Damn. People seem to enjoy my poems. Invariably, these people are my friends so it sort of makes their opinions...questionable. If they didn't know me; If I were, perhaps, just some random guy who happened to pass them a poem on a napkin, what would they think of it then?
Call me a wild thing. I run sometimes. Sometimes I sleep
beneath the ancient tree. My belly is softer than my back.
There are things inside of me that are overgrown with blackberries.
They are plump with the sun, ready to stain the fingers.
There is a room where a woman with a loom weaves.
She is making a fabric white as skin. The light passes through it.
Her body is like lace. The light passes through it.
Its corners curl into shapes and beautiful patterns.
She lays herself before me on top the table
and places my teacup on to her chest.
They are both trembling things.
She covers her body with teacups.
I lay at her feet.
We are both trembling things.
I don't know Anis Mojgani. I never shook his hand or teased him about his height. I've never dismissed the snarks of homophobes while embracing him, man to man, in a crowded restaurant. We are not friends. But I'd like to be. I'd like to meet Anis Mojgani the way some people would like to hang out backstage with their favorite musicians. This man is my rock star. I hear he hangs out at the Bowery Poetry Club. Last time I was in New York I went out in search of it, only to get lost and give up hope. And just as we were about to descend down into another subway terminal I look up...and there it is. Right across the street.
Next time, I'll be able to find it a lot easier. Maybe they'll have an open mic night or something. Maybe I'll read. Maybe Anis Mojgani will be in the crowd. Maybe he'll clap.
That'd be awesome.
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