David Tabor: Analog Artist, Photographer, and Arizona Poet
A Creative Rooted in Arizona’s Poetry and Art Scene
David Tabor is a multidisciplinary artist whose creative journey blends poetry, photography, and performance. Based in Arizona, Tabor made his early mark in the local poetry slam community, creating zines that featured his work and the work of fellow poets. His passion for the written word evolved alongside his deep love of visual storytelling—capturing life through analog photography and hand-crafted zines.
Poetry Slam Veteran and DIY Publisher
Tabor was an active voice in Phoenix’s spoken word scene, performing and producing zines during the Essenza Coffee Shop days. His eye for aesthetics and reverence for authenticity gave rise to a body of work that valued intimacy, imperfection, and the handmade. Zines were often his publishing medium of choice, a perfect format for sharing raw, immediate poetic experiences with a grassroots audience.
A Return to Analog Photography
During the pandemic, Tabor returned to one of his earliest creative loves: analog photography. Drawing on skills he developed in the ’90s, he embraced traditional film, darkroom printing, and a slower, more contemplative process. In just a few years, he produced four photo zines and honed a distinctive style centered on “finding beauty in what’s already there.”
His photographic work often explores ordinary moments and overlooked textures of urban and natural spaces. Through zines and hand-printed darkroom pieces, Tabor invites audiences to experience stillness and see the poetry embedded in the everyday.
Collaboration and Connection
One of his proudest accomplishments is a collaborative photo book with artist Lisa Tang Liu. The project was a labor of love—combining visual artistry and editorial rigor, and pushing Tabor’s creative boundaries further than ever before.
Bells, Books, and Improvisation
When he’s not behind the camera, David Tabor works as a bell maker and staff photographer at Cosanti Originals in Paradise Valley, Arizona. The overlap of craftsmanship in both photography and bronze casting has become part of his artistic ethos—use the tools at hand, trust the process, and let the work speak for itself.
Tabor attributes much of his recent success to personal growth and perspective. Once deterred by self-doubt, he’s come to embrace failure as a stepping stone in the creative process. Whether through poetry, photography, or zines, David Tabor continues to explore new frontiers while remaining rooted in authenticity and intention.
Jeff Falk: Visual Artist, Poet, and Arizona Arts Icon
From the Heartland to the Desert
Born in Nebraska and raised in Kansas, Jeff Falk moved with his family to Phoenix, Arizona in 1959. Since then, he has firmly rooted himself in the Arizona arts scene as both a groundbreaking visual artist and an influential figure in the world of spoken word poetry. His creative contributions—spanning visual media, poetry, and community-building—have made Falk a cornerstone of the Grand Avenue arts movement in downtown Phoenix.
A Creative Force in Phoenix Since 1984
Since the early 1980s, Falk has been developing a uniquely expressive style through mixed media art. Working with painting, drawing, collage/decollage, glue, wood, paper, and found objects, he believes that “a work of art is the sum of its parts”—each piece a fusion of tangible materials and intangible personal experiences. Falk often employs “materials at hand” as a philosophical approach to creativity, emphasizing authenticity, resourcefulness, and intuitive composition.
Champion of Spoken Word Poetry in Arizona
While Falk is primarily known as a visual artist, his impact on Arizona’s poetry scene is equally significant. As the founder of the gallery Deus Ex Machina on Grand Avenue, he created a welcoming and experimental venue for poets and artists alike. It was at this gallery that Falk launched “The Poetry Industrial Complex” and “Caffeine Corridor,” two beloved spoken word series that became integral to the development of Phoenix’s contemporary poetry scene.
Many Arizona poets—including Jack Evans, Bill Campana, and Shawnte Orion—credit Jeff Falk with offering a creative home where they could grow their voices and find their audience. These events became cultural institutions, giving a platform to emerging and established writers while blurring the lines between performance, activism, and art.
Poetry as Communication and Critique
Jeff Falk’s poetic philosophy is as uncompromising and insightful as his artwork. He writes with the belief that “getting inside other people’s heads with words is the last vestige of semi-honest communication left in a world that mistakes opinions for fact, celebrities for heroes, loudness for meaning, and glitz and glamor for truth.” His poetry cuts through noise, offering readers sharp, poignant reflections on society, identity, and the human experience.
A Legacy of Raw Creativity and Community
Whether in a gallery or behind a microphone, Falk has spent decades inspiring Arizona’s creative community through honesty, originality, and unfiltered expression. His commitment to nurturing the arts has left a permanent mark on Phoenix’s cultural identity.
David Chorlton: Bridging Continents Through Poetry
From Austria to Arizona: A Journey Across Cultures
Born in Austria in 1948, David Chorlton spent his formative years in Manchester, England, amidst the industrial landscapes of the northern region. In his early twenties, he relocated to Vienna, Austria, where he immersed himself in the rich European art and music scene. In 1978, Chorlton moved to Phoenix, Arizona, with his wife, Roberta, marking the beginning of a profound connection with the American Southwest.
A Deep Connection with the Desert Landscape
Settling in Arizona, Chorlton developed a profound appreciation for the desert’s unique beauty and its diverse wildlife. This admiration is vividly reflected in his poetry, which often explores themes of nature and the environment. His collection, The Porous Desert, exemplifies this focus, offering readers an intimate portrayal of the Arizona landscape.
Acclaimed Works and Literary Contributions
Throughout his literary career, Chorlton has produced an impressive array of poetry collections. Notable works include:
His chapbooks have also garnered recognition, with The Lost River winning the Ronald Wardall Award from Rain Mountain Press in 2008, and From the Age of Miracles securing the Slipstream Chapbook Competition in 2009.
Exploring Fiction and Translation
Beyond poetry, Chorlton ventured into fiction with The Taste of Fog, a novel set in 1962 Vienna that delves into the complexities of a murder investigation. Additionally, he has contributed to literary translation, bringing to English audiences the works of Austrian poet Christine Lavant in Shatter the Bell in My Ear, published by The Bitter Oleander Press.
A Voice in Anthologies and Exhibitions
Chorlton’s poetry has been featured in various anthologies, including Fever Dreams (University of Arizona Press) and New Poets of the American West (Many Voices Press). His work also played a role in the “Fires of Change” exhibition, a collaboration between artists and scientists addressing the impact of climate change on forest management.
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
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.
there is a fine line between heroism and martyrdom and on march 3rd 1991 i watched a man nearly cross it swing 56 blows led to this king’s ransom swing 56 blows set off a chain of events some still have yet to recover from swing swing rodney’s life and construction helps us understand why building bridges of compassion was more important than his destructive past swing swing swing taser this is 56 times i watched in horror not believing what was clear as glass in front of my barely 18 year old eyes swing my mind muddied by my belief that this is unbelievable is this a nightmare wake up this is happening swing swing he was a big man he must have deserved it swing swing swing kick driving way too fast for much too long swing really rodney 100 miles per hour in a hyundai swing he had two passengers and too much to drink swing swing allegedly two drugs course through his veins swing swing swing perhaps he was too black or too big in black to deserve dignity swing too slow to pull over too intoxicated to realize he was being beaten swing swing i can only imagine what george holliday was thinking as he recorded this historic moment swing swing swing kick a moment that changed my trust in who upholds the law swing cube spoke to it in his fictionalized art gangsters can’t be trusted so why should i believe these [ _ ] with attitude swing swing it’s hard to know what was said but i would imagine a taser speaks volumes swing swing swing five batons constantly attracted to one fallen body swing the racial slurs begin led ironically by a man named [ _ ] swing swing more firepower than an old western saloon swing swing swing kick so i guess we should be happy they didn’t just shoot him swing though they did break his skull and leg to show they mean business swing swing truth is he was a criminal on probation for armed robbery swing swing swing but did he deserve to have his criminal mind concussed in a savage beating swing by police later acquitted of charges swing swing judge declared the blow that broke king’s leg was not excessive swing swing wait what hey [ __ ] stop moving swing kick tasers they told him not to move while hitting him repeatedly swing maybe he thought the police were trying to kill him swing swing but i’m sure action spoke louder that night swing hard to imagine it takes 56 baton blows six kicks and two tasers to subdue one man swing 30 years later i’m still not over it swing 30 years later one question still resonates kick can’t we all just get along you
In “56”, Robert FlipSide Daniels delivers a haunting and powerful reflection on the brutal beating of Rodney King at the hands of the LAPD on March 3, 1991. The poem’s title refers to the 56 baton blows that rained down on King’s body—a harrowing number that sets the tone for this piece, which is both an indictment of police brutality and a meditation on justice, race, and American history.
The repetitive “swing” motif acts as a relentless drumbeat, mirroring the vicious attack itself. Each “swing” serves as a visceral reminder of every hit, every act of dehumanization, and every moment of disbelief the poet felt as he witnessed this atrocity unfold at just 18 years old. The poem shifts between historical facts, societal commentary, and personal reflection, questioning not only the actions of law enforcement but also the system that allowed them to walk free.
FlipSide does not ignore King’s past—his criminal record, his intoxication, his reckless speeding—but he forces the reader to ask: Did any of that justify what happened to him? He juxtaposes Rodney King’s flaws with the sheer excessive force and racial injustice he suffered, highlighting how Blackness itself often becomes a justification for violence in America.
The poem also critiques the media’s portrayal and public reaction to the event. References to Ice Cube and N.W.A. emphasize the deep distrust in law enforcement that existed long before King’s beating, while the line about George Holliday, the man who recorded the attack, underscores the power of video evidence in exposing systemic abuse. And yet—even with undeniable footage—the officers were acquitted, leading to the 1992 Los Angeles Riots.
The final 30 years later refrain reminds us that the pain, trauma, and unanswered questions still linger. The poem ends with King’s own plea for unity—“Can’t we all just get along?”—a heartbreaking echo of a man who, despite being brutally beaten, still sought peace.
FlipSide’s “56” is not just a poem—it is a call to remember, to question, and to demand accountability. It serves as a chilling reminder that justice, even when caught on camera, is far from guaranteed.
To learn more about FlipSide’s poetry and powerful storytelling, visit his poet bio pagehere.
“You Are Not What They Speak Of You” by Jason Lalli
because you are not what they speak of you like a tornado destroys a village is how quickly it destroyed his spirit Deja Vu with new faces Asian by Heritage but a Collegiate student in America with the thickness of a twig his tall slender meat and Bone cycle frame never seemed to get a warm reception
his genius felt socially awkward a confident computer nerd by stereotype shy wants to keep to himself type of demeanor don’t let this magician’s illusion fool you he wants to reach out his giant heart yearns for connection but social settings breathe life into bullying nightmares as beautiful women snap pictures to laugh about with their friends while peers in groups distaste we strip him of his dignity with insults to his face it’s the pain of rejection has become the erosion of self-confidence
how can mental strength survive if it’s the target always being shot as not like a private affair but the embarrassment of public humiliation insult bombs leave shots and negativity in the walls of his mind and his soul his heart transform the black empty life loses luster after a person is conditioned in such a man when degrading persecution becomes regular routine the Silver Lining is lost for light when the eyes always see Darkness no chance to hear truth when hateful poison is all that is fat to be heard so how can he feel alive if he’s imprisoned by fear
like the scared pit bull confined by its Leisure are we surprised to see snapping teeth in defense yet we wonder why suicide rates on a rapid incline why the outcast lashes out violently towards their fellow students as media rating Skyrocket with no regard
I was Witness as I watched his parents lifetime Harvest demolished with one action afraid of Confrontation there was no acknowledgment as he stared at the floor I can’t imagine his life being filled with beautiful Scenic views of his gaze is always fixed downwards as a bystander we have a choice to look away as he did afraid of Confrontation or to become a participant I chose to make a difference my actions spoke with words of encouragement as if to say my friend please take a moment to remove yourself from this angst fill the breath of oxygen invigorate life into your veins hear how beautiful your mind and soul is and always will be see the light outlining beyond their cloud of hatred
understand they’re unhappy with themselves they laugh at you because they want you to join them in their misery you are not what they speak of you you are the lights they wish to be you are purity don’t let them taint your good nature
be strong know that type of strength lies deep within your core it’s there you have it harness it’s power there are wind blowing against your unfazed Steel
you are not rock the world with time you were ever evolving maturing beyond the petty use this moment don’t let it use you lead is the opposite to the extreme and treat everyone you meet with kindness because know that once upon a time in a different scenario and place I I was you and I pray that today my actions prove that you can be me
Summary and Analysis of “You Are Not What They Speak Of You” by Jason Lalli
Jason Lalli’s poem “You Are Not What They Speak Of You” is a profound meditation on bullying, resilience, and self-worth. It tells the story of an Asian student studying in America, facing relentless social rejection and public humiliation. The poem paints a harrowing picture of how bullying erodes self-confidence, trapping its victims in a prison of fear and isolation.
The poem’s strength lies in its deep empathy. Lalli explores the emotional and psychological toll of bullying, likening it to a tornado that destroys a spirit in an instant. The student is portrayed as a misunderstood genius, a shy but big-hearted individual, yearning for connection yet repeatedly cast aside. The cruelty of his peers manifests in mockery, social exclusion, and outright insults, all of which build up, conditioning him to see the world through a lens of darkness.
Lalli masterfully shifts the poem’s tone from despair to empowerment. The speaker, who once endured similar torment, chooses to break the cycle—to uplift rather than ignore, to encourage rather than degrade. He urges the bullied student to see beyond the hatred, recognizing that cruelty often stems from the aggressors’ own pain and insecurity. The poem becomes a call to resilience, reminding the reader that self-worth is not defined by others’ opinions.
The final stanza is particularly powerful and transformative. The speaker declares that he was once in the victim’s position but has since risen above, proving that one can overcome and even surpass the pain inflicted by others. The poem becomes a beacon of hope, offering a message that is both timeless and universal: we are not what others say we are—we define ourselves.
To learn more about Jason Lalli’s poetry, spoken word performances, and advocacy for self-empowerment, visit his poet bio pagehere.
you were the child of R&B and jump Blues flamingo guitar and Mariachi Richard Valenzuela they called you Ritchie said Valenzuela was too much for a Gringo’s tongue said it would taste bad in their mouths if they said it so they cut your name in half to Valens and you swallowed that taste down stood tall like a bacho and sign that contract Rich was always about music you felt it tumble inside your chest as a boy playing a guitar with only two strings and when your neighbor caught you you thought he’d be angry over your racket instead he helped you repair the instrument and taught you how to grip it correctly and you left-handed boy playing a right-handed guitar repay him by making the notes fly you could play and sing at 17 you was signed at Del five records of America, wanted to pass you off as Italian, but you did not have old blue eyes, no yours were young and brown, brown like the dirt in the San Fernando Valley, brown like the hands of your tias who worked in the fields for pennies, died inside Cantinas with broken hearts, California’s hands were filled with hate back then leading white and brown master and slave and there you were, in the midst of it all, young chicano kid from the barrio, an American band stand shredding guitar strings while Dick Clark watched, I swear Ritchie, when I listen I can hear it all I can hear the screams from the zoot suit riots, I can hear the young gringo hipsters swarming you after a concert, how you made them laugh and dance in their ballrooms, the children sitting on the bleachers of your middle school. swaying to your rhythm and blues, the old men in your neighborhoods watching you play ranas when they shout it out much how you made them all smile Ritchie in a nation at war with it self, ashamed of the blood on his hands, you were never ashamed of who you were, took an old folk song from B Cruz, la bamba swung that afro Mexican rhythm into rock and roll and sang all Spanish lyrics at a time when speaking Spanish came with a wooden paddle punishment, you played live at the Apollo with Chuck Berry and rocked, you were a legend and Rich before that night before you boarded that plane, before you tumbled from the sky like it caled me in before your 19th birthday your body frozen near that Lake in Wisconsin the phrase what if still sits on our tongues and America is still trying to shape you into Hollywood still trying to bleach the memory of your skin wrote a movie and said you never spoke Spanish when you understood each cadino your mother placed in your ears as a child chocked her death up to Superstition and Mexican hoopla there are myths scattered in your legacy but I know Ritchie we know it was always about your music and that cannot be disfigured it plays forever in our hearts it is trapped inside Carlos Santana’s fingertips it drifts through alleys and walkways plays on television during commercials rides up elevators drifts into backyards where there is some boy brown and dusty desperately trying to play a guitar with only two strings
Myrlin Hepworth’s poem “Ritchie Valens” is a moving tribute to the young Chicano rock and roll legend Ritchie Valens—born Richard Valenzuela—who revolutionized American music before his tragic death at just 17 years old. The poem vividly recounts Valens’ meteoric rise, from his humble beginnings in the San Fernando Valley to becoming a star, all while battling the racial prejudice and cultural erasure that sought to strip him of his Mexican identity.
Hepworth crafts an evocative narrative, painting Valens as more than just a musician but as a symbol of resilience and cultural pride. The poem highlights the systemic pressures that forced Valens to change his name, downplaying his heritage to fit a white-dominated industry. However, despite the attempts to whitewash his identity, Valens’ Chicano roots remained embedded in his music, most notably in La Bamba, a Spanish-language hit that defied the mainstream aversion to bilingualism at the time.
Hepworth’s lyrical and rhythmic style mirrors the energy of Valens’ music, blending historical context with an almost spoken-word urgency. The poem seamlessly weaves together Valens’ personal story with broader themes of racial tension, cultural assimilation, and artistic defiance. It acknowledges the ways America has attempted to reshape Valens’ legacy while emphasizing the power of his music, which continues to inspire generations.
The final lines leave us with a powerful image: a young, brown-skinned boy struggling with a two-string guitar, much like Valens once did. It is a reminder that Ritchie’s influence is eternal, resonating in the lives of future musicians and dreamers.
To learn more about Myrlin Hepworth’s poetry and his contributions to spoken word and Chicano storytelling, visit his poet bio pagehere.
Curt Kirkwood: Arizona’s Alt-Rock Poet and the Visionary Behind the Meat Puppets
Curt Kirkwood is more than just a musician—he is a poetic force whose songwriting has left an indelible mark on Arizona’s alternative rock scene and beyond. As the founding member, lead vocalist, guitarist, and primary songwriter of the legendary band Meat Puppets, Kirkwood has crafted lyrics that merge desert surrealism, existential musings, and raw storytelling into a distinct poetic style. His songs, including the iconic tracks “Plateau,” “Oh, Me,” “Lake of Fire,” and “Backwater,” have captivated audiences worldwide and solidified his reputation as a lyrical poet of the American underground. Many of these alternative song classics are available on the album The Meat Puppets II.
Roots in Arizona and the Formation of a Legacy
Born on January 10, 1959, Curt Kirkwood’s journey began in Phoenix, Arizona, where he and his brother, Cris Kirkwood, would go on to form the Meat Puppets in 1980. Their genre-blending sound—fusing punk, country, and psychedelia—set them apart in the indie rock landscape and earned them a cult following. The arid landscapes of Arizona served as both a backdrop and inspiration for much of Kirkwood’s lyricism, evident in the dreamlike, often hallucinatory imagery present throughout his songwriting.
The Poetic Lyrical Style of Curt Kirkwood
Kirkwood’s lyrics defy easy classification. Part cosmic cowboy, part punk philosopher, he weaves narratives that blur the lines between reality and fantasy, humor and melancholy, existential dread and reckless joy. The desert, a recurring motif in his work, becomes both a physical and metaphysical space—a place of solitude, rebirth, and mystery. His distinct poetic voice transforms simple storytelling into something mythic, mystical, and deeply personal.
From Indie Legend to Mainstream Recognition
While the Meat Puppets gained underground acclaim in the 1980s, they rose to mainstream prominence in the 1990s when Nirvana’s Kurt Cobain handpicked them to perform on the legendary MTV Unplugged in New York special in 1993. Cobain’s reverence for Kirkwood’s songwriting led Nirvana to cover three Meat Puppets songs, introducing Kirkwood’s poetic lyricism to a new generation of fans.
A Career of Evolution and Experimentation
Beyond the Meat Puppets, Kirkwood has continued to explore the depths of his creativity, forming and playing in other projects such as:
Eyes Adrift (2002–2003) – a collaboration with Krist Novoselic (Nirvana) and Bud Gaugh (Sublime), blending folk and alternative rock.
Volcano (2004) – a short-lived project that further expanded his psychedelic, abstract storytelling.
Solo Career (2005–present) – His 2005 solo album Snow revealed a stripped-down, intimate side of his songwriting, showcasing a more raw, poetic expression.
A Visual Artist as Well as a Wordsmith
Kirkwood’s artistry isn’t limited to music—he is also a visual artist whose work has been featured on multiple Meat Puppets album covers and merchandise. His distinctive style mirrors his songwriting—colorful, surreal, and evocative of the untamed spirit of the Southwest.
The Meat Puppets’ Ongoing Legacy
After a brief hiatus, the Meat Puppets reunited in 2006, with Curt and Cris Kirkwood leading the charge. The band remains an active and influential force, releasing albums such as Rise to Your Knees (2007), Sewn Together (2009), Lollipop (2011), Rat Farm (2013), and Dusty Notes (2019). Kirkwood’s poetic sensibilities continue to shine, proving that his lyrical mysticism and desert-infused storytelling remain as vibrant as ever.
Curt Kirkwood: The Poetic Outlaw of Arizona’s Alternative Rock Scene
Curt Kirkwood’s impact on music and poetry is undeniable. His lyrics blur the line between song and spoken-word poetry, making him a true Arizona poet in the alternative rock tradition. His work has influenced generations of musicians and writers, proving that poetry isn’t confined to the page—it can roar through amplifiers, echo across the desert, and carve out its place in rock history.
To dive deeper into the poetic mind of Curt Kirkwood, visit his poet bio pagehere.
there’s a revolution. it spins like the world on its axis, so fast it carries no sound, no image, not even a vibration and if you run fast, like a child, and come to a sudden stop in your sprint, close your eyes quick, and hold your breath. you’ll feel it, you’ll hear it just say seconds behind, or a lifetime ahead. right now, there’s a Vietnamese boy running through a field with a pair of Nikes tucked under his arm, dodging bullets like raindrops, his blistered feet barely touching the grass, racing across the mud, racing against consumerism. the shoes are not for him, but for his grandmother so that the time in the field can be gentler in its monotony. right now, a boy’s just found a stone, he checks his weight for strength, it’s grooves for accuracy, then darts off with his fist held high, signaling to the other that the stick ball game was officially on, never knowing that the the rock he holds is the last reigning piece to a church bomb years ago in Selma, Alabama and the sound he hears played after, when he cracks a home run, is not the tinkling of broken glass from Miss Johnson’s window, but four little black angels crying tears of joy, cheering him as his feet hit every base. right now, in the Soviet Union, where the red curtain might be tatted, but its’ blood stained glow still cast over the eyes of everyone living there, and names like Stalin and Lenin bring shivers colder than the Hudson in December, and names like optimism, freedom, and democracy can get you shot, killed if you’re lucky. there was a girl sticking her hand into a military bonfire ignoring the pain and crackling of her own skin, she takes out a book half charred, which reads Three Sisters by Chekov and tucks it underneath the shirt, not for warmth, but salvation. right now, a crackhead had waited 10 minutes longer than he did yesterday, before going in the cop and tells himself tomorrow I’ll shoot for 20. a raced girl with bags underneath her eyes, and in beneath the legs which both by now her age stands, on the corner Main & Champion, and when some Tide State worker comes by flashing crisp $20 bills she gets on the bus and heads home for the first time in months. can you hear me now right now? a boy just ran for his life to go to school today, some girl got caught and smacked to some piece of car, leaving her purse behind, but not a virginity. can you hear me now? right now, a man just cut off his TV and actually had a conversation with his kids. there is a revolution happening around us every moment, of every day, and it is not black power, nor white power, it is not scary, not tyrannical, it is not Hitler nor Gandhi, Martin or Malcolm, Mama, no Nora. it is a young couple’s kiss behind the bleachers and the old couple holding hands in the mall, it is loving someone intensely for 5 minutes, then letting go when the song ends. it is your misfiring synapses, your unfit high, your seemingly miserable existence that still keeps beating in your chest like some Drummer Boy hellbent on getting through a spiritual desert, it is writing a poem or hearing one. it is your inhale and exhale. right now, there’s a revolution being fought right around us. look at the person next to you. see the battle being fought in their eyes and recognize it is just a reflection of the same war being fought inside you. it’s but the effort to live your life the way you wish every moment, every day of this life that you have and that is the battle and that is the Revolution and your goal tonight is a inhale and exhale to living live inhale, exhale. can you hear me now? if so then fight on soldiers, ‘cuz the life you saved this night will be your own.
Ed Mabrey’s poem Revolution is an urgent and powerful meditation on the silent, ongoing battles that define human existence. Unlike traditional revolutions that are marked by violence, politics, or ideological shifts, the revolution in Mabrey’s poem is deeply personal, invisible to the untrained eye, yet ever-present in our lives.
The poem unfolds in a series of vignettes, each capturing a moment of struggle, resilience, or defiance from various corners of the world. A Vietnamese boy runs barefoot, dodging bullets, not for himself but to bring comfort to his grandmother. A child picks up a stone for a game, unaware that it is a remnant of a church bombing in Selma, infused with historical pain. A girl in the Soviet Union risks her life to rescue a banned book from flames—not for warmth, but for the survival of knowledge. A crack addict fights against addiction, pushing the boundaries of self-control. A young woman, forced into sex work, takes her first steps toward reclaiming her life.
Through these moments, Mabrey illustrates that revolution is not just found in grand historical narratives but in the quiet acts of endurance, courage, and self-reclamation that happen right now—in real time, all around us. He challenges the reader to recognize the struggles in the eyes of those around them and to see their own internal battles reflected there. The poem’s rhythmic repetition of “right now” creates a sense of immediacy, making the revolution feel not only inevitable but also deeply personal.
Mabrey’s final call to action is simple yet profound: breathe. The act of inhaling and exhaling, of continuing despite hardship, is itself an act of defiance, a way to reclaim one’s life. Revolution is not just about resistance; it is about existence, about the ongoing fight to live authentically and freely.
Discover more about Ed Mabrey’s poetry and performance legacy here on his bio page.
Get Tickets to see Ed Mabrey, Individual World Poetry Slam Champion, feature at Ghost Poetry Show on April 9th, 2025!
April 9th, 2025 at The Rebel Lounge
Doors at 7:00PM | Show at 7:30PM
Advance Price: $10 + fees Day Of Show Price: $12 + fees
21+This is a special Ghost Poetry Show for National Poetry Month! Individual World Poetry Slam Champion ED MABREY features award-winning poetry live and in-your-face in the intimate setting of The Rebel Lounge!
15 poets compete in a poetry slam for cash prizes judged by 5 randomly selected audience members.
To sign up to perform email us at GhostPoetryShow@gmail.com
the temperature is steadily dropping and frost begins to crystalize on my eyelashes, playing tricks with my irises.
i am a green eyed boy, but ice has got me seeing with grey.
grey halls with grey walls led me to this hallowed space.
i am laying, in an empty room.
the ceiling is a motley crew of colors, galaxies are being spun before me. two stars collide, FLASH. BANG. BOOM. the void opens up.
i stare into the vastness, and the void whispers back, “ice cannot kill a phoenix.”
i am laying, in an empty room.
the stillness of space has no place in this room. wind begins to howl, ripping at the walls with nowhere to go. this wind has teeth and it bites at my skin.
anger manifests monsters, and this one is trying to rip, freeze, tear me apart.
i am laying, in an empty room.
the walls are closing in on me. i exhale quick and can see my breath in fog. my skin is beginning to plasticize and i don’t know if i can move.
there once was a door, but i can’t move my head to see if it is still there.
i am laying, in an empty room.
my shoulders start to itch. warmth floods my systems and i can feel it in my chest. my heart begins to beat.
blood flows once more and something is happening to me.
i am laying, in an empty room.
my shoulders begin to burn. a tingle to go along with the itch. then, suddenly, i am screaming.
when i wake up, i am on fire.
i am laying, in an empty room.
and i sit up.
Originally published in Zilch Qualms, a Phoenix Poetry Slam anthology in 2019.
About the poet atlas st. cloud
atlas st. cloud’s poem grey walls is a haunting meditation on isolation, transformation, and rebirth. The poem places the speaker in an empty room, surrounded by the creeping cold that distorts perception—turning green eyes grey, freezing the breath, and numbing the senses. As the speaker remains motionless, they are enveloped by a void, an expanse of darkness filled with cosmic flashes and whispered reassurances. The line, “ice cannot kill a phoenix”, serves as a powerful moment of foreshadowing, hinting at an inevitable resurgence from the paralysis of despair.
The poem’s structure mirrors a cycle of entrapment and eventual release. The repetition of “I am laying, in an empty room” emphasizes stagnation, reinforcing the feeling of being stuck in an unchanging state. Yet, amid the cold and confinement, fire emerges. The warmth first presents itself as an itch, then an unbearable burn, until finally, the speaker erupts in flames—literally and metaphorically. The transformation is painful but necessary, illustrating a shift from suppression to liberation, from numbness to an awakening.
By the poem’s end, the speaker is no longer trapped in stillness. The final shift—from lying down to sitting up—marks a triumph over stasis, a rebirth from the ashes of struggle. grey walls is a deeply evocative piece that captures the internal battle between despair and resilience, ultimately leaving the reader with the image of survival and renewal.
Discover more about atlas st. cloud and his poetry here on his poet bio page.
