COYOTE BLOOD

your name’s still the best line i ever wrote.

governors island.
new york city.
saturday, maybe sunday.
bring a hat,
it gets hot with all the souls floating around.

i’ll be the one
in the paint-splattered shirt
pretending not to look for you.
there’ll be nothing monks,
some crystal kid yelling verses into a mic,
and me—
trying not to remember the sound of your laugh
cutting through the noise
like it was meant to.

we can call it closure.
we can call it art.
hell, call it nothing at all—
just show up.

and if you don’t,
i’ll still write poems about you
until the ink runs dry
or the city swallows me whole
or cancer kills me.

Qs without any As

long weekend in louisville?
how are dale and pat doing?
why do you read my blog?
why am I still waiting for you to call?

did you keep that shirt I left?
is this just nostalgia playing dress-up
or something you also regret?

why do I still write like you're reading?
why does silence feel like a reply?
how much time has to pass
before I can call and just say hi?

what song do you hum these days?
do you ever still think of those nights?
was it love, or just timing?

Xiphoid Process

I saw her right when I walked in,

but pretended I didn't,

texted her "I'm here." from the back,

and just stole gorgeous glances.

Her dad’s cover band is killing Neil Young
and I’m trying to pretend that it’s ironic—
but I’m tipsy on club soda
and the way she laughed
when I told her the Aunt-Linda-looking lady

dancing near the stage flashed her dad.

Her brother plays his guitar low
like he’s praying to the gods of metal.
I clap.
She laughs again—
and I feel it in my chest

like a sudden thunder clap.

Somewhere between "Harvest Moon"

and “Keep Your Hands to Yourself,"

we talk poetry and modern ballerinas,

as I imagine a life where I could just Stay
under this neon forever.

The fans are working, the ice is thin,
my back is to the band,

but my eyes are hers,

yet they refuse to lock

out of some childhood vulnerability,

which leads me to leave.

Outside, the Florida heat thickens.

Her name sounds like a whisper
I have the desire to say aloud.

She's walks away wearing that tank top
like it’s part of a personal weather system,
pulling storms into her orbit.

My determination will be my greatest asset

Thankful for the attention
The sunlight paid me
In unsolicited detail.

The plainest blade
Of St. Augustine grass;
The skin on her hands.

I am a wolf released
Calling after the future in vain
As if I know the plan.

I do my best
To trot along,
Describing a wide arc.

I want to give
Every pebble
My hummingbird attention.

the countenance of meeting a time traveler

I smell the novelty
And consider its edibility.

I am young
Despite my years.
I am brave
Despite my fears.

Plenty of time
On an invisible clock
Is not reassuring

Sometimes I am punched
In the face by regret,
A loser who can’t seem
To forget.

I look back upon
Selfish days,
And I am angry
At that idiot

You have to live for the future
Because the past will eat ya.

the true and eternal reality

In the juxtaposition

Of death

And transfiguration

the true and eternal reality

Exists with the whispering

Conspiracy between trees

And the further register

Of their leaves,

Leaving us to wonder

If god is talking to us

Or if she is just going about

Her business and we are

Just byproducts of a different existence.

never punish yourself for this

when we kissed

in that TGIFridays,

the entire universe

skipped a beat

and I said the quietest

and loudest "Wow"

in the history of hearts.

Light the fireworks for this salute-worthy episode with the hilarious actor/comedian/podcaster/friend Jon Gabrus!

Sandwiches Are Better In The Summer

Sandwiches are always good
but they’re particularly great in the summer,
especially after a long day in the sun.

Last week, after the park,
I used a little smoke gruyere
and top round corned beef,
along with some brioche from TJs
to make a blissfully delicious sammy.

It hit the proverbial spot
like poetry mixed with love,
and the sun winked at me
from the corner of my notebook.

Pair it with some Ruffles

and I am living the regal dream,

if only for a mayonnaise moment.

saw Clueless on the big screen.

I like the concept of existence

When the day comes calling

And last night’s fears subside

I see the universe in the mirror.

Do donkeys dream of death?

Is the ouroboros aware of the eternal return?

Do pigeons ponder pride?

From the leaves in the trees,

To the sun sitting in the sky,

Sometimes a day is just a day.

But then there are things

That don’t make any sense

Like love and jellyfish.

The weight of being alive,

educated, and empathetic

in 2025 is overwhelming.

Misery is wasted on the miserable,

Life is a walking poem,

And Death comes for us all.

You take a chance

on being happy

even though later on you know you’ll be sad…

The Credibility Gap

No game on tonight,
so I’m knee-deep in Vietnam footage—
Netflix, couch,
working legs,
heart in triage.

The lifestyle of the average and anxious:

home,
awake,
not sure why.

Over and over,
I’ve had to convince the cosmos
that I belong here.
Or at least,
pretend I believe it myself.

Some nights,
nothing matters.
Others,
everything does—
and both feel too big to hold.

I’m turning 43.
There won’t be a parade.
There will be dishes.

I blink slowly through it all.

Once had bartender swagger.
Now I chase
“cool dad” vibes.

I embrace my rebel era,
especially when I've already fought death
and won.

So yeah—
I’ll treat each Tuesday
like it’s the Friday of a long weekend.
Because it is.
Because I said so.
Because I’m still here.

Slough Pinnock

read this poem in a British accent...

I don’t deserve anything
But (yeah, I said but!)
The service in this town sucks!

I Tucked into some bad lunch meat,
But the hospitality is the same
As a rave in Miami.

From bussers wearing flip flops,
To servers wearing Lululemon leggings,

I say to these people
Get used to death
Because life is full of it.

We wanted paradise but got a host
in camel toe tights
With a liberal studies degree
And gen z anti eye contact indifference.

From my end of the telescope
Surviving is the short end of the straw,

and dealing with life

is like Cliff Burton on the bus.

no leaks this season

I don’t want to give
the stars credit
for my passion.

The Scorpio moon
Is asking me
To transform.

I’m still operating
On half adolescence;
Growing old is tough.

My heart is a corsage
Saved in a year book
In a garage in Florida.

The only way
You learn patience
Is by force.

The Nevers

the nevers come in with the white tide

off the back of the bent balcony

where the widows go to smoke

and the rats commit suicide.

up from the gail, over the rocks,

whispers whip through the wind's tongue,

begging to be heard and held

by forgotten fathers felled by the sea.

let loose by lips of the lords

who languish over the land,

between where the horizon holds court

and heaven and hell hope for hearts.

the nevers arrive by night

and refuse to let go of love,

taking it all back down with it

as dawn dances up the hill.

everyone knows nothing lasts,

yet we all try to hold on

with our human hands

to things that are already gone.

Perspective isn't Perfect

the look back is messy

and the look forward is fickle,

forgotten often is the present,

which some people need

a periscope to see.

my perspective ain't pretty,

for it presents itself in me

as a constant quest

to be better than I was yesterland,

but it is fucking hard.

my default is fear,

forged by my mother,

and from an early forever

I have been trying to shed that skin

to find a new home.

now that I have,

I keep waiting

for it all to make sense,

get easier, lighter,

but it is still a childish chore.

you'd think coming close to death

would make it all automatic,

but it is harder than ever

to gloss over the inconsequential

and focus on the worthwhile.

Keep Death on Its Toes

going 95mph on I-95,

daring death to cut me in half...

once you've been through

all the shit I have been through,

you know that death

ain't the scariest thing.

the most terrifying thing

is getting it all wrong.

I envy those know-it-alls,

whose default station in life

is being right and sure,

unaware that death is coming.

so tempting it has become

a sure-shot reminder that life is for living.

because this is when you exist

Corruption. Dysfunction. Wildfires.

War in the Middle East. In Ukraine.

Political chaos. Economic instability.

Look around, look around,

how lucky we are to be alive right now,

instead of any other time.

For all the stupidity, for all the disasters,

for all the noise and uncertainty,

this is actually one of the least bad moments to ever exist.

It wouldn't matter either way

because You don’t get to pick.

This moment is your moment, take it or leave it.

This brief period is your time on earth.

The only thing you have a say over is how you spend it, who you are inside it.

You make your own luck in that sense.

So don’t curse these crazy times.

Make something of them.

While you still can.

Bucket list episode of Bothering the Band
with Jonathan Russell of The Head and The Heart

Last Future

I was born with a great big heart,
With only restrictions...

My rise was never clean
When it stole your mystery...

The alligator you thought you’d never see,
the man I never thought I'd be—

Same senses revealing,
The only piece/peace is nonsense refrain...

Reality breaks it apart,
there’s no salsa dance with a broken heart—

Darling, don't let this be

our last future.