I think it was 4 years ago
back when we were brutish youths,
We drank Takka
and it wasn’t that bad
And we had to blow up
your air mattress with our lungs
Because we feared the pump
would wake your parents.
I remember lying on it
felt like I was on a boat
And I was sure I’d fall off
by morning (which I did).
We watched the Onion Movie
and stayed up too late
To wish you a happy birthday.


I’m glad to say,
we’ve remained friends
without much friction.
We switched from Takka
to trendy craft beer
(and shitty bulk beer)
and fancy cocktails
at a trendy bar
(instead of the local park.)

But somehow,
I still end up sleeping
on makeshift cushions.

I fell off by morning.

Some things never change.


Noodles are an unforgiving medium: If I could write good love poems

You’d have more poems to read.
They’d be mushy and trite,
but they’d at least be sweet.
You’d never have to ask
about the words I’d write.
But my poems would be masks
I’d hide beneath the lines.

I’d write about your hair
without noting color.
syllables counted and
boring words like “perfect”
make bouquets of flowers.
Still, I’m sure you’d love it,
so would all the others.

So I’ll write to you in my off verse
with metaphors that don’t make sense
and lines about old memories.
You’ll have to ask me what I meant
So I’ll explain awkwardly,
…….. without rhyme scheme
…….. or stanza length…
And you’ll say it’s lovely
even if it’s not what you think

I love it when you smile like a mother
at my shitty macaroni art