A girl comes up to my friend saying “you look like you need someone to dance with,”
and with a I just ate a half hour ago look in his eyes he smiles,
“Nah I’m just dancing with my boys.”

That night we were dancing
like there were shot clocks on our ankles
and pop rocks in our socks.
I felt the same way about my moves
as I did about my hand jobs—
no girl in the world could do them better!

And we could care less that there less girls on the dancefloor
than at a no-shave-november convention
cuz fuck girls, we just wanted to dance!
So unike most my other nights
and all my other poems
this one was for the fellas.

And to the few ladies who’ve
I’ve had the pleasure of showing
my, well yano.
You prolly wish it was longer…
but if it grows at the same rate its grown for the last 10 years
I’m gonna die with a penis at least three feet long.

Now we’re back on the dancefloor
And CeeLo Green comes on
And even the most stubborn wallflower
starts dancing cuz that piano intro is happier
than golden arches for a big mac junkie.
More middle fingers infiltrate the air than when Sarah Palin visited San Francisco.
And all us on the dancefloor could care less about
the fact the sprinkler and the shopping cart stopped being cool about 10 years ago.

Becuase for all my life,
I’ve had the same 3 man wolfpack.
This Italian Jew, a Pizza Bagel if you will,
with guy who used to have me over for thanksgiving dinner on my right
and the guy that taught me how to masturbate on my left.
We danced until the morning
and we couldn’t be happier stumbling home to our parent’s houses
cause we had reached our full bro-tencial.

So at that cheesburgers and regret point in the late evening,
we decided right then and then that when we’re older we’ll get
tattoos across our shafts that read “my penis is beautiful.”
And hopefully I’ll get it when I’m hard,
so when I’m soft it’ll read “my pen is full.”
And that’s really all I need.
Cuz with a full pen
and a full heart
the girls might come,
but even if they don’t come around any more
I still got my boys on the dance floor!

The 2011 Spring Show “We Real Cool”

April 1st and 2nd Doors at 830

Harrison Auditorium (at the Penn Museum)

Buy tickets Here: http://excelanoproject.ticketleap.com/

Facebook Event here: http://on.fb.me/gbK7HY

I have had the privilege
of sampling a few varieties
of corn in my lifetime.

White corn is slender
with tender kernels—
consistent, succulent
crunch in every bite.

Yellow corn is gentle
on the palate
and can balance
almost any spice.

You’re more like maize,
each mouthful distinct
from the last.

So when I repeatedly take you out
to Big Nates BBQ on Friday nights,
I hope you are flattered,

but know that
I’m also in it
for the corn.

There were days
I saw your body language in bold
and I could have sworn
your eyes hummed
that they were happy to see me.

But today something isn’t quite sticking.
I can feel your palm begin
to unfasten from my fingertips.

One of these days,
I know I’ll look down at my hand
only to find the cool damp remnants
of where you once were.

I often have the urge
to fake a call,
to say I love you
on the phone
a little louder than normal
just to let others know
I can.

If only I could
open the front door
of solitude long enough
to show the emptiness
I feel in the clutter
of all this furniture.

And maybe you could join me.

Or maybe just build your house
next to mine, so on those days
when I feel the world is spinning by
without me,
I can look out my door

and see you painting
in the window.

From the start when
I will wait to approach, my heart will thump like a sly bassline
while I picture you strumming serenades on my heartstrings,
you’ll have me syncopating syllables like chambers.
If your heart is as big as my heartbeat will suggest,
I’ll have to buy you a bigger cage before then.

From the start, you’ll just be her—
A she and an I was without a we.
Beauty will be in the arms of who can hold her.
All I want is to be the he in your heart
and when intimidation turns into infatuation and you finally can become my you,
I will hate how easily you’ll be able to make or break my day.

Your eyes will wait like Christmas eve.
Your smile will dimple rooms like stars do july.
I will put them in a glass jar—
Don’t worry I’ll poke holes in the top so they can breath.
And put that container, shining like an inside of a firework,
on the pedestal next to your face.

But truthfully, the love I want at two shades over 19 years isn’t that poetic.

Cuz I want that:
I spend a disproportionate amount of time on your facebook profile type love,
that girl I wanna take you out to commons type love,
that I will ask your name before my tongue goes down your throat type love.
But it’s also:
that I left a spot for your head carved in my shoulder type love,
that I carry your stories on the inside of my teeth so only I know why I’m smiling type  love .

The truth is I’d be just fine with that “like” type love.

Cuz so far I tend to be that guy that lets go after the honeymoon,
yet to be the one to go all in with a 7 2 off suited clinging to that one heart in my hand and hoping to find a pair.
So I’ll wait for the day where I’ll realize that sometimes dancing is the storm is prettier than in the shine,
wait for that love that’s more than something a woman gives and a man takes,
wait for that love that has no regard for timing or discretion,

that love that god writes sunsets about,
that Garret writes poems about,
that wars fought, leaders shot,
that love that romantics rot for.

The closest I’ve come to crying for love was in the fourth grade when I realized Jordan Leonard was too popular for me.
And I know weeping for a girl doesn’t quite gel with this Judeo-Thug persona I’m going for,

but if that’s what it takes to get that Jenifer-Aniston-movie type love, I’ll cry and swim down my check waterfalls into the river I cry myself.

Right now love is someone that I admire, but don’t yet know like the trash man on my block or the inventor of bendy straws.

So I’m not sure if I can write a love poem while its still just a prospect pirouetting on my horizon.

But hopefully I’ll find it,
Like finding five dollar bill in folds of denim.
And when I do find that love
You’ll be the first to hear about it.

I wish to be slowly cremated
like Iceland. As I am thrown
to the sea, maybe my ashes
will spread over Europe.

Some days I wish I cared
but it is not noble,
to sit reading the Times
trying to feel cold.