration of purpose
dancers in the movement of skin through space
artists with the touchable, the tactile feeling
of inanimate given life
that might outlast the fading drops of DNA
in slowly rotting flesh falling from bleached bones
instigated from an instant when its parents
ignored the strife of eons
and loved the other without condition

these translators of purpose speak
with the talents I know I don’t possess,
allowing me to ride their wave closer
toward understanding the dichotomy of logic
and impassioned failure
they have the words I wish I could speak
the fingers with which I could pluck the strings
and call down the angels to sing against the silence
the palms which shape stone
and colors into their mind’s eye
of the way things ought to be

I catalogue their brilliances
to show the citizens of the world their potential
and write them in poems so I don’t forget, either

my life is like that:
moments with dates on paper
so that I remember the genius poured from others,
with more lifetimes than I can inhabit, into my hungry skull
it’s a chase for God through the mythology
of footprints that generations now faded to dust
have left us in stories of genetic memory
like the color of eyes of the midwife
that first held you, now hazy in the mists
from which we drew animals in the air

the stories of those who first spoke
echo still in the stories we tell through the details
clouding the archetypes we identify universally
they have gotten more complex
to challenge us to find them still
footsteps lead from those first days
through our mundane struggles to the children ages and ages hence
who will inhabit the stars we will always dream of

artists will forever name the furthest star
the same word as their deepest lover
and strive to reach them both in futility
the artist lives between their lover and the dream
using their body as an instrument to translate them both
into something strangers can feel as electricity in their blood
so that as they lay in the final throes
they can know these days of insignificant moments,
of blind aimless wandering,
of wasted pages and stories,
of unattained dreams,
of lovers’ touches,
of the mistakes and losses that define our struggle,
that somewhere in the jumbled mess
they said, made, bore, or breathed into being
something that touched the pilgrims still journeying
to the stars they will never reach

Copyright 2005 © Christopher Fox Graham





Being an artist, she'll this herself
About this Entry
Hobbes
Aug. 31st, 2005 @ 06:09 pm (no subject)
This made my day:

Mr. Graham,

I am a high school student that's extremely involved in speech and theater. I heard some of your poetry performed by a fellow competitor this past weekend and was interested in purchasing some of your work.
I can't seem to find "English Major" (which I heard this weekend), and was wondering if you had a book or something I could possibly purchase with this poem in it. Also, I was hoping to get your permission to perform your poetry for speech competitions this year. I'm looking forward to hearing back from you soon with any information you can give me.

Thanks a lot,
Zechariah





She's so proud of her little poet
About this Entry
Hobbes
Jul. 23rd, 2005 @ 11:27 am Open mic returns to Sedona
Current Music: "If Only She Knew" Michelle Branch
Now don't get scared....

Image hosted by TinyPic.com

I love this poster.





Seriously, last Friday, a man after a poetry event in Sedona came up to me and said "I want to shake the hand of man who dated Michelle Branch." If only he knew.
About this Entry
Capt'n Graham
Jul. 14th, 2005 @ 08:13 pm Cat and Mouse
Current Music: Prodigy "Mindfields"
Image hosted by TinyPic.com
My roommate is gone, so the boys of the house are bonding.

Blind Man and the Sun


tracing small town streets
she inches along in the shadows
filling thoughts between left turns
and Long Island Iced Teas
the barkeep at Olive'R Twist
serves me my regular
and I can't keep these hands
from paper confessions

there are as many miles between us
as days until I see you again
only patience or a Visa ATM
could shorten either
but late night phone calls beneath starlight
don't require oil changes and the days,
well, the days I use to cover pages in chicken scratch
to pave the way back to my front door

give me a Sharpie
and I'll cover our skins with enough words
to give deaf men back their joy of sound

I miss you like a blind man misses the sun
can feel it on his skin
but can't reach out and see its believers
so convinced of its divinity
that they glow back their conviction
for the rest of us to see

the drink is settling in
for a conversation with my liver
and these cigarettes are burning holes in my lungs
opening up the rest of me to pour out
reasons why I miss the nuances of your smile
my fingers recollect the secrets
the hairs of your legs told them
the last time I saw you

three hours a night when reception is good
and with full batteries
and a generous calling plan isn't sufficient
I want your voice to swallow me
30 hours a day

My ears are starving without you to feed them
they're holding out for the sushi of your stories
rather than the convenient store fast food
of the movie extras
who want to discuss the weather
and the "blah, blah" bullshit
to pass the time

give me your 1 a.m. brilliance
scribble your magic tricks on postcards
and mail them daily

you are a Doors concert in a sea
of garage band wannabees
let me crowd surf to your lyrics
while the rest of the world buys
black T-shirts and CDs burned on iMacs

you make me want to speak profoundly
write like statesmen scribbling their
final speeches en route to their own funerals
the only ink that should bleed from my pen
must save nations from civil war

make me a king
crown my prose with your hands
so I know I'm not wasting my time
bless my common verses into royalty
turn my blood blue with your sincerity
and that we'll build fiefdom of words

my neighbors at the bar
discuss police reports and margaritas
let me never be that dull
fill my lungs only with honest words
only faithful stories of you and I
visiting countries whose names people only know
from geography classes
watch movies as if we lived them
read books if we wrote them

I want to see you dance
own the stage with your feet
each footfall only echoing yours
I will never see movement again
except as a reflection of you

even in my last days
wrinkled and endlessly forgetful
I will recall a girl
who moved like a magic trick
that David Copperfield would envy

I flip through my wallet
slip out a card to pay for my truths
he gets $8 on a $12
and I get six pages of poetry
the payment of poetry to currency is acceptable
because alcohol was created
so poets could be free

these men at the bar speak of divorce
the way we speak of poems
lightly and without conviction
they play like children,
dropping names,
or bars or one-night stands
as if they matter

I won’t leave you over an argument
or sleep angrily in your absence
we'll never play this game
follow these men toward
such an easy separation of heartbeats

return to me and I am yours
over miles and time
and every morning you will wake
I will ask "how did your sun rise"

mine will always rise slow and brilliant
if your hand is in mine
if your skin speaks intimate secrets
tell me what haunts you
and I will do the same
now, with a kitten for a roommate to keep
me sincere of your confirmations

Chris pours his last drink
and I try to remember, but
they slip out and leave me waiting for you

Copyright 2005 © Christopher Fox Graham





I'm writing another poem about Els.
About this Entry
Hobbes