Run Like Hell
Playing pickleball in a little sun shower,
worried my copy of The Bell Jar
that I brought with me is getting wet
without consent from the world.
Kids of the internet are playing
in the background of the river,
and I tell them to run like hell because
beyond that is belief, just out of reach.
I risk it all to risk it all to live
every damn day in this absurd place
called life, measured my minutes
but mostly weighed in smiles.
In that case, I am a rich man,
but my body breaks,
worried my copy of The Bell Jar
that I brought with me is getting wet
without consent from the world.
Kids of the internet are playing
in the background of the river,
and I tell them to run like hell because
beyond that is belief, just out of reach.
I risk it all to risk it all to live
every damn day in this absurd place
called life, measured my minutes
but mostly weighed in smiles.
In that case, I am a rich man,
but my body breaks,
and I can't get back any days,
even if I win this volley.
So run like hell, children, for miles
and miles until you find something
worth stopping for, for standing still
is the most insane investment ever.
Once you stand still and kill time,
it becomes a crime to move,
so shake until you can’t make
anymore memories or take another step.
So run like hell, children, for miles
and miles until you find something
worth stopping for, for standing still
is the most insane investment ever.
Once you stand still and kill time,
it becomes a crime to move,
so shake until you can’t make
anymore memories or take another step.
two hours, sixty minutes
sad/happy on the rumbler.
nineteen stops.
nostalgia will never let me go.
so I have to break up with it.
like your first love in nyc.
and every time I come to.
or go from.
I wonder if this will be my last time.
It's a Little Warm in Heaven
It's a little warm
in the Newark airport.
It's a little warm
in the concourse level
of Rockefeller Center.
It's a little warm
in the Winter Garden Theatre
during the matinee showing
of Mama Mia.
It's a little warm
on the uptown 1 train
amongst the death of the MetroCard.
It's a little cool
in hell.
the same warrant in dire circumstances to achieve equilibrium and clear away sorrow to create space for positivity.
My cancer is back.
My brother-in-law/best friend blasts Butthole Surfers at 5am for me.
The moon looks like its from Star Wars
Pernille is leaving Paris.
Kendra Jean is nowhere to be seen.
My sister has disappeared on me.
Lauren Grace still hasn't called me back from last year.
Lauren Grace still hasn't called me back from last year.
Tara Kelton's art makes this hospital lobby tolerable.
Wake me up when I am beautiful.
St. Mark's Place, Friday Afternoon
You can't listen to Stereolab
and walk through Autumn leaves
without nostalgically thinking
about love you lost.
Suddenly, I am afraid to run into her,
because of course it would happen
when I am meeting a date
on a cold afternoon in St. Mark's Place.
But, alas, I don't see her,
yet I still think about her the whole time,
and look at every brunette
over the blonde's shoulders.
Fait Acompli
I am so tired of being
the center of my own attention;
I want to live outside myself,
where the POV of birds
sees me reading Raymond Chandler
and watching the Magic lose,
and get jealous of my mindfulness.
Having a panic attack on the Staten Island Ferry
What about?
New York, fear, love, you, the universe,
nothing, everything, my shoes,
my friend Franco, god, etc.
Why?
Cancer, life, scorpio syndrome,
my mom, the future, my phone being on 17%,
where to get the Uber, street meat,
water, promises, etc.
What to do?
Put on a sad jazz playlist, put on my coat,
be positive and grateful, write poetry,
tell the people I love that I love them.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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