I want to write the type of poem that doesn't sound like a poem
the type that seems like I'm just talking to you
except it's not exactly talking because of course
I'm reading from a script that's been rehearsed too many times

still, it should seem effortless
like a Woody Allen monologue
it's one long schizophrenic run-on sentence

it should have momentum: slow and careful at first
but picking up speed as the words fly
a little confident, but not preachy

and it should seem like it was improvised even though it wasn't
because probably it took too many drafts to get it just right
neurotic, obsessive editing

most importantly, by the end I should be dizzy
and out of breath

like a stuffed animal
wrapped in cellophane
grasping
for air

I don't mean to brag, but I have pretty good teeth.
Not that you'll ever see a photo of me and think:
wow, check out that guy's teeth
or anything like that.
But, I've only had one cavity -- ever.
That's pretty good, right?
If you ask me, the key to good dental health is flossing.
Every. Day.
No excuses.

I used to have this roommate; he was a dentist.
I rented the 2nd bedroom of his house.
A few times he offered to give me a cleaning
but I always thought it would be weird
to have his hands all up in my mouth like that.
So I declined, politely.
And I moved out after awhile because
his email address sort of freaked me out:
openwiderplease@gmail.com

In this moment I'm reminded of Rob.
Which is weird because the picture was taken in 2015,
at least two years before we knew each other.

He's the type of guy that'll come right up to you
and out of nowhere, unload trivial stoner insights:
"Earth gets a hundred tons heavier every day
due to falling space dust", he would say.
Or, "a square is always a rectangle, but a rectangle
is usually not a square".

Rob always had a knack for coming up with clever band names.
California Citrus Experiment, for example.
Wait, no, California Citrus Experience.

Anyways, as I look at this picture I think about him.
Because I just thought of a good one: Goldfish b/w.

Ode to Super Bowl Sunday about a decade ago
Ode to crashing my bicycle going home from the party
Ode to flipping right over the handlebars and banging my face on the pavement
Ode to a trail of blood spewing into the fresh snow all the way home
Ode to always having been slightly more fond of that particular eyebrow
Ode to being told I'd have a scar there forever

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