A Manhattan-bound R train is approaching...
Burn the jack-o'-lanterns, put up the stockings!
Forget your troubles,
bask in the new, not-so-bright dawn of the holidays!
Cast aside all of that work you did on making a costume
and decorating for a Halloween party...
for the time to start thinking about what to buy your coworker
for the office Secret Santa is upon us!
Time never stops,
and soon we will all be dead!
how long does a fly live?
there has been one
buzzing about my kitchen
for two weeks.
it mostly does its thing
while I do mine,
and if I gave it a name
it would surely die.
today, it slows,
lands on this laptop,
as if to say it’s had enough.
I don’t swat it,
just watch,
as the light shifts through the window
and the hum fades.
the glass empties.
the day cools.
I rinse the counter,
close the blinds,
and wonder if that’s all
closing ever is...
the quiet after something small
has finally stopped trying.
buzzing about my kitchen
for two weeks.
it mostly does its thing
while I do mine,
and if I gave it a name
it would surely die.
today, it slows,
lands on this laptop,
as if to say it’s had enough.
I don’t swat it,
just watch,
as the light shifts through the window
and the hum fades.
the glass empties.
the day cools.
I rinse the counter,
close the blinds,
and wonder if that’s all
closing ever is...
the quiet after something small
has finally stopped trying.
every sunset is a reset.
Lightness isn’t a foil for hurt,
but a vehicle for irony.
We all live in the unfolding present,
from love in some September to loss in fine gone April. Just as darkness depends on light,
cynicism needs to be built on a bed of hope.
Flowers for Dennis Stewart
When I think about my childhood,
it’s never the house fires,
or the nightly violence,
or even the birthdays
it’s never the house fires,
or the nightly violence,
or even the birthdays
that went without wishes granted.
It’s Grease 2 —
that grainy VHS we had by accident,
the one that started to stutter halfway through
“Reproduction,”
as if the tape itself were embarrassed
by joy.
I think about Dennis Stewart,
an actor on the edge of the frame,
the villain, sure,
but in that way villains often are
It’s Grease 2 —
that grainy VHS we had by accident,
the one that started to stutter halfway through
“Reproduction,”
as if the tape itself were embarrassed
by joy.
I think about Dennis Stewart,
an actor on the edge of the frame,
the villain, sure,
but in that way villains often are
the ones who understand
that time is running out,
that nothing gold stays,
that all cheesy choreography ends
in stillness.
I didn’t know his name then.
He was just “Craterface,”
A man born to play a ghost
in a movie about pretending youth lasts forever.
There’s something holy
about remembering the wrong people.
About saying:
I remember you,
Dennis Stewart,
for the cigarette flick,
the menace of a man
who maybe knew art was just life
with a better jacket,
that time is running out,
that nothing gold stays,
that all cheesy choreography ends
in stillness.
I didn’t know his name then.
He was just “Craterface,”
A man born to play a ghost
in a movie about pretending youth lasts forever.
There’s something holy
about remembering the wrong people.
About saying:
I remember you,
Dennis Stewart,
for the cigarette flick,
the menace of a man
who maybe knew art was just life
with a better jacket,
so take the role,
take the paycheck.
Sometimes I worry memory
is just the universe
recycling its favorite mistakes —
that I’ve been rewinding this same scene
for decades:
a pink jacket,
a parking lot,
a man who never quite got
his close-up.
So this is the bouquet:
watching Grease 2 with my daughter
Sometimes I worry memory
is just the universe
recycling its favorite mistakes —
that I’ve been rewinding this same scene
for decades:
a pink jacket,
a parking lot,
a man who never quite got
his close-up.
So this is the bouquet:
watching Grease 2 with my daughter
on my 43rd birthday,
and singing all the songs by heart,
wondering about dreams coming true
or dying, because to remember
is to keep them alive.
Rubber Thunder
it bounces off the knuckles of the sky
and ricochets away from my heart.
the criminal steals it,
and the artist seals it
forever in a painted postcard
pitched from hurricane alley
where lightning reminds time
to take its sweet time.
weather never runs
out of breath,
and the moon is half gone,
so don't bother chasing
the horizon.
Under the Glade in the Broom
found this note
in a book I bought
from Strand in 2012
but never read...
I think it was a note
passed to me
while bartending
about where cocaine
was hidden in the bathroom...
may we all revisit
treasures of our mistakes,
and learn from the lies
of love...
may you have a full half hour
in the devil's ocean
and another under
the attack of heaven...
the past will pass you notes,
and how you interpret them
is how the future
will interpret you.
Breakfast & Nothing
and just like that, the excitement
of your birthday is over,
and you're simply 43,
not old but definitely not young,
a little wiser but still dumb,
just a bag of cholesterol and regret.
next year, all I want is
to be alive and go to breakfast,
nothing more, nothing less.
and after that, after this,
I want to live this life
over and over and over again,
and with each go round
get better and better,
but then again maybe I can
do that in this life
and treat every new day as a chance
at a better existence, a better me.
Tell Me a Secret.
I will break my own heart
from now on.
I've lost my mind many times
but never lost my soul.
Men are not allowed to be sad (ick!)
and anger is always our fault.
The patriarchy hurts men, too,
it is abusive to men.
One day, I will just be a story
other people tell until they die, too.
Paila
In Colombian slang, "paila" means that a situation is bad, there's trouble...
Got a call from my oncologist today,
the CAT scan showed spots on my liver.
It could be nothing.
It could be something.
It could be cancer.
I am more scared
than last time,
but why?
After learning this,
I had to jump on a work call,
because, ya know, life continues,
doldrums and all.
On said work call,
Monica, who is a designer in Colombia
told us about this slang word, Paila,
and it just fit my feels.
So now,
on this morose Thursday morning,
I am just listening to sad music,
and repeating that word in my brain.
I know I should be positive,
tell myself it is nothing,
but I just want to close
this cancer chapter.
I am not ready to die,
but more so,
I do not want my daughter
to have to feel the pain
of a dead dad.
That is Paila.
have an unstoppable bday, kj
I listen to your voicemails
saved from long ago,
still rooting for you
in salsa studios and poetry rooms.
Your voice lives in the small hours,
pressed between sleep and static.
I play you like a ghost—
soft, apologetic,
half a song that forgot its chorus.
Each message begins mid-breath,
as if love were still loading.
You say my name once,
then forever again.
That’s how I know it’s unstoppable.
saved from long ago,
still rooting for you
in salsa studios and poetry rooms.
Your voice lives in the small hours,
pressed between sleep and static.
I play you like a ghost—
soft, apologetic,
half a song that forgot its chorus.
Each message begins mid-breath,
as if love were still loading.
You say my name once,
then forever again.
That’s how I know it’s unstoppable.
I've never been indifferent to birds
at night
feeling small
and insignificant
under the humming ceiling fan
just a simple birthed being
amongst the stars
we all want to be bigger
than we are
while I value my suffering
it is not unique
and it is too late
to be scared.
shadows of a shadow
confidence.
confidence?
patience.
patience!
we invented time.
and money and god.
i'm just sitting here.
looking at pretty colors.
we named brown & blue.
titled life and death.
all I want is peace.
but we made up the concept of peace, too.
chaos.
chaos.
Cause & Affection
How many coffees away
from next year are we? I wish I could take a pill for patience,
a drug to keep me present.
Technology is temporary,
time is temporal.
I've tasted loneliness,
because I've wasted love.
2017 was 8 years ago,
almost nein.
How many kisses away
from death am I?
From the complexities and reality of people
to the clauses and effects of life.
Things to Do While Remembering You’re Alive
Listen to any cassette from Janushoved,
let the hiss be holy,
let Internazionale’s The Opaline Dancer
teach you how to be alone in stereo.
Drink a crisp can of seltzer
on an aimless walk —
in the perfect world,
you end up in Fort Greene Park
with a friend who carries
a deck of cards and no expectations.
Commit to the bit
for as long as humanly possible.
Robert Creeley once said
humor is what happens
when we realize we’ve run out of armor.
So take off the costume.
Be funny.
Be defenseless.
Find a book — any book —
by Waldman or O’Hara,
Michals or Myles,
anyone who loved too loudly
and photographed it later.
Carry it with you like proof
that beauty once existed,
and maybe still does,
if you’re willing
to look ridiculous enough
to notice it.
synonym for soliloquy
Oh evening,
under a Walmart quilt
with residual guilt
from the love built
to the blood spilt
like a rose I rightly wilt
to nostalgia’s nightly lilt.
under a Walmart quilt
with residual guilt
from the love built
to the blood spilt
like a rose I rightly wilt
to nostalgia’s nightly lilt.
Idle Idols
if our fathers are our models for God
and our mothers are our models for ourselves,
what does that say about me?
I never knew my father,
and my mother was an abusive addict,
who probably had undiagnosed manic depression.
and here I am, helping my daughter with her homework,
while I don't have one single memory of even doing homework,
let alone my mother helping me with it.
my major mission has been being the opposite
of those selfish, idle idols, but
my serious struggles are still patience and presence.
the lack of patience I get from my mother,
and the challenge of being present
I get from fear.
it's a battle buried in me at a cellular level,
harder won than sobriety and cancer combined,
but I will never stop praying to the past to save the future.
All We Do is Cope
In my 20s
I was hanging on
by a thread
of a noose
In my 30s
I was dangling
by the skin
of my teeth
In my 40s
I am figuring it out
or forgetting
what started it all
In my 50s
maybe it will all
make sense
In my 60s
maybe I will be
thriving.
In my 70s
I hope to be
alive.
V.H.S
Based on Actual Events
My past is becoming a movie
that plays on cable in my mind,
complete with commercials.
No need for Netflix,
I want to just flip channels.
In a universe filled with stars,
I am just a sitcom actor,
my memories are half digested by life.
I jumped a fence today.
When’s the last time ya jumped a good fence?
I can’t tell what is true
and what is just a poem
perpetuated for the myth of love.
'Cause someday we must return
to the movies in our brains.
My life was on pause for so long
that I lost the remote
And resigned to relive Grease 2.
But these moments we can't fake,
and the angels never leak the expiration date.
Vignes 281
Listening to Eleanor Rigby in the rain.
Double parked under an old oak tree.
Wondering about the fading future.
Hoping for the past, redoing my youth.
Through the questions of my child.
I have no desire to visit yesterland.
Nor any urgency to meet the tomorrowville.
I’d rather los present last ten years.
And perhaps Peter Pan the rest.
Double parked under an old oak tree.
Wondering about the fading future.
Hoping for the past, redoing my youth.
Through the questions of my child.
I have no desire to visit yesterland.
Nor any urgency to meet the tomorrowville.
I’d rather los present last ten years.
And perhaps Peter Pan the rest.
But I have a way of losing track of time.
Look at all the lonely people.
I used to be one of them.
Singing sad songs on sad afternoons.
Missing the moon's magic.
It was all right in front of me.
Lonely people, like me.
Come from the forest for the trees.
And either grow or get chopped down.
We get lost forever or get found for now.
Because it never ends, does it, dear reader?
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