is my birthday. I’m now the same age as David Silver and Donna Martin—cause the original 90210 is still, and always will be, a guilty pleasure. I’m older than James Franco. I’m a better writer. I have better pecs. But he’s a better actor. He has some people believing he can write. This poem isn’t 90210 caliber. More like Pineapple Express. But it’s relevant. Brandon Walsh is still my idol. Judge me not…
You and Me
I stood in line at 7-Eleven after my nightly workout
to buy a quart of milk,
because osteoporosis isn’t sexy.
And because I still believe somehow,
it will do my thirty-something year-old body
Carefree college dude in front of me,
whose mondo snug tee said I ♥ MILFS,
and barely covered his corpulent Heineken-bolstered belly,
asked the cliché Calcutta clerk if he could get him
an obscure brand of cigarettes;
the clerk had to be guided three times
before he got it right.
I walked out envying frat boy and his life,
remembering when… guzzling my milk.
Carefree college dude sat down on his beach cruiser,
coolly tapping his sandal to the ground
looking up at stars that weren’t there.
I chugged quickly,
staring at him until he looked at me,
shaking his head in dismay as if to say,
“Hey. My life’s not any easier Bro…”