Ghosts of a Good Time

Instagram is nothing but death and consumerism,
so I miss the optimistic vibe of 2010s’ Willytowne...

With music and mayhem and shared warehouse space,
Williamsburg had a moment that’s still being chased.
Once long-fertile ground for the strangest delights,
it changed over the decades…and again overnight.

We were just shy of what spells real adulthood—
which is tragedy or pregnancy—
living on craft beer, bad decisions, and borrowed rent,
believing the East River shimmered just for us,
between my Manhattan and her Brooklyn. 

Now the streets feel curated, the chaos buffed clean,
and all that’s left is the residue of fine gone youth
lingering like her perfume in a thrift-store coat—
proof we were young once,
and stupid enough to think it would last.

Musician and social media personality, Petey USA joins us for a solid convo about songs, social media, squirrels, swamps, smoking cigs and surviving it all with humor.

Already on a Knife's Edge

reading the new issue of Rattle

during commercial breaks

of the Magic-Bulls game.

I was going to ride

a stationary bike during

these night games, but

I am dealing with more cancer scares,

which means more tests,

which means more biopsies,

which means more wounds,

which requires time to heal,

so poetry it is.

I think we live our lives

over and over again,

but that means

I will have to endure

my childhood again

just to get to the good parts

like this evening. 

the Magic won,

the poetry inspired,

the leftover pecan pie was still good,

and I am still alive. 

Hmmm...

she's sending me love poems

on Instagram,

while posting pics of her

and her boyfriend. 

12 Minutes with God

Grace Church, Broadway.

Organ meditation, 4pm.

I'm all over the place,

but my feet are here

in these ugly Hokas. 

I am writing poetry

in the pew,

the hymnal of 1982.

I peed at Grey Dog on University

and got a coffee with half-and-half

and a splash of time travel.

In a week from Tuesday,

I will be sliced open again,

but right now I am here. 

Under the stones and stained glass,

trying to talk to Hashem,

who goes by a different name in this place.

But it is the same in my case,

and I am hungry and my phone is on 4%,

but this is time well spent.

After praying, 

I walk by Union Square,

and remember old lives. 

Gratitude, infinite. 

Nostalgia, invaluable. 

A Shell Station of a Man

Past the steeple homes of Staten Island,

wondering what they worry about inside,

their lives the same as mine, wonderfully

mundane and hopefully entertaining.

Going to a Friendsgiving in Park Slope

on November 29th with Samantha,

sending what may be the last book

to Kendra Jean cuz I could die soon. 

Missing Manhattan more than ever before;

Brooklyn was as good as good goes

for as long as it went until I was spent

and had a decision to attend. 

Either way, I am gone,

a different dude or a dead man

(insert some quote about abandon plans),

one more drop at Strand. 

Meet me in the Poetry section;

my body won't be there, but my books will be,

and legacy is the thing I have always been looking for.

Hopefully, I found it. 

Tradition: A Jukebox Musical

it's a perfect day for a matinee,

so I took the kid to see & Juliet on Broadway.

from Backstreet to Britney,

she now connects to the pop hits of the 2000s.

treasures bend and break,

but songs and traditions will live forever.

got Levain cookies after,

which is now another tradition of ours. 

Dyker Heights

a tree looking like two people kissing.

reading Rudolph Steiner's The Philosophy of Freedom.

the possibility of autumn. 

the R train to Manhattan. 

a neighbor sweeping leaves like it’s a sacred duty.

kids kicking a deflated soccer ball down 74th.

the sun snagging on brick row houses, refusing to leave.

the laundromat neon flickering.

I pause by the dented mailbox on 71st.

asking why it feels like it wants to whisper.

go on, there’s still time, it says.

Sorry, I am having breakfast with ghosts...

Listening to Kings of Leon,

looking towards the future,

hoping to live as long

as David Lynch. 

Been going to the hood

to hoop lately

just for the helluvit

and having a great time.

Considering Kentucky,

checking Google Analytics,

hoping Dale and Pat

are doing well these days.

At a local dive,

putting Mazzy Star on the juke,

while it rains outside,

and I write poetry about the past.

Wondering if, 

in all the world,

there's anyone who

can't stop thinking of me.

Italicized the Other Way

I like even numbers

and odd people.

I am a creature of habit

and happenstance. 

I like surprises

and predictability. 

I am a man of glory

and consequence. 

I've seen Heaven

so I shut the hell up.

I haven’t talked to my sister in years...

Silence grows teeth when you feed it.
Every birthday is a bruise I pretend not to touch.
We shared so much, but not a present.

Playlist: A Nice Day in November

1. Blue Tuesday by Francis of Delirium

2. Forever Elsewhere by Weird Nightmare

3. The Wolf by Witch Post

4. DON'T TELL THE BOYS by Petey USA

5. Elderberry Wine by Wednesday

6. Another World by The Belair Lip Bombs

7. Electric Lizard by Angela Autumn

8. Daylily by Movements

9. I'd Rather Overdose by honestav

Liminal

drinking the Omnipaque.

and waiting the hour.

it takes to make its way.

through my intestines.

reading my book.

and farting around on my phone.

while the woman opposite me.

picks her feet in the lobby.

another CT scan.

more medical bills.

to go along with the worry.

of whether the cancer will come back. 

Duvet

Bailed on a poetry show

right after reading a poem about death.

While most 43-year-olds

are talking about investments

or taking ozempic,

I am battling.

Suffered through a cover band

while sipping club soda at a bar

in which all the ghostly patrons

have nothing but bad Bon Jovi

and buffalo wings.

I have a bed and a blanket

and that blanket has it's own blanket,

a far better cry

than these bastards 

without saints.

Despite decorating my decaying body with ink,

I still feel like a kid in my heart,

half a mile between 

these people and those people. 

Hell's first whisper 

is a question about Heaven. 

Good Grace

she drifts in
like someone late to her own legend—
hair flowing, heart glowing...

I’m only here for the poetry,

not for how gorgeous she is,

not for the way she smiles...
not for the way her voice rumbles
like it’s trying to escape

a punk rock show...

in another life,
one with even hotter summers 

and fewer doubts,
we are probably a reckless fire,
kissing behind bookstores,
burning through sheets and centuries.

we'd probably laugh too loud 

and break things,

but here, tonight,
she's just a fine gone friend
at her first reading,
radiant as a mistake I’d make again,

and again and again...

she doesn't notice my love,

or does she?

My friend Brian wore this to trivia last night.

How to Draw a Coyote

you start
with the idea of a coyote—
lean, hungry, night-colored—
and already you’ve screwed it up.

the paper stares back
like it knows you haven't been wild
in a while.

you drag a line,

it twitches,
becomes a dog,
then a bad wolf,
then something that looks like regret
with legs.

the fear doesn’t help.
the cigarette ash falls
right where the heart should be.

so you try again,
thinking maybe this time
you’ll catch the ghost right—
but the truth is
some things refuse to be trapped
in graphite or good intentions.

the coyote keeps running
somewhere off the edge of the page,
laughing its archetypical laugh,
and all you’ve got
is another crooked sketch
of your own limitations.

hell,
maybe that’s the closest
you’ll ever get.

That That

12:33am

on the slowest F train ever

get off at Halloween street,

meet and meander with Columbina

yellow leaves blowing around a brick building,

it was the first night of fall

ask myself am I past tense, 

and if so, how should I punctuate this sentence. 

it is not a question,

but a statement about a curiosity

uptown we resolve

that that is all life is

just dancing on the rumbler

between the advice

of a Freud fanatic

and a Nietzsche novice with a broken watch

Culture. Technology. Work. Politics. The environment.

It’s a lot. 

but I would argue isn't it

Beautiful, and so achingly, achingly true?

THE WRATH OF TIME

We rip a hole in the November afternoon,
a sloppy time-warp in the stadium parking lot—
one minute we’re adults with Tums in our pockets,
the next we’re sixteen
screaming lyrics like we wrote ’em.

Warped Tour rises from the asphalt
like a sunburned ghost.
Hot vans, hotter merch tents,
plastic bracelets digging into our wrists—
God, we missed this stupid chaos.

We shove through the crowd
on creaky knees, old Vans,
mosh-pit warriors
with lower-back warranties expired.
Every jump feels like rebellion,
every landing feels like regret.

But we don’t care.
Not today.
Today the guitars are feral again,
the air tastes like sweat and freedom,
and time bows its ugly head
just long enough for us to spit in its face.

The chorus hits—
we howl it like a promise
we know we can’t keep:
We’ll never grow old!

Then our spines crack like snare drums
and we laugh,
because the wrath of time is real
but so is the rush
of going back
for one loud, perfect afternoon
to the place
where everything hurt—
and nothing mattered.

Anger makes us stupid.

Anger blinds us—
a sudden flash,
a hand over the eyes.
It makes us impulsive,
reckless,
hungry for a justice
that never tastes the way we think it will.

It fills me with old grievances,
warps the clean lines of reality,
whispers that revenge
is a kind of freedom.
But what sense is there
in kicking back at a mule,
in biting a dog
just because it hurt us first?

And yet—
don’t we do exactly that?
Hurt for hurt,
heat for heat,
as if burning ourselves
could cool the flame.

Life is already difficult,
the path already thorned.
We need every bit of clarity
we can carry.
We cannot afford to be foolish.
We cannot,
in our anger,
become the ones
who destroy ourselves.

In September of 2024, I was diagnosed with appendix cancer 

(yeah, I didn’t know it was a thing either).

I did not announce it on socials, just put my head down and powered through with the invaluable help from family and close friends.

Through tons of tests, a gnarly surgery and months of chemo, I wrote this raw and raucous book of poetry about the whole experience.

I am grateful to be NED (No Evidence of Disease) but please buy the book to offset a little of these insurmountable medical bills.

Thank you!

I taste New York City on the backs of my bottom teeth

Nobody talks about

how hard it is

to go from 

the beauty and character

of New York City,

with its museums and bodegas,

and smells and sirens,

and strangers who feel like poems waiting to happen—

to the blandness and humidity

of South Florida,

with its shopping centers

and parking lots

and conversations about Publix subs,

where time feels slower,

and the sunsets try too hard

to make up for everything else.

I get on the train at Bowling Green,

change cars at Fulton Street,

change playlists at Brooklyn Bridge,

get off and run errands in Union Square;

it's always Union Square!

Fridays are forgotten, for good or ill,

Saturday afternoons are the stuff of legend,

and Sundays are weather, welcomed. 

I have never belonged 

anywhere

more 

than New York City.

There is possibility around every corner;

in Florida, there is only predictability 

around every aggressive asshole 

on the turnpike. 

Selfish Portrait, Park Bench

The sun forgives me for sitting still—
for taking this hour as mine.
The trees hum softly,
but I do not answer.

Somewhere, someone waits
for a call I won’t make,
a promise I’ve left
cooling on the counter.

Here, I am the only witness
to my small, stubborn peace—
legs crossed, arms wide,
holding the world at a distance
just long enough to breathe.