Outside a tiny bookstore in downtown Phoenix, a tall man greeted guests at the door on a recent Thursday night and checked for their tickets before letting them in.
Inside, there were five rows of chairs evenly spaced apart, five to six foldable chairs per row.
The smell of cologne and cigarette smoke hung around in the air as people chattered away with one another, waiting for the weekly poetry slam to start.
Out front, there was a small wooden stage where Aaron Hopkins-Johnson, the owner of the bookstore, was busy shuffling papers around while giving the occasional nervous glance to see if everyone who had signed up was already there.
