I'm very sweaty right now.
[LAUGHTER]
[LAUGHS]
OK, and this is going to be my last poem of the night.
It's called "Number Two," and it's not about pooping,
I promise.
"It's not bad luck to name your goldfish after the goldfish
that has already died, right?
It seems impossible on days like this
to walk to work and not daydream of ways to make eye contact
with people wearing sunglasses.
It usually involves tripping, or true love.
My mother never told me the no glove rule.
Just hung photographs of dead relatives
in the living room, and photos of herself in my bedroom.
One day, if I'm lucky enough to outlive my mother,
I will pick the photo of her with the perm.
She fears this the most.
That and having a son ruined by want.
By the endless limbs of other sons.
My mother never told me about the first boy
I was named after.
Just that he died in a desert.
Just that he lost his way.
She flushed my old body down the toilet,
and took my photo off the wall."
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]