On Becoming a Fan.

Don't blame Masks.

Blame smoke.

Blame the tricky sorcery of shiny boots, capes and props.

Blame Spandexs tight grip on wrestlers thighs.

When swollen biceps of masked men slap canvas How like broken toys, their bodies become.

Each one proffering his limbs to the other.

And we they're spectators hooked under pains smelly spell cannot resist wanting sweat and blood.

We rouse like tiny rioters wave our fists, curse the winner, blame the winning wrestler how he radiates center stage, how he performs his own ascension up ropes, his thick arms hot and throbbing blame his left foot poised top turnbuckle, blame his hand on waist pose are the braying crowd or the thud his leg makes as he falls, hacking down on the opponent's waiting chest.

Don't blame masks.

Blame spicy pork rinds and their vendors.

Blame bikini clad women with Corona or Tecate splayed across their butts and chests.

Can boys be blamed for imitating their fathers leaning in praying his man clobbers the other guy?

I blame a fourth grade shoving match with my sister.

My forehead turned hot by an early June sun.

I hadn't understood how anger like a hot spring boils at the bellies core until its hostile vapor clenched my fists.

I never tried to weigh muscle against meat, never had to throw a punch.

I blame the thin hush an audience becomes as bone tired men stumble into their musty dressing rooms, How their faces elude us.

Each match the windswept dirt under the feet of ten year old onlookers.

They're cheering for my sisters grip blame the swirl marble buttons of our school uniforms impossibly long wait for recess.

Blame the purple blooming bruise sketched by the brushstroke of her hands.

I've not thrown a punch since.

I wish I had had sparkling fabric hidden under my dress shirt.

Blame the seams of this practice persona into which we've all neatly wrapped our arms.

Blame the seamstress who sewed this mask and cut all the loose threads.

This arena is a site for unveiling my locale for loosening the strings.

Hi, my name is Nandi Comer and I am the Michigan poet laureate.

Michigan has some of the best poets in the world.

And so the Library of Michigan decided to restart a program that hadn't been going on for a really long time.

By appointing our first poet laureate in 60 years, and that's me.

the Library of Michigan asked if I would step into this position and spread poetry and joy and educate Michiganders about poetry.

One of my highlights of being Michigan poet laureate is I get to travel all over the state, both in the U.P.

and the Lower Peninsula.

I meet people that love poetry just as much as I do, but I can't get everywhere.

This is why we're bringing you this series on Michigan Poets.

In this series, you'll get to meet poets from all over the state It's a really great time for us to explore the beauty and passion and power of poetry from our own state.

And it's so powerful.

For some people, poetry is a very scary thing.

But I hope that after you are watch this series that you'll find that there is all kind of poetry out there.

I believe that there is a poem for everyone.

I hope you find yours.

In Praise of More Important Things for Toni Morrison.

Praise the bonnet, the slit up her red skirt in a jazz club, the greased scalp and laid curl.

Praise the cracking voice calling from the kitchen at dawn.

Praise ruffle and tulle t-shirts and blow pops and knowing how to leave a hot comb on long enough to straighten but not scorch.

Praise ashy knuckles and aunties that warm them small patent leather shoes dragging on the sidewalk to Sunday school Praise the dancing tree and ghost.

Praise the uncles leg and how he forgets that limp every Sunday in the house of the Lord In praise of more important things Praise brown legs and tan palms.

Praise the audacity of kindness and hope and goodness.

Praise the sacred basement sweat and rub the weight of an overloaded family reunion cook out plate.

Praise every smack and licked finger and praise the skillet crock pot and baking pan soiled and piled up in every Labor Day kitchen sink.

Praise the hands that will clean them.

Praise the morning dweller in her lake cottage, recording all our unimportant things.

Praise her eyes and her hands and her pen.