Hi, everybody.
Hi, what's up?
I'm Tommy.
Let's see how tall we can get this.
So the first thing I'm going to do is I'm going to read a poem
of Morgan's.
I'm going to read a short excerpt from my book
Junk that is right over there.
You can get it this evening and have me sign it please.
And then I'm going to read you an excerpt from a book called
Feed that is coming out at this time next year.
That's that preview shit.
You are the second audience in the known world
to have gotten this excerpt.
I just had a meeting with my publisher this afternoon.
It's like my favorite book so far.
So we'll see how it goes.
I have a feeling you're going to like it, though.
Hi, what's up?
OK.
Here we go.
So this is a poem by Morgan Parker, the love of my life.
From this book there are more beautiful things than Beyonce,
also to my right.
And it is the titular poem.
I love that word.
[LAUGHTER]
I could just stand here and laugh for 20 minutes.
[INAUDIBLE]
[LAUGHTER]
This is called "Please Wait" or "There Are More Beautiful
Things Than Beyonce."
Please wait to record Love Jones at 8:48 Saturday on BET
until your life is no longer defined by Beyonce.
Ants crawling over falling leaves
and little pieces of dog shit.
Empty chicken boxes glow in with the remembrance of grease.
There are more beautiful things than Beyonce,
self-awareness, leftover mascara in clumps,
recognizing a pattern.
This is for all the grown women out there whose countries
hate them and their brothers, who
carry knives in their purses down the street.
Maybe they will not get out of life.
Maybe they'll turn into air or news--
[SIGHS]
--or brown flower petals.
There are more beautiful things than Beyonce,
lavender, education, becoming other people, the fucking sky.
It's so overused because no one's sure of it,
how it floats with flagrant privilege
and feels it could ask any question.
Every day its ego gets bigger and you let that happen.
But one day your shit will be unbelievably together.
One day you'll care a whole lot.
And you'll always take vitamins and exercise without bragging
and words will fit perfectly in your mouth
like an olive soaked in gin.
The glory of an olive soaked in gin and its smooth smallness.
A glass will snow fall onto your cheeks, the top of your lip.
The sidewalks will be saying the same, evidenced,
combing your records.
You'll see the past and think, OK,
once I was a different kind of person.