I went to my roommate Will’s poetry reading last night. It was at The Cornelia Street Cafe, a restaurant upstairs with a dark, long room in the basement with small round candle-lit tables and a stage 
enclosed by shabby red curtain. Will was the featured poet at the reading, but there was an Open Mic first in which a wave of Featured Poet wanna-bes basked in their weekly moment of stardom.
One poet was one of the younger ones, probably in his late 20s, Asian, with a lime green and yellow tshirt from.. Abercrombie? or American Eagle? Somewhere at the mall. I never would have guessed he would take part in a poetry reading in a dark, theatre-style basement bar. His tight lips often peeled back into a suggestive smile showcasing a mouth of crooked teeth and gaps and his hips would swivel at the end of a sentence, which kind of grossed me out for some reason. He got really into his work.
One woman gave us all goosebumps with her vividly chilling poem about a desperate love for a criminal and drug user — it was obviously not a healthy relationship, but her use of powerful, and sometimes vulgar, metaphor had most of the audience ready to swap uneasy looks with friends and strangers alike.
One man made us all a little scared! He looked like a Vietnam vet (that’s not the scary part though). He got up to the mic and, grasping the mic tightly in his rough old hand, he started to speak. What an accent! I didn’t know if that was part of the act or if he was foreign or if he had some head trauma… But he started off “These-ah poets-ah they-ah do not ah-feel nice-ah to my ears-ah. If-ah I could get away-ah with spitting in their Faces-ah, I would do it in-ah no time-ah.” He was angry and he wanted to kick some butt with his war ravaged hands.
There were several other poets, mostly ok, some good, a few were great. And finally they presented the featured poet, my beloved, kind, funny, upbeat roommate. He always seems to present himself in such an creatively organized and well-managed way. So, while he can be a little cynical in conversations around the apt., I never thought his poetry would be so.. angry and forceful!
Without introducing himself or saying hi or anything, he tore the mic from the stand and started speaking in a loud, unrestrained voice — I didn’t know what to think! This is not the Will I know! He looked like the lead singer of one of the many Brooklyn Indie/Hipster/Emo/Rock bands. As he strained himself forward toward an invisible force above the audience, his eyes gleamed, bulging red and fierce. Sometimes, in a very intense verse/word prose section, he would even curl over as if he got kicked in the stomach.
Don’t get me wrong, Will is a profoundly intelligent and interesting poet. The way he pronounces words, letters and syllables is truly art. He’s been published in England and America and seems to have quite the little gang of boy and girl groupies. He was the youngest poet by far, yet he was what everyone came to see. It’s just not what I expected. Considering the 2 or 3 sideways glances he made in my direction during the performance I think he knew I would be surprised.
After the show I walked over to thank him for inviting us.
“So you still want to live at the apt. now that you’ve heard my poetry?” he said nervously with a smile. I think he was serious, too!
“Of course, silly!” I replied. He was sweaty and looked a little skinnier than usual.
I like that he’s creative, and, maybe more so, I’m grateful that he’s not always so intense. I guess he reserves Eccentric Will for the stage. I can appreciate wild creativity in certain situations, but the apt is perfect as it is. 
I’m glad I went and I think he appreciates my other roommate Lindsay and I showing our support. I really like my apt. and I couldn’t ask for nicer, more interesting and fun roommates.
It’s all just so New York 
Tags: art, cornelia street cafe, event, New York City, open mic, poems, poetry, poetry reading, published, writing
