I Want to Be Jeff Goldblum

I want to sweet-talk everyone I meet.
I want to have a silver tongue.
I want each time I sit down to write a poem to think,
           This is going to be a Jeff Goldblum poem.
I want to murmur and stutter like butter like velvet.
I want to be the nice Jewish boy that I already am, but raised to an art form.
I want to wear dark glasses and leopard-print suits,
           be so affected even I can’t tell if I’m full of shit
As I dodder on exposing an inner vacuousness
           that, admit it we all have, but
That I, Jeff Goldblum, in my best moments, rise above.
I want you to sneer at me, then laugh and feel good in spite of yourself.
I want my former costar Glenn Close to call me “charm personified.”
Let me wake in the middle of the night, feeling a pulsing throbbing
           desert of bare worry in my chest,
And say to myself, It’s okay, honey, you’re Jeff Goldblum,
           and be 100 percent correct.
Let me be injured and carried on the back of a pickup truck as it floors it
           away from a tyrannosaur.
I want objects in the mirror to be closer than they appear and I want to be that
    mirror.
I want to save the world from aliens, with Will Smith.
I want to be a smarmy sea captain whose white whale is Bill Murray.
I want to slowly morph into a fly, growing hundreds of compound eyes,
           and becoming more and more grotesque, less and less lovable, until
           my lover puts me out of my misery,
But then wake up from it all like a bad dream
           and then win best actor at the 1986 Saturn Awards.
But I fear I will never be Jeff Goldblum.
I fear I am no more Jeff Goldblum than I was ten years ago, that
           I have made zero progress, Goldblum-wise.
Though I have watched all seventy Jeff Goldblum films, I have not
           grown an inch taller or more charming.
That is the tyranny of fandom, of being a fan,
Which is to wave cool air over a being who disregards you,
Who lolls about eating grapes in Egypt
And can’t really help you except to enjoy them better.
And I know if I live a million years I will never ever be Jeff Goldblum.
That there is only a terrifying stretch of me-ness waiting for me day
Upon day until I wear out.


Read on . . .

Pineapple,” a poem by Stella Wong


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