jackhammer attack

I know some punk rock poems
about grief and loss,
but I also know some hip-hop songs
about faith in the future,
and my brain is moshing between them,
thrashing in the pit of
do more, be more, fix everything now.

The rent is due,
the world is burning,
the doctor’s appointment got rescheduled,
I forgot to call my sister back,
the economy is collapsing (again?),
I should probably stretch more,
drink more water,
delete social media,
start journaling,
be better, be better, be better.

There’s a jackhammer attack to all of this,
a rapid-fire pounding of
wake up, check in, freak out, repeat.
Am I doing enough?
Am I making the right moves?
Is this what it means to live,
or just to survive?

And yet, in the middle of the noise,
life keeps slicing through—
the sun hitting just right on my morning coffee,
a stupid joke that makes me snort-laugh,
a song I forgot I loved coming through cheap speakers,
someone texting just because.

Maybe the world is a runaway train,
maybe I’m just hanging on,
but in the chaos,
there are these brief, cutting moments,
reminders that I am here,
I am alive,
and for now—
that’s enough.

 

Infinte Goose

the swan eats its tail feathers.

with each passing moment

there is less of me

and more of the horizon.

I keep getting uglier and deader. 

You working tonight?

Wanna go throw hot dogs

into the Atlantic Ocean?

I love the ballerina song you sent me. 

I saw Donnie Darko 

on the big screen,

and some bozo sat right next to me.

Maybe he was a time traveler.

I can only offer

friendship of fucking

these days. 

I am quicker than karma.

If it were me, 

I'd pick the friendship,

because the fucking is mediocre at best. 

But at least I don't start sentences with 'but'.

I belong to sons

of Elvis

and daughters of Nixon.

We are all loomsters!

I just want to be more

for her,

and keep living.

Round and round and round we go...

saw Donnie Darko on the big screen!

Severed Attention

Thanks for the Solidarity, Dirks!

I am starting to think
it is not the best use of my time—
splitting myself between
this world and Lumon’s halls,
where the lights hum sterile
and everyone whispers of purpose.

I am starting to feel
like I am being forced to watch,
guided by unseen hands,
my friends and social media acting as my Kier,
nudging me ever forward,
as if they wrote my protocol in some break room decree.

I am finding myself
putting off watching,
stalling outside the door of the next episode,
until a friend asks if I am caught up—
until I must pretend,
like an innie at a conference room table,
that I belong here,
that I understand what is unfolding,
even as my mind drifts elsewhere,
wondering if I will ever escape.

A Hammer Coming to Terms with a Nailgun

I appreciate the irony of desire,
which so often commingles bliss and doom.

In the four years since Kendra Jean,
I got tired of a few things:
the color blue, singing about sadness,
and shying away from the shadows.

with a resting heart rate between 

Switzerland and Balto,

an introspective reflection 

on the emotional weight of youth
and relationships borne of bonding 

over a shared experience.

the process of pushing through 

a melancholic period 

until you break through to the other side
is like raising a glass to a toast 

that will give energy to all the salsa dancers in the room.

Mary Oliver was right, 

darkness is sometimes also a gift. 

The Transmigration of Souls

I think about my own existence too much.

Does everyone think about death daily?

Or is it just the people with something to live for?

I may be the background 

of so many other people's movies;

an assistance coach

in the game of life. 

I am the skull in Hamlet,

demanding the impossible...

to live forever. 

Of all the things that go unsaid...

So many Saturdays come and go,

only to be killed by Sunday,

buried by Monday,

grieved by Tuesday.

The horror of it all;

days are long,

but life is short. 

More days,

that's all anyone wants,

really.

Meet me where 

the water ruins the sky,

and let's talk 

about all the reasons why. 

Nina from Accounting

She's a spicy pisces bisexual

but only dates men.

She does a keybump

while I take a three minute piss.

None for me, I say,

I have cancer.

We talk while taking turns

on the toilet. 

And then we dance back to the bar,

where Nina orders a moscow mule,

and I order a club soda.

LCD Soundsystem comes on.

Nina kisses me casually,

as she has done for years,

a ham-fisted friend with benefits,

and who am I to argue?

We've been doing this

for four years,

since she had blonde hair

and dark eyebrows.

But she is a collector of clowns,

and I am ugly but funny.

"You're a poet first," she said

"and a human second."

After, at the bodega,

she steals chocolate milk

and we do Etheline and Royal's walk

through Prospect Park. 

On her South Slope stoop,

she kisses me again and says 

"Write me a poem 

like Frank O'Hara tonight."

"Already did," I say

and then she invites me up

to see how she can balance

a coffee mug on her hip. 

Eremitism

walking through the lobby

of Fountainebleau Miami,

wearing a mask,

and an Outkast shirt,

clutching a SmartWater

and a book of poems.

What a beautiful day—

60º and sunny—

to feel utterly repulsed by existence

like a little Kafka creation. 

The future is the only thing 

forgiving me,

sadly at sea,

having seamless dreams

of a different place.

Next time I am in LA,

I will buy an Eve Babitz book.

I am just a jeans 

and black t-shirt 

(with a Yankees or Magic hat)

type of boy;

I don't belong here. 

I can't wait to never

drink Gatorade again,

and never 

leave Brooklyn. 

Hell is an open mic in Bushwick

The angel statue outside the church

wore that winter's snow like a backpack.

I was freezing,

waiting for what's-his-toes.

Counting backwards from pomegranate,

6, six...where's your whistle?

Your brain won't shut up

But you just have duct tape over its mouth.

Open your heart with a fucking hatchet

and just let it all pour out forever.

Heaven is a poem 

in a church basement in Brooklyn. 

An old woman reads a sonnet

to her dildo she calls George W. Bush. 

I am emotional,

and I escape in the snow. 

To a future in which 

I still don't know. 

I miss New York City

more than pity. 

"I Don’t Wanna Die in Florida” a Ska/Punk Song

[Intro]
Back in Florida
I'd kill to have you around
I don't wanna die

[Verse 1]
You said meet me by the ocean
I had a few days left to get it off my chest and tell you what
Feeling queasy from the motion
This is the first we’ve met and how could I forget every song you've ever sang for me?

[Pre-Chorus]
Let’s go, Orlando, eyes closed on I4
Thick air, sun glare, now we’re fading away

[Chorus]
I don’t wanna die, die in Florida
Die, die in Florida
Die, die in Florida, I
I don’t wanna

[Verse 2]
Ran the limits of the city
I’ve never felt at home or somewhere I belong
Except for every minute that you're with me
We'll put it in a song, each word is strung along
Exactly how we wanted in this city
I’ve never felt at home or somewhere I belong
Except for every minute that you’re with me
We’ll put it in a song, each word is strung along
Exactly how we want it to be

[Pre-Chorus]
Let’s go, 2nd Light, eyes closed on A1A
Thick air, sun glare, now we’re fading away

[Bridge]
I don’t wanna, I don’t wanna die in Florida
I don’t wanna, I don’t wanna die in Florida
I don’t wanna, I don’t wanna die in Florida, I
I don’t wanna, I don’t wanna die in Florida
I don’t wanna, I don’t wanna die in Florida
I don’t wanna, I don’t wanna die in Florida, oh!

[Synth Solo]

[Chorus]
I don’t wanna die, die in Florida
Die, die in Florida
Die, die in Florida, I
I don’t wanna die, die in Florida
Die, die in Florida
Die, die in Florida, I
I don’t wanna die

In honor of World Poetry Day,
here is the first poem
I ever fell in love with...

it was in Ms. Rivera's class
in 7th grade
at Union Park Middle School. 

from the landscape and from the people we remember through it.

“This poem is sort of an examination of contemporary masculinity, 

exploring a conflicted desire to embrace a generation 

that in the absence of positive role models 

has found refuge in violence 

while I found it in creativity."

I learned too early
that the circumstances of my life
were largely bullshit—
and it seasoned my reasoning
for years to come.

My mother was a monster
and my father
was a Looney Tune cartoon
paused on a sad Saturday morning,
and we just never changed the channel.

Good people were hard to come by,
especially in places like white ghetto trailer parks
in the northern shadow of Disney World,
where dreams die in turnpike retention ponds
like drunk drivers searching for eels.

Violence was everywhere,
from the Latin Kings next door
to the white supremecists down the street,
to our kitchen where my grandmother collapsed
while folding laundry at the dining table.

Death was in the next room,

as I watched my grandmother die

of an acute heart attack

(which means she died before she hit the floor)

while doing laundry. 

I watched movies and dreamed,
seamless dreams of snow and basements,
better places, happy endings, present parents,
but waking life was much more
of a poverty nightmare.

Years later, I woke up in New York City,
soaking wet from being saved along the way,
by women and words, music and food, drugs and booze,
and mistakes and regrets, love and let-downs,
all of only proving that forever is a feeling.

I was desperate for risks
now I am disparately encouraging my daughter
who is bursting with creativity

to conquer the world 

without letting the landscape and the people pave the way.

I learned too late 

that through sickness and hope,

fear and fun, creativity and salvation,

the beauty of sadness and the trigger of madness

are just bullshit circumstances of this little big life. 

Poetry is Toilet Paper

for Lauren Grace

Oh Devils!
Here we go...

Necessary.
Overlooked,
Used up and discarded.

It waits in the corners
of bookstores and minds,
a quiet utility,
ready for the mess of living.

It hurries on backs

of airport toilets,

while unfaithful fathers 

fumble and fuck it up. 

People forget about it
until they need it.

A spill, a stain,
a thought too heavy
to hold in.

They'll reach for it in crisis,
tear off what they need,
crumple it in their hands,
press it to their grief,
and let it go.

Still, poetry remains,
soft and strong,
hanging in the background,
waiting for the next time
someone remembers
why it was there all along.

Grateful Ode to Tea

While I love and miss coffee,
Having a cup of tea
In the morning and night
Offers a welcomed respite.

Steam curls like a whispered sigh,
A gentle hush as time drifts by.
Golden hues in porcelain pools,
Warming hands, softening rules.

A sip of chamomile, calm and deep,
Lulling my worries, coaxing sleep.
Earl Grey’s citrus, bold yet bright,
A steady hand in morning light.

Each fragrant leaf, a quiet friend,
A moment’s peace that doesn’t end.
So here’s to tea, my heart's delight—
A simple joy, both warm and light.

this is what fighting looks like...

Standing over the stove,
dipping sourdough into soup,
dancing with each bite.


this is what fighting looks like...


Wearing a mask
to my daughter's bookfair,
because I am immunocompromised.


this is what fighting looks like...


Making cookies
and watching Gilmore Girls
in bed.


this is what fighting looks like...

Waking up,
and blasting Bad Brains
with a positive mental attitude.


this is what fighting looks like!

everyone has a plan until you get kicked in the dick

Fuck the red moon,

I am bleeding 

in so many ways. 

We are the things we love

and we are the things we hate,

which makes me you

and you me.

There's a devil 

on my shoulder

and an angel

on his shoulder.

I'm just an elder millennial

who didn't have therapy,

but had too much music.

We were always going to end up here,

in the ruins, 

in the wreckage,

in the glow of a cigarette

you forgot to put out. 

Grief, on canvas

If you didn't want to be in the poem,

you shouldn't have done what you did. 

That's My Jam!

I miss people

making mix CDs

for me,

or personal playlists.

I am just 

a 42 year old teenager,

asking someone

to make me a mix tape. 

Nobody cares about a man's mental health until it turns into anger then everyone sees him as a bad person.

Sometimes when I think about death, 

or life, 

whichever sounds least depressing to think about at the time,

I think about what will haunt me the most.

What can I do now 

to prevent myself from having to deal with the infinitely, 

unresolved emotions 

that I know are coming?

Ionian

philosophy,

art, 

democracy, 

and pleasure...

I don't want to feel anything

at the moment,

besides relief.

the healthy man

wants a million things;

the sick man

only wants one thing:

health.

I just want to feel better

so I can enjoy 

philosophy,

art, 

democracy, 

and pleasure

on my off-chemo weeks. 

Hamantaschen

I am an assistant coach

put back together

with spare parts.

I'm not nice,

but I am kind,

and the only thing missing

is a foot of my colon.

I fall into bed,

placing my Yankees hat on the next pillow,

and wonder if I will live or die. 

My brain hums

with poetry

and Virginia Woolf madness.

Because we all die,

you should eat dessert first

and join me in the kitchen

for a last dance.