Category: Poem Of The Day

Arizona Poem of the Day from AZPoetry.com

Your Poem Is Not That Good Because by Christopher Fox Graham

Your Poem Is Not That Good Because (A Response) by Christopher Fox Graham

“Your Poem Is Not That Good Because (A Response)” by Christopher Fox Graham

I

Our poems were never that good
no one’s were
or the world we talked about
the revolution we prophesied
would have arrived by now
but it didn’t
and it isn’t
and it won’t
because poetry can’t change a world
drunk on its own power
deaf to so many voices
poetry is only the captured sincerity of a moment
we were the moment

So we kept writing
and slamming poems
and sparring on stages
spitting word graffiti against the walls we faced
or the walls we broke down

The good ol’ days of poetry slam
weren’t always as good as we remember
Though some days were better than we thought at the time,
remembering now and waxing nostalgic

The bastard son of jazz and Beats
born at Get Me High
and the Green Mill
where Capone could cover the exits
we spit to barflies and java junkies
book buyers and gallery goers
we had our holy places
Nuyorican, Cantab, Starry Plough
Red Sea, MAD Linguist, the Merc
Bowery and Lizard Lounge
Blind Lemon in Deep Ellum
in the heart of Texas
and Da Poetry Lounge
the hook there in the name
and a thousand temples
with a hot mic
a willing owner
and a free night

We crowd-walked like Jesus
called out and heard responses
used microphones and mic stands
as the props we were forbidden to bear
climbed on bars to be better heard
wrote poems for duos, trios, foursomes
to amplify our solo limitations
turned one-person plays into touchstones
persuasive essays into epics
street protests into soliloquies
cyphered in circles
telling tales about our adventures

Our grandfathers and grandmothers
did the same
when the cosmos was our companion
the stars our only stage lights
And civilization was just a campfire

Our skin or status
age, accent or origin
was wiped clean
we had three minutes and a ticking clock
to change the world
and ten seconds of grace
because we lost track of time
channeling the universe

We had arch rivals and forever allies
to push us forward
Titans and Olympians
who we worshiped
for crushing stages
like city walls
or opening hearts and minds
to other ways of thinking
or living
or loving

We had kings and goddesses
who blessed the microphones
in whispers and decrees
telling us to love ourselves
in spite of ourselves
“you are good enough”
“you are good enough”
“you, right now,
hearing this, reading this
YOU,
you are good enough
you are perfect”

We had heels and cads we loved to hate
hanging on every verse
waiting for a stolen stanza
a lifted lyric
a reference to clothing they wore
a cheater who judged them too knowingly
an untruth wrapped in beautiful fiction
we could later disprove
and turn into sin

Audiences didn’t care to know our strife
in the old days of poetry slam
they hung on the shimmering words
played out stanzas in their minds
heard old poems new to them
uttered at their first hearing
they left changed, bettered and brighter
the points were never the point
they were the gimmick
to get them in the door

We asked them to judge us
sans background, affiliation or inclination
no doctorate or bibliography required
their scores, our epitaphs
8.2, even on page
6.9 because it was a sex poem
9.7 worth the bus ride home
5.8, a punch to the gut
7.1 after we dropped a line
9.3 when we picked it up
a perfect 10 with tear-filled eyes
or guts sore with laughter
or hearing their story told through our lips

They judged our game
our struts and frets
in three minutes upon the stage
they were part of the show
they, the reason we spit:
Vox populi,
vox deus,
judicat poeta

We had demigods and divas
devils and demons
and sometimes,
perhaps too often,
we were they

We were “Beauty Ba Bo” perfectly translated

We had wingless seraphim
their halos lost in stage lights
Fallen angels seeking absolution
Mortals mid-apotheosis
We knew our saints by heart
could speak their names in mononyms
Shibboleths sans surname:
Marc,
Patricia,
Saul,
Beau, Reggie, Taylor, Buddy, Gary, Roger, Bob, Wammo, Marty, Shappy, Klute,
Sekou, Shihan, Ed, Derrick, Talib, Shane, Barbara, Miguel, Mahogany, Rachel, Sarah, Phil, Pat, MuMs, Jared, Henry, Mike, Scott, Suzi, Christopher, Hanif, Dayvid, Andy, Jack, Staceyann, Ken, Alvin, Corinna, Jaylee, Baz, Blair, Bao, Betsy, Sonya, Rives, Anis, Lauren, Bill, Patrick, Holly, Theresa, Billy, Jugga, Ragan, Steve, Sean, Suheir, Sou, Simone, Sully, Celena, Zork, Omar, Olivia, Oz, Iyeoka, Isaac, Corbet, Ebony, Eboni, Janean, Jamie, Jive, Jeremiah, Jasmine, Jerry, Cristin, Kenn, Eitan, Daphne, Danez, Donnie, Delrica, Duncan, De, Denise, Desiree, Darrell, Amelia, Xero, Mack, Paul, Stefan, Angela, Karen, Midnight, Erik, Sierra, Hakim, Adriana, Frannie, Ebo, Jesse, Matthew, Doc, Lindsay, Mickie, Maya, Laura, Emi, Nathan, Mikel, Mojdeh, Tank, Thadra, Robbie, Omari, Gypsee, Tristan, DaShade, Blue, Blythe, Tony, Rudy, Andrea, Ayinde, Abigail, Alex, Akua, Adam, Taalam, Rowie, Claire, Gabbi, Gabrielle, Genevieve, Goad, Taneka, Cass, Frank, Ryan, Valence, Evan, Josh, Nodalone, Neil, Briana, Brenna, Brit, Randy, Lydia, Jess, Naughtya, Eddie, Amy, Angelica, Caleb, Dylan, Dwain, Hakim, Lacey, Natasha, Zack, Panika, Amir, Chrysanthemum, Imani, Glori, Gigi, Tui, Jerri, Omni, Emanuelee, Ekabhumi, Javon, Jomar, George, Joyce, Joaquin, Mercedez, Mindy, Morris, Mckendy, Mayday, Matt, Esme, Brett, Dahled, Sam, Sevan, Suzee, Sabrina, Soul, Cheryl, Logan, Myrlin, James, Taz, Twain, Tova, Thomas, Crystal, Christa, Guante, Angelique, Colin, Theo, Jozer, Kealoha, Keith, Katie, Kat, Khary, Kataalyst, Bryan, Nazelah, Porsha, Daryl, Ian, Jon, Jay, Jeremyah, Jordan, Duke, FreeQuency, Flowmentalz, MrHumanity, Candy, Rage, Diamond, Nova, Tempest, Verbal, Vogue, Tapestry, Rooster, Toaster, Whoopeecat
Don, Damian and Danny, the Trinity of ABQ
AJ, RJ, RC, CR, GNO, IN-Q when initials were enough
Bowerbird just happy to be there
Mona turning spoken word into silent speech
Jeanne and Jim, no distance too far
Stephen and Julia with a Tattler
Arrian with a camera,
Inkera with a “welcome”
Clebo shirtless and rarefied
and Mighty Mike McGee, whose three names are always spoken as one

And after,
always after,
always underground
where only poets could enter
if you knew the password
the secret location
was Harlym125
the crownless king
holding court
for the best of us
to duel in the round
until last poet standing
but no cameras in the courtroom
no secrets from the sepulcher
no record made in this arena,
our Holy of Holies

Some of us were broken people
writing to survive
Some of us didn’t
some cut short by our own hands
some by fate we railed against
some by time, that takes us all
they all died too young
even the old ones
especially the old ones

Some of us never healed
some only healed through slam
because of the poems
because of the scores
because of the praise
because of the failures
because we got up again, and again and again
because we could banish our monsters
cast them back into darkness with wordmagic
because we would expose our sins
And find absolution by the last line
or because some stranger
we could not see under stage lights
said later in the lobby
or at the bar
or the afterparty,
“I loved that poem…
… you made me cry”
sometimes that alone was enough
perhaps too often,
it was enough
which is why we’re still here, still living
save one
and save the world entire
their tears saving us
from drowning ourselves

If not for the old days of poetry slam
we would not know each other
not have lived the stories in other skins
served in three-minute epics
or afterparties or hotel lobbies
we would not have a safe sofa,
a paying gig and eager crowd
in 50 cities and 500 small towns
a welcome smile from a host we’d never met
but who knew us intimately
from that poem,
you know the one
the one never that good
whose ending you tweaked
100 times trying to get right
but to someone, tonight,
it will be perfect
exactly what they needed to hear
“your poems are not good because”
you say over and over to yourself —
they’re not good —
to you —
swallowed in self-doubt and self-criticism,
but to someone,
tonight,
they are a masterpiece
wordmagic from a microphone
slammed by a wingless seraphim
halo lost in stage lights
chasing their monsters into the dark

The points weren’t the point
the point was poetry
we knew that, we knew the math:
1,590 teams went to nationals
only 118 touched finals stage
we went to lose
at nationals,
lose across states,
lose across town
hundreds of hours practicing
thousands of miles traveled
to be statistically eliminated on night one
to be cut from round two
to go over minute three
but we went to share
to become family
stay family
mourn lost family
you stopped caring about the scores
about winning
about fleeting victories
you cared about family
about impressing them with a poem
trying something new
and winning because
“your poems are good”
because you became the captured sincerity of a moment
the points weren’t the point
the point was we wiped clean
skin and status
age, accent and origin
to become stories in skinsuits
we were words walking
the bards, bhats, griots, skalds, seanchaithe,
of our slam scenes back home
and a family wherever we were
we knew that
in the “old days of poetry slam”

II

We forget now
the churning civil war inside ourselves
“The revolution will not be televised”
we believed wholeheartedly
poets may start revolutions,
but we don’t lead them
without an army, armed and funded
no one fights them
airwaves aren’t free
raised fists don’t rake in ratings
empty seats at finals add up over time
But we refused to be bought
we refused to cash in
we refused to sell out
even when bankruptcy came knocking

Our poems were never that good
but we believed our own bios
in the old days of poetry slam
Gaslit by our own press releases
we knew the money would come
the chapbooks would one day be bound
TV gigs and book deals were around the corner
bars would become Broadway
book thrift shops would lead to theaters
finals night would be standing-room only
MFAs were as good as MBAs
success would fall off the shelf
if this poem was perfect
this line was just right
if this hook had teeth
if we unfurled our dreams into a ship’s sail
we could make it to Avalon or Valinor
Penguin, Simon & Schuster,
Random House, HarperCollins
PBS or HBO’s Def Poets
presidential inaugurations,
UN floor speeches
White House dinners
Olympic openings
like the other poets who did

But we forgot
no one reads poetry anymore
no one reads print anymore
we pay to be published
selling books at slams
to make it to the next gig
and we’re left with
bookshelves of others’ words from
The old days of poetry slam

It was never enough to be brilliant
you have to do the work to prove it
sometimes you have to break into Harvard
and put your poetry book on the Woodberry shelf
for it to be found there

Now we count our scars and remember
the sins and stages, the dream teams
the host hotels and victory poems
hip-hop battles and haiku head-to-heads
nerd quizzes and fifth-wheel features
group pieces and late-night erotica
a trophy we once tore in half
the beautiful bouts 0.1 points apart
with the whim of a judge —
some college kid on a date
some mom from the suburbs
some closet writer with her journal at home
some wannabe rapper
some grizzled retiree reliving his youth
or sweet grandma seeing what the kids are doing now —
deciding between prize money and parting gift

We were Kings of Kings, shouting:
“Look on my words, ye Mighty, and despair!

All statutes crumble
All empires fall
All languages change over time
or die on lips of the last speaker

“The old days of poetry slam”
are the “old days” for a reason
and the reasons were legion,
but sometimes
but perhaps too often,
we were they

III

But words never die
not once uttered and amplified
they echo endlessly across eternity
or get swallowed back into the throat
for a new voice to speak

The new slam isn’t the old slam
it’s better, it’s worse,
it doesn’t follow the rules
that we belabored and bickered over at slammasters meetings
ensconced in scripture we printed before Nationals
but it’s here and it’s now
and it’s asking us to dance
the steps are new
the new music is different
but we learned the last time
and danced waltzes across stages

“Your poems are not good …”
we shout on social media
with a million reasons why
some don’t read other poets
some don’t read better poets
some shun critique or criticism
some forget it’s a gimmick not godhood
some outshine their mentors
some have no mentors to follow
some first drafts stay final drafts
some value victories over craft
notching one-night slams into headboards
like some of us did

time will cull or cure
like it did us —
we forgotten heroes uncelebrated
we word barons stripped of fiefdoms
we veterans with razorblade tongues

Our poems were never that good
but they were good enough
and the proof is new slam is here
in the echo of the old

They love slam like we did
because we taught them to
the high schooler in the back out past curfew
the fan who bought our chapbook with $1s
the one-time judge, drunk on our fire
the mourner who saw us grieve in public
watching a man cry without sin or shame,
the teen who added 100 to your view count
didn’t you see them?
were the stage lights too bright
in “the old days of poetry slam”?
When we gave up
when the old slam became old
when we euthanized it at 34
in the city where it was born
at a meeting of 200 who loved slam so much
we had to cut its throat
when we took ”kill your darlings” too literally
they rose up
where our words had sowed them
and built temples
with the blueprints we burned
enriching their soil with our echoes

A legacy isn’t a carbon copy
it’s not a clone or a rerun
children may have our names
but they are only half-us
half-someone else
wholly themselves
something new built on the old

they read our poems in school
in chapbooks, on websites
shared our voices, videos and clips
In mixtapes, LiveJournal, MySpace,
YouTube, Instagram, Facebook,
Tumblr, TikTok, TedX,
Button, Write About Now
They heard us say
“you are good enough”
“you are good enough”
“you are good enough”
like we were taught
and they believed us
even when we didn’t believe ourselves
they still believe us
because our poems were that good
they outlived their makers
words still speaking
“Poetry is Necessary”
like food, shelter, water, poetry is necessary

No cataclysm can kill poetry
manmade or otherwise,
not really, not forever,
it’ll rise from the corpses, the ashes,
the broken bones and fallen towers
emerge from the flood waters
that could kill,
but not drown
Team SNO taught us that

We martyred ourselves in suffering
on stages or pages
but not in vain
and not in silence
and someone was listening
even if we didn’t hear it

They heard about a thing called slam
how it could change the world some day
if the poem was perfect
the line was just right
if the hook had teeth
and when the old slam became old
they made it new again

The new slam isn’t the old slam
it’ll wander and conquer and collapse
and get back up, like we did
they will learn by doing, like we did.
they will learn by failing, like we did.
they will learn but getting up again and again and again
they will anoint new saints in new styles
they will take the ghost from our rebel skeleton
and outshine their ancestors
it is out legacy even if our name is absent

We were candles in the dark
but one can light another
and still burn brightly
our words remain to light the way
even if we don’t,
some new poets will become furnaces,
others bonfires,
some just brief matches and flashes in the pan
some will come in like a fireball,
burn into explosion and fade away into the dark
like some of us did
sometimes it’s enough
just to light the flame

Our poems were never that good
they didn’t have to be
but they were enough
to someone, somewhere
and sometimes,
perhaps too often,
that someone
was me

New slam is here
there are first-timers on stage
new voices in old skins
old voices with new poems
legends in renaissance
prodigies proving themselves
and audiences oblivious to the difference
but they heard about a thing called slam

because they’re here
our poems were good enough
they’re ready to listen to wingless seraphim
see halos in stage lights
show them the glory
of the old days
in the new temples
leave them changed, bettered and brighter
like in “the old days of poetry slam”

There’s a sign up list
and a hot mic
if you have a poem to share
or an open seat for tonight
if you want to lend your ears

They just want to be heard
like we did
want to say to us —
but more so to themselves —
“you are good enough”
“you are good enough”
“you are good enough”

and hear us answer
sincerely
simply,
with hope
and with thunderous applause

Reclaiming the Stage: A Slam Poet’s Retrospective

Christopher Fox Graham’s poem, “Your Poems Are Not That Good Because (A Response),” serves as a heartfelt homage to the evolution of slam poetry. Through vivid recollections, Graham chronicles the journey from the early days of slam—marked by raw energy and communal passion—to its present state, reflecting on the art form’s challenges and triumphs. ​

The Pulse of Slam: Community, Competition, and Catharsis

Graham delves into the essence of slam poetry, highlighting its role as a platform for marginalized voices and a catalyst for personal and collective transformation. He emphasizes the communal bonds forged through shared experiences on stage, where poets confront personal demons and societal issues alike, seeking solace and solidarity in the rhythm of spoken word.​

Legacy and Renewal: The Ever-Evolving Art of Slam

Acknowledging the inevitable changes within the slam community, Graham reflects on the new generation of poets who carry the torch forward. He underscores the importance of mentorship and the enduring impact of past performances, asserting that while styles may evolve, the core mission of slam—to give voice to the voiceless—remains steadfast.​

Discover More About Christopher Fox Graham

Christopher Fox Graham is a prominent figure in the Arizona poetry scene, known for his dynamic performances and contributions to the slam community. With a career spanning over two decades, he has represented Flagstaff and Sedona on multiple National Poetry Slam teams and continues to mentor emerging poets. ​

To explore more about Graham’s work and his impact on the poetry world, visit his official biography.

If The Drum Is A Woman by Jayne Cortez and The Firespitters Artwork | AZpoetry.com

If The Drum Is A Woman by Jayne Cortez

“If The Drum Is A Woman” by Jayne Cortez

If the drum is a woman
why are you pounding your drum into an insane
babble
why are you pistol whipping your drum at dawn
why are you shooting through the head of your drum
and making a drum tragedy of drums
if the drum is a woman
don’t abuse your drum don’t abuse your drum
don’t abuse your drum
I know the night is full of displaced persons
I see skins striped with flames
I know the ugly disposition of underpaid clerks they constantly menstruate through the eyes
I know bitterness embedded in flesh
the itching alone can drive you crazy
I know that this is America and chicken are coming home to roost
on the MX missile
But if the drum is a woman
why are you choking your drum
why are you raping your drum
why are you saying disrespectful things
to your mother drum your sister drum
your wife drum and your infant daughter drum
If the drum is a woman
then understand your drum
your drum is not docile
your drum is not invisible
your drum is not inferior to you
your drum is a woman
so don’t reject your drum don’t try to dominate your drum
don’t become weak and cold and desert your drum
don’t be forced into the position
as an oppressor of drums and make a drum tragedy of drums
if the drum is a woman
don’t abuse your drum don’t abuse your drum
don’t abuse our drum

Listen to “If The Drum Is A Woman” by Jayne Cortez on YouTube

About the poet Jayne Cortez

“If The Drum Is A Woman” is a searing, allegorical poem in which Jayne Cortez challenges the audience to confront the abuse and exploitation inherent in objectifying femininity. In the poem, the drum serves as a powerful metaphor for women, embodying both strength and vulnerability. Cortez criticizes the violent, dismissive treatment of this symbol—questioning why one would “pistol whip” or “rape” the drum—thereby urging a respectful and empathetic approach toward all aspects of feminine identity. The raw language and vivid imagery highlight the pain and injustice inflicted upon those who are marginalized, while the refrain “don’t abuse your drum” serves as a passionate call for recognition, care, and equality.

To delve deeper into the life and work of Jayne Cortez, the revolutionary voice behind this bold poem, please visit her full bio HERE.

The Laziest Man in the World poem Arizona poet Kalen Lander | AZpoetry.com

“The Laziest Man in the World” by Kalen Lander

Behold!
The laziest man in the world

Damn I’m a pearl
Countless bedsores adorn my soul
Check it, if you see my corpse walking round it’s a hoax
Cause in my head I’m at home

Tomes tell of my liquified bones
Don’t question it just keep an open mind
And know I’m holed up inside and it’s alright
It’s kinda like summer vacation
Well it’s more like mummification
It’s sorta like I’m Jason Statham
But instead of punching
I’m stuck in the basement
Yup

And I’ll I’m transporting are snacks to my mouth
All I look forward to is chilling out
All of my memories center around
How much I enjoy becoming one with the couch

Don’t tell me not to slouch these shoulders are heavy
Weight of the world? More like an early Wednesday
Wake up at 4 n then turn on the TV
Repeat indefinitely
Frozen pizza to me is a delicacy

Maybe people might say that I am my own worst enemy
I get all tuckered out from not exerting any energy
I prefer to be the middle link in human centipedes
I don’t want to be deciding when it’s time to shit n eat
Literally anything that isn’t sitting sickens me

I’ll pretend to be asleep when anybody intervenes
My mama wants to say I got a problem naw man
I’m taking after Grandma this rocker is awesome
And I ain’t getting up until you toss me off it
And then I’m probably gonna conk out on the carpet

Ooooo did I mention?
All this inactivity has given me heightened senses
I can smell a cheeto on the floor like it was incense
I can ignore the doorbell better than anybody ever
Got no competitors no natural predators

No feeling in my legs n no plans of leaving bed at all
N I would eat your disapproval if that shit was edible
I said it all before but I’m repetitive I’m
The Laziest man in the world

Music Video of “The Laziest Man in the World” performed by Snailmate

About the Poet Kalen Lander

Kalen Lander’s “The Laziest Man in the World” is a humorous and self-aware exploration of extreme idleness. With witty imagery and a tongue-in-cheek tone, the poem delves into the comforts of slouching, snacking, and avoiding the hustle of daily life. Lander’s ability to blend humor with sharp observation reflects his unique voice in the world of poetry and performance.

To learn more about Kalen Lander’s creative journey, his contributions to Arizona’s arts scene, and his evolution as a performer and poet, visit his full biography HERE.

Desert poem by Richard Shelton | AZpoetry.com

“Desert” by Richard Shelton

Sometimes the sun is still trying
to get to the horizon
when a daylight moon comes up,
fragile and almost transparent,
the ghost of a white bird
with damaged wings,
blown from its course and lost
in the huge desert sky.
It is the least protected
of all unprotected things.

A little wind goes by
through the greasewood
heading home to its nest
among blue-veined stones
where it will circle three times
and curl up to sleep
before darkness falls
straight down
like a tile from the roof
of a tall building.

There are families of stones
under the ground.
As the young stones grow
they rise slowly like moons.
When they reach the surface
they are old and holy
and when they break open
they give off a rich odor,
each blooming once in the light
after centuries of waiting.

Those who have lived here longest
and know best
are least conspicuous.
The oldest mountains are lowest
and the scorpion sleeps all day
beneath a broken stone.

If I stay here long enough
I will learn the art of silence.
When I have given up words
I will become what I have to say.

About the Author

Richard Shelton was a distinguished poet, author, and professor at the University of Arizona. Known for his evocative depictions of the desert landscape and his influential prison writing workshops, Shelton’s contributions to American poetry are vast and deeply impactful. Discover many other poets of Arizona HERE.

Pieces of the Night song Gin Blossoms Doug Hopkins poet | AZpoetry.com

Pieces of the Night by Doug Hopkins

“Pieces of the Night” by Doug Hopkins

Well is it any wonder that the stars don’t just rush by
When you’re only doin’ 60 through this oh-so-vacant night
But it’s lackin’ something big this time
What the hell did you expect to find?
Aphrodite on a barstool by your side

Twelfth night we go
After something everyone should know
Somewhere in the distance out of sight
Then I saw gin mill rainfall
What do you remember if at all?
Only pieces of the night

And is it any wonder in the middle of the crowd
If you let your feet get trampled on
When the music is that loud
But you wanted to be where you are
But it looked much better from afar
A hillside in shadow between the people and the stars

Twelfth night we go
After something everyone should know
Somewhere in the distance out of sight
Then I saw gin mill rainfall
What do you remember if at all?
Only pieces of the night

And it seems so distant
But still only half the night away
Where notions between your questions come too
Is it any wonder where
The pieces of the night have been?

Twelfth night we go
After something everyone should know
Somewhere in the distance out of sight
Then I saw gin mill rainfall
What do you remember if at all?
Only pieces of the night
Only pieces of the night
Then I saw
Only pieces of the night

Twelfth night we go
After something everyone should know
Somewhere in the distance out of sight
Then I saw gin mill rainfall
What do you remember if at all?
Only pieces of the night

Twelfth night we go
After something everyone should know
Somewhere in the distance out of sight
Then I saw gin mill rainfall

Watch “Pieces of the Night” by Gin Blossoms

About the poet Doug Hopkins

“Pieces of the Night” by Doug Hopkins, and performed by the Gin Blossoms, is a haunting meditation on the fleeting nature of our memories and experiences. Through vivid imagery—driving slowly through a vacant night, encountering the surreal sight of “gin mill rainfall,” and evoking the legendary allure of a mythical figure on a barstool—Hopkins captures how moments of beauty and chaos slip away, leaving us with only fragments. The recurring reference to “Twelfth night” hints at the cyclical nature of these ephemeral experiences, suggesting that even as time passes, the impressions of the night linger like scattered pieces of a once-vibrant puzzle.

Hopkins’ lyrics challenge us to reflect on what we truly remember when the night fades into dawn—are our memories as complete as we wish, or are they, like the stars, just fragments of a greater, elusive tapestry?

To learn more about Doug Hopkins, his unique poetic vision, and his contributions to Arizona’s cultural landscape, visit his full bio HERE.

Listen to Gin Blossoms on Spotify

Land Alive by David Chorlton poem artwork AZpoetry.com

Land Alive by David Chorlton

“Land Alive” by David Chorlton

The land isn’t empty, it’s thinking.
What will it become when
the clouds disappear and rocks take their place?
Where will the roads lead

when they reach the edge of human thought
and turn into philosophy
where the compass needle bends
and points toward itself?
How much history
can a lizard carry on its back
when it moves at the speed of a reflection

that waits for no one?
It’s as dark as dreams in the canyon
where shadows conspire
to climb the red walls
and fly, as questions do when

they outgrow any answers
that would have bound them
to the Earth.

Originally published online on September 3, 2024 by Lothlorien Poetry Journal, where you can visit to read Land Alive and four more poems.

About the poem Land Alive by David Chorlton

Discover the poem’s philosophical layers and explore the Arizona desert through Chorlton’s lens.

In “Land Alive,” Arizona poet David Chorlton challenges the notion of the desert as a barren, lifeless expanse. Instead, he breathes consciousness into the land, describing it as a force that thinks, reflects, and questions. The poem opens with a striking declaration—”The land isn’t empty, it’s thinking”—and from this premise, Chorlton invites readers to consider the Sonoran Desert not as a backdrop for human activity, but as a living, sentient presence.

The poem flows like a dream, moving from questions about geography and thought to surreal images of lizards carrying history and shadows conspiring to climb canyon walls. The language is both reflective and elusive, packed with metaphor and subtle philosophical questioning. What does it mean for a road to “reach the edge of human thought” or a compass to “point toward itself”? These images suggest a journey inward as much as outward, where the landscape provokes self-reflection and existential inquiry.

Chorlton, a longtime Phoenix resident and visual artist, brings an abstract sensibility to his desert poetry. “Land Alive” feels at home in his broader body of work, which often fuses nature, art, and meditations on place. The desert isn’t just scenery—it’s a character, an entity with memory and imagination. The lizard, a frequent figure in Southwestern imagery, is transformed into a metaphor for time, memory, and motion—“moving at the speed of a reflection / that waits for no one.”

The poem culminates in a moment of mystery and release, as questions “outgrow any answers / that would have bound them / to the Earth.” In this sense, “Land Alive” celebrates not just the land’s physical resilience, but its capacity to outlive and outthink human limitations.

Themes and Style

  • Philosophy of Place: The poem explores the mind-like quality of the land, raising questions about its future, history, and consciousness.
  • Nature as a Living Entity: The desert is not empty but active—filled with thought, movement, and ancient stories.
  • Metaphor and Surrealism: Chorlton’s imagery blends the real and the abstract, painting a landscape that is both physical and metaphysical.
  • Existential Tone: There’s an underlying sense of mystery and questioning, with no easy answers—only poetic observations.

Why It Belongs in Arizona’s Literary Canon

David Chorlton has lived in Phoenix since the late 1970s, and his poetry is deeply rooted in the desert Southwest. In “Land Alive,” his knowledge of the Sonoran landscape and his background in visual art converge to create a unique lyrical experience. This poem is not just about Arizona—it thinks like Arizona: expansive, enigmatic, and quietly profound.

Discover more about David Chorlton, his poetic vision, and his connection to Arizona’s desert landscapes by visiting his poet bio page on AZPoetry.com.

Running In A Red State poem by Cymelle Leah Edwards AZpoetry.com

Running in a Red State by Cymelle Leah Edwards

“Running in a Red State” by Cymelle Leah Edwards

Don’t be political.

Sinclair Wash Trail:

Anger is that which your body recognizes as alien; that which has been whittled nonexistent; you temper that emotion at the age of eight when you indulge it and learn that your angry is angrier because it’s also darker; when you serve a man who says he’ll take his coffee like you; standing phone-to-ear at the bus stop when a woman nearby interrupts to say, you have great diction; when he lets his dogs off their leashes as you jog past; in your sleep when this all happens again; you forget what it’s like to be angry until your larynx stiffens from singed resistance; from charred light curdling in the back of your throat.

Don’t sit on a fence.

Woody Mt. Road:

I tried to be both; tried to cinephile-file roles; tried to balance our budget; tried to sleep in my own bed; tried to re-create memories; to be in two places at once; to protract the hours in a day; tried to be honest anyway; tried to sit on my hands so they wouldn’t reach for her; tried to spell without vowels; tried to circumnavigate her body; tried to sorrel our walls; tried to pray it away; to run it away; tried to away; this is when I learned to splinter. 

Saying nothing is saying something.

Fat Man’s Loop:

The dogs are off their leashes again, moments before I meet his path. I say to myself, don’t move over this time, let them move over. Let them disrupt their own PRs, mess up their own stride. Close enough to feel heat radiating off his jogging fluorescents, I inch to my right.

I can’t hear you.

Been dreaming about grandma lately, about running into her house after school and watching her rescue the princess on Nintendo classic. She was really good at being Mario, at moving through different worlds, at saving. I’d ask with my small voice can I play? She’d look at my school uniform covered in grass stains, my fingers sticky with the remnants of a pb&j. It’s hot right now, let the machine cool down. I’d wait thirty or so minutes which felt like hours, return to the living room, remove the cartridge and blow.

I could never make it through the underwater theme.

Not choosing is also a choice.

Buffalo Park:

They ride their bikes close so dirt kicks into my nostrils, they look back to watch me cough.

Silence speaks.

Walnut Canyon Ranch:

I learn to give her alfalfa pellets, to stretch my hand out flat, to pet her crest and say, that’s a good girl. I learn to stand parallel with her legs when removing her coat, to pat her bum before I unclip the left hook, to not bother with getting her to like me, she will never like me. I learn that naming a horse is an art. That it took Susan over a year to come up with “Yankee” and that she’s fine with it. I learn their names can’t be more than eighteencharacters, that I’ll never own Ubiquitouuuuuuuuus. I see the rope hanging in their front yard, chalk it up to a game for their grandkids, a tool to swing on. It is the noose at the end that makes me wonder if I should ever return to feed the horses. To find another subset of winona acreage to run through.

Say it, I dare you. 

Downtown:

Sometimes, when we experience trauma, we build a boundary of invincibility. We think, the worst has already happened and I survived. At least, this is what I did and still try to fake. I was assaulted last August, seven days after moving to a new town. I knew the guy; we went to high school together. Erring-on-the-side-of-caution was fleeting. I relied on a mutually established sense of trust over four years old. I wrote poems about it, some of which are in the ether right now, being traipsed by cursors and sponged with the fingertips of a stranger. After this event, this uncanny eventuality, I stopped running. This had always been my way of shedding; through perspiration and escapism, I let trees and trail markers lead me through unnerving, undoing, and misremembering. Like most of the runners on my high school track team and those I met while briefly a part of a collegiate team in Seattle, it is our sustenance, theoretically as important as air itself. This, if you couldn’t tell, is written in the vein of writing’s most repudiated word, passion. Back then I was a sprinter, I hadn’t learned to appreciate great distances, pacing, stride, or breath. Sealed-off from the outside world with chain-link barriers, I also didn’t know what it was like to run without the protection of synthetic rubber keeping me from traversing a world unknown.

Forget about how hot it is. I don’t think about it. Running in Arizona is what it is. Hydrate, you’ll be fine. There are other dangers that lurk besides hyperthermia. Suburbs of Phoenix, like Gilbert or Casa Grande (maybe its own town and not a suburb), are mostly white communities. I grew up on the east side of Casa Grande. I built speed being chased by loose dogs in the neighborhood while walking to and from the bus stop. Apoplectic though they may have been, we understood we were helping one another out – me with learning to accelerate, them with their daily exercise. Is this what men with confederate flags billowing from the back of their F-150s believe too?

Who is this little black girl, and what is she running from?

Winning:

Winning a race used to involve medals, ribbons, clout.

Winning means punching code into my garage’s keypad, getting back. Winning is protracting, is living longer than yesterday.

About the poet Cymelle Leah Edwards

Summary and Analysis of “Running in a Red State” by Cymelle Leah Edwards

In “Running in a Red State”, Arizona-based poet Cymelle Leah Edwards crafts a poetic essay that powerfully intertwines personal memory, cultural identity, trauma, and resistance—both literal and figurative. The poem functions as a hybrid narrative, blending free verse, social commentary, and prose poetry with rich specificity of place, capturing scenes from Northern Arizona’s rugged trails to the subtle violence of everyday life in a politically conservative environment.

Structured as a series of meditations mapped across familiar trails like Sinclair Wash, Woody Mt. Road, Fat Man’s Loop, Buffalo Park, and Walnut Canyon Ranch, Edwards navigates what it means to run through a landscape that is at once physically beautiful and symbolically fraught. These trails aren’t merely places for physical movement—they become spaces of reflection, confrontation, survival, and reckoning.

Navigating Rage and Race

The poem opens with the assertion “Don’t be political”, only to dismantle that notion line by line. Edwards presents a litany of moments in which her Blackness is othered: a man making a racialized joke while ordering coffee, a woman praising her “diction” as if surprised, dogs unleashed in spaces where she runs, and the self-awareness that even anger—when expressed through a Black body—is perceived as more threatening. The poet confronts these aggressions with grace and measured defiance, describing them as embers, singed resistance, and “charred light curdling in the back of [her] throat.”

Queer Identity and Duality

On Woody Mt. Road, Edwards explores a layered identity with lines like, “tried to spell without vowels; tried to circumnavigate her body…” Here, she probes queer desire, the constraints of binary expectations, and the impossibility of fitting into a system that doesn’t accommodate complexity. In trying to “be both,” she introduces the metaphor of splitting—learning to “splinter”—and thus illustrates the emotional cost of existing in intersectional spaces that demand singularity.

The Silence of Compliance

At Fat Man’s Loop, the silence becomes palpable. The refusal to yield space—“don’t move over this time”—is itself a radical act. It represents a reclaiming of bodily autonomy and public space. The references to her grandmother playing Mario and saving princesses offer a tender respite from the poem’s heavier subjects. Yet even this nostalgic moment underscores her longing for safety, for someone to “rescue” her.

Violence, Trauma, and Recovery

In one of the most visceral sections—Downtown—Edwards speaks directly to her own trauma. “I was assaulted last August, seven days after moving to a new town.” With brave vulnerability, she recounts the emotional aftermath of sexual violence and the way it disrupted her sense of freedom. Running, once her method of release and healing, became unsafe. Here, Edwards captures the weight of trauma—how it rewires the body’s instincts, maps new caution into muscle memory, and alters a runner’s stride.

Running as Resistance

Despite these dangers, Edwards continues to run. She catalogs the subtle racism of white suburban Arizona—F-150s waving confederate flags, sideways glances, dirt kicked into her nostrils—and continues to find her rhythm.

“Winning is protracting, is living longer than yesterday.”

In this closing line, she redefines survival as success. Her poem is not just about running; it is about reclaiming space, healing, and moving forward through pain, oppression, and silence.

“Running in a Red State” is a poignant testimony to the lived experiences of a Black woman in Arizona, navigating identity, systemic racism, and resilience. Cymelle Leah Edwards’ voice is essential, powerful, and unflinching. Her ability to pair physical movement with emotional evolution makes this poem a landmark piece of Arizona literature.

👉 Learn more about Cymelle Leah Edwards on her AZPoetry.com poet bio page.

Ridin by Badger Clark artwork AZpoetry.com

Ridin’ by Badger Clark

“Ridin'” by Badger Clark

There is some that like the city—
    Grass that’s curried smooth and green,
Theaytres and stranglin’ collars,
    Wagons run by gasoline—
But for me it’s hawse and saddle
    Every day without a change,
And a desert sun a-blazin’
    On a hundred miles of range.

    Just a-ridin’, a-ridin’—
        Desert ripplin’ in the sun,
    Mountains blue among the skyline—
        I don’t envy anyone
            When I’m ridin’.

When my feet is in the stirrups
   And my hawse is on the bust,
With his hoofs a-flashin’ lightnin’
   From a cloud of golden dust,
And the bawlin’ of the cattle
   Is a-comin’ down the wind
Then a finer life than ridin’
   Would be mighty hard to find.

    Just a-ridin’, a-ridin’—
        Splittin’ long cracks through the
            air,
    Stirrin’ up a baby cyclone,
        Rippin’ up the prickly pear
            As I’m ridin’.

I don’t need no art exhibits
    When the sunset does her best,
Paintin’ everlastin’ glory
    On the mountains to the west
And your opery looks foolish
    When the night-bird starts his tune
And the desert’s silver mounted
    By the touches of the moon.

    Just a-ridin’, a-ridin’—
        Who kin envy kings and czars
    When the coyotes down the valley
        Are a singin’ to the stars,
            If he’s ridin’?

When my earthly trail is ended
    And my final bacon curled
And the last great roundup’s finished
    At the Home Ranch of the world
I don’t want no harps nor haloes
    Robes nor other dressed up things—
Let me ride the starry ranges
    On a pinto hawse with wings!

    Just a-ridin’, a-ridin’—
        Nothin’ I’d like half so well
    As a-roundin’ up the sinners
        That have wandered out of Hell,
            And a-ridin’    

About the poet Badger Clark

Summary and Analysis of “Ridin’” by Badger Clark (1922)

Badger Clark’s iconic poem “Ridin’,” first published in 1922, is a quintessential piece of American cowboy poetry that celebrates the untamed beauty of the West and the profound sense of freedom found in a life spent on horseback. Known for his vivid imagery and rhythmic lyricism, Clark paints a portrait of a cowboy’s existence—marked by wide-open landscapes, blazing sun, and the unshakable joy of “just a-ridin’.”

A Tribute to the Cowboy Life

The poem contrasts two ways of life: the modern, urban environment filled with “theaytres,” “wagons run by gasoline,” and “grass that’s curried smooth and green,” versus the raw, natural life of a cowboy. Clark rejects the luxuries and constraints of city life in favor of the harsh yet freeing reality of the range, where the sun scorches the horizon and one’s world stretches “a hundred miles” wide.

The repeated refrain—“Just a-ridin’, a-ridin’”—becomes a musical echo throughout the poem, reinforcing the spiritual simplicity and joy that comes from this nomadic lifestyle.

Wild Beauty and Rugged Romance

Each stanza highlights the elements of cowboy life that make it so appealing: the thrill of galloping across desert terrain, the natural artistry of a sunset, and the haunting songs of coyotes in the valley. Clark makes a compelling case for the cowboy as both adventurer and artist—one who finds meaning not in galleries or opera houses, but in the ever-shifting canvas of the sky and land.

The poem pulses with movement: horses “on the bust,” “hoofs a-flashin’ lightnin’,” and “long cracks through the air.” It’s kinetic, full of dust and thunder, but never chaotic. The landscape isn’t a backdrop—it’s a participant in the cowboy’s journey.

Spiritual Frontier

In the final stanza, Clark leans into the metaphysical, imagining his afterlife not with harps and halos, but with a “pinto hawse with wings” riding across “the starry ranges.” Even in eternity, the poet’s heaven is a wide-open range—where he can “round up sinners” with the same fierce joy he rode with on earth.

This blend of cowboy grit and spiritual longing places “Ridin’” in the tradition of American transcendental poetry, akin to Whitman’s celebration of the self and nature. But where Whitman wandered the forests, Clark’s domain is the high desert and the open plains.

A Lasting Voice of the West

“Ridin’” remains a definitive cowboy poem because it captures the soul of Western life—rugged, free, and unbound by convention. Its charm lies in both its musicality and its reverence for a vanishing way of life. In an era that was already becoming more industrial and urban, Badger Clark reminded readers that there’s still magic in a lone rider under a big sky.

Want to learn more about the poet who gave voice to the Western range?
Visit Badger Clark’s poet bio page on AZPoetry.com and explore his legacy as one of America’s original cowboy poets.

Hang On To Your Chairs Ass Bomb poem by Bill Campana AZpoetry.com

Hang On To Your Chairs (Ass Bomb) by Bill Campana

“Hang On To Your Chairs (Ass Bomb)” by Bill Campana

Hang on to your chairs, I’m going back to school.

I’m getting my degree, a doctorate in science.
I’m going to MIT to study mathematics, quantum mechanics, nuclear physics
and whatever else it takes to get me to achieve my goal.

Because I am going to invent a bomb
a bomb that will shame all other bombs
I’m going to invent a bomb that will kill no one,
but will wipe everybody on their ass
right off your feet
flat on your ass
and then I am going to fire up another one
just in case I might have missed some people
who were sitting at the time
and then had gotten up just to investigate the commotion.

All over the world, on the appointed day
phones will ring.
The people calling will say,
“I fell on my ass at 10 o’clock this morning.”
and the people they are speaking with will reply,
“That’s funny… so did I…”

Newspapers will print enormous headlines:

AND THEN WE ALL FALL DOWN

DEATH TOLL ZERO AS WORLD FALLS ON ITS’ ASS

BILL UNLEASHES WEAPON OF ASS DESTRUCTION

I will show you,
that you can have a sense of humor,
that mass destruction just ain’t where it’s at.

Not terrorism, but performance terrorism.

So like that bomb the Soviet Union
dropped on us in the mid-sixties,
that bomb that made everybody want to say
the word “fuck”
freely
in public
forever.

Man, that was fucked up.

But when I walk down the street
with my silver squared
and my beard held high
people will say, “there goes Bill.
He invented the Ass Bomb.
He’s really not such a bad guy.”

I can see it now.
I will become Time Magazine’s “Ass of the Year”.
I will win the Nobel Prize for Ass
and with my winnings,
support an network of underground ass-droppers.
Getting through airport security
will be as easy as dropping trow.

And you will thank me.
Someday, you will ALL thank me,
from the bottom of your bottoms,
for being making global terrorism silly
and ground zero cleanup
nothing more than dusting off your pants.

So, hang on to your chairs.

I don’t know how I’m going to do this.
But, I’ll never find out
until I get up off my ass
and try.

Transcribed from “Hang On To Your Chairs (Ass Bomb) from The Hit List 2 by Bill Campana.

Listen to the poem “Hang On To Your Chairs (Ass Bomb)” from the spoken word album The Hit List 2 by Bill Campana.

About the poet Bill Campana

Summary and Analysis of “Hang On To Your Chairs (Ass Bomb)” by Bill Campana

Bill Campana’s poem “Hang On To Your Chairs (Ass Bomb)” is a wild, irreverent ride through performance poetry and political satire, packed with wit, absurdity, and a surprising undercurrent of hope. With his trademark humor and grounded delivery, Campana envisions a world-changing invention—not a bomb of destruction, but one of disruption. This imagined “Ass Bomb” doesn’t kill or harm. Instead, it knocks everyone flat on their backsides—an act that, in the poet’s vision, serves to unite, disarm, and humble humanity in one shared, absurd experience.

Summary

In this hilarious and sharply satirical piece, the speaker declares his intention to go back to school and study complex sciences—quantum mechanics, nuclear physics, and mathematics—not to build a weapon of mass destruction, but a weapon of “ass destruction.” This bomb won’t maim or kill; it will simply knock everyone off their feet. Whether standing, sitting, walking, or talking on the phone, people around the world will fall to the ground in synchronized, undignified unison.

The poet imagines global headlines reacting to this act of performance terrorism:

“AND THEN WE ALL FALL DOWN”
“DEATH TOLL ZERO AS WORLD FALLS ON ITS’ ASS”
“BILL UNLEASHES WEAPON OF ASS DESTRUCTION”

The piece swerves between the ridiculous and the reflective, revealing the poet’s wish for a gentler, funnier kind of revolution—one that uses laughter instead of violence. He points to a cultural shift in the 1960s where, in his words, “that bomb that made everybody want to say the word ‘fuck’ freely in public forever” broke down barriers of censorship. Now, his own imagined bomb would break down political and ideological barriers with comedy, reminding people that “mass destruction just ain’t where it’s at.”

By the end, the poem circles back to a personal call to action. The speaker doesn’t yet know how he’ll accomplish this dream, but one thing is certain: he has to get up off his ass and try.

Analysis

Campana masterfully uses humor to critique our obsession with violence, weaponry, and the spectacle of destruction. By flipping the traditional function of a bomb—from devastation to harmless absurdity—he challenges societal norms around power and conflict resolution. His “Ass Bomb” becomes a metaphor for a unifying jolt, an equalizer that reminds everyone—world leaders, ordinary citizens, and even the poet himself—that we all fall down sometimes.

This poem is classic Bill Campana: irreverent, self-aware, deeply human, and delivered with a wink and a truth bomb. The poem functions not just as a performance piece, but also as a vision for an alternative kind of power—one that doesn’t rely on fear but on humility, connection, and shared laughter.

It’s also a subtle commentary on agency and action. As the poem ends with,

“I don’t know how I’m going to do this. / But I’ll never find out / until I get up off my ass / and try.”

Campana speaks not just of his fictitious invention, but of the creative act itself—the need to rise and create, even if you don’t have the blueprint yet.

➡️ Ready to experience more of Bill Campana’s bold, boundary-pushing poetry?
Visit his poet bio page on AZPoetry.com and discover why he’s considered one of the most iconic voices in Arizona’s spoken word scene.

Fine White Powder by Naughty A. Mouse

“Fine White Powder” by Naughty A. Mouse

sugar is a fine white powder let me say
that a little louder sugar is a fine
white powder let me say that a little
louder sugar is a fine white powder and
just like crack and smack it’s all
wrapped up in money and power see Coke
comes from leaves and opium from flowers
but the granddaddy of the fine white
powders is made from beets and Cane
people hear the word drugs they usually
think of gangs they think of
cold-blooded Killers with Latin last
names selling PCP LSD and Mary Jane are
moving Mac ecstasy and crack cocaine
people hear the word drugs they think
shackles jails and chains they think
suffering and pain they think Blood
Money backstabbing and innocent slain
but there is no such stigma attached to
sugar cane yeah there ain’t no shame
affix to the sticks of even little kids
get lit they sit and take hits
off of their pixie sticks getting ripped
and no one sees a problem with this
because this is a fix that we all crave
and we are not ashamed although we know
it was built on the backs of black
slaves so I tell y’all sugar is a fine
white powder and I want it to ring in
your brains a little bit louder because
its story is the same as what’s shot in
the veins a shot up the nose to get
straight at the brain I’m talking Blood
Money backstabbing innocent slain I’m
talking suffering and pain shackles
jails and chains headlessness remembered
remains Little Women and Children
backing up the product and Counting out
the change and The Killers deranged who
ran the whole game and who teach kids to
kill for material gain the saddest thing
about it is all of these facts are
already in your brain they’ve just been
sanitized like blood stains washed down
shower drains so only the cold and
boring facts remain
you all sat in little rows frustrated
but so well trained and normalized this
[ __ ] with the phrase triangle trade
sugar for rum for slaves Europeans ruled
the waves and got money in power off a
little grains of white powder so I’m
asking y’all help me make this louder
sugar is a fine white powder come on
y’all louder sugar is a fine white
powder come on y’all louder sugar is the
fine white powder come on y’all louder
the foundation of our nation the
independence Declaration was sung by
kingpins who ran drug plantations so
fast forward just a few generations to
the days when radio stations still sing
the Praises of criminal organizations
but the biggest drug dealers are legally
chartered corporations and on both sides
of the law it’s all about location
location
it doesn’t matter if the battles are
fought in courts over end caps instead
of blocks or if the people that pack the
gats are called cops it’s still cash
crops to define the line between the
hives and the have-nots and I think
we’re all just too high on sugar to call
them crimes when they’re committed by
the Criminal Minds on top so I came out
to tell y’all that sugar is a fine white
powder and I’m asking you spread the
word because knowledge is power

Transcribed from the video Fine White Powder by Ghost Poetry Show and Naughty A Mouse.

Watch the Video “Fine White Powder” by Naughty A Mouse on YouTube

About the poet Naughty A Mouse

Naughty A Mouse’s powerful spoken word poem “Fine White Powder” is a lyrical indictment of sugar—yes, sugar—as a historically overlooked but deeply entwined player in the legacy of colonialism, slavery, capitalism, and addiction. Delivered with rhythmic urgency and a call-and-response refrain—“sugar is a fine white powder”—this poem blurs the lines between drug culture, economic power structures, and normalized consumption, ultimately inviting readers to reconsider the social and historical contexts of everyday commodities.

Summary

At its surface, “Fine White Powder” compares sugar to illegal drugs like crack, smack (heroin), cocaine, and ecstasy. But this isn’t just a metaphor for sweetness and dependency—the poem traces sugar’s origins as a commodity rooted in slavery, colonialism, and racial exploitation.

Naughty A Mouse challenges the audience to recognize how sugar—like narcotics—is a fine white substance entangled in systems of money and power. He critiques how society vilifies some drugs while ignoring others that share similar histories of violence and control, especially when profit motives sanitize or legitimize their use.

Children “take hits / off of their pixie sticks” and society sees no problem, but the poet points out the dark legacy behind the treat: “built on the backs of black slaves.” The speaker makes a strong case for sugar as the original addictive substance of empire, tied directly to the transatlantic slave trade—”sugar for rum for slaves.” He links this to modern corporate and legal institutions that profit from “drug-like” products, drawing attention to the hypocrisy of how some harmful industries are socially accepted or legally protected.

Analysis

“Fine White Powder” is more than a history lesson—it’s an urgent political poem, calling for deeper awareness of systemic injustice. Naughty A Mouse’s use of repetition (“sugar is a fine white powder”) becomes a chant, a rallying cry, and an indictment. The rhythm mirrors spoken word and hip-hop influences, pushing the message past poetic beauty into the realm of protest art.

The poet subverts the idea of what a “drug” is, taking it out of alleyways and placing it on the kitchen table, in the classroom, and on supermarket shelves. He draws attention to the way society separates “legal” and “illegal” substances not by harm but by who profits from them. The “location, location” line points to how geography, race, and class determine what is considered criminal versus what is considered commerce.

Lines like “the foundation of our nation… was sung by kingpins who ran drug plantations” push the reader to reevaluate sanitized historical narratives, including the American Revolution, and recognize their economic foundations in slavery and drug-like agriculture. This is a poem of unmasking and recontextualization—pushing listeners to see the institutional legacy of sugar and question what they’ve been taught.

Call to Action

By the end, the poet isn’t just making a point—he’s building a movement. He directly addresses the audience, asking them to join in spreading awareness:

“I came out to tell y’all that sugar is a fine white powder / and I’m asking you spread the word because knowledge is power.”

In doing so, Naughty A Mouse merges art and activism, using poetic storytelling to unveil how oppression hides in plain sight—in something as seemingly innocent as a spoonful of sugar.

➡️ Learn more about Naughty A Mouse and explore his poet bio page on AZPoetry.com