My daydreams are wild in adulthood.

I dream of having friends
that will come over
and watch Seinfeld with me
while making art and drinking coffee.

Reading Kafka in temple.

Festschriften

this whole blog is a bunch
of bullshit Festschriften
for you...

Who puts on slides like this, really?

Did you just learn Command + Shirt + N?

I see your incognito
and I raise you three more poems,
a sneaky hotel room phone call,
and this Sylvia Plath book
I have been sitting on,
which I will send you one day.


The Triangulation of Time

I blame you on the moon.
My MetroCard's in Gatorade.

Nothing like daylight savings during Pisces season
to remind you that time isn't real outside the mirror. 

I read Kafka in the back of a cab.
Dashiell Hammet in the bathroom. 

Everyone I know is in Mexico City, respectively.
And I am still dreaming of Kendra Jean. 

I write in the Rose Maine Reading Room,
poems about the proverbial you. 

My imposter syndrome is pretending to be something it's not,
and my avocados aren't ripe yet. 

It all happens at once or it doesn't happen at all.
Old Ryan knows young Ryan loved her.

My lip is bleeding but it ain't from shaving 
because I haven't done that in a long time.


Multipotentialite

n. someone with many interests and creative pursuits.


One of the values I hold closest is variety. 


I thrive when engaging in multiple endeavors at once. 


I’m most happy when I have diverse challenges to tackle 

and, as it relates to my work, I really do think it gives me my edge.


This is not new either. 

Growing up I loved playing multiple roles 

(athlete, artist, goof, restaurant employee).


In contrast, I’ve found I’m the least happy 

when I put all my focus in one singular direction.


I recently learned of the term, multipotentialite — 

finally a word I can use to wrap up the way my brain works best.




final drinks at bars where the patrons get a little sentimental with their jukebox money around closing time

My life gets weirder and less relatable the older that I get,
so I try to write in a way that’s relatable to anyone with any problem.

Since getting sober, I have made an effort to accept the circumstances of my life for what they are,
and to remain engaged with and curious about them,
even if they don’t conform to stereotypes about how writers are supposed to live.

I write puns for ecommerce products for a living,
and then pretend poems for myself,
also asking famous and emerging musicians super silly questions.

All while trying to squash the idea that you have to be completely chaotic
and tortured to make interesting art.


Friday CD Listening: John Coltrane's “A Love Supreme”

Sometimes, you need to shut out all the noisy guitars,
raucous drums, pounding bass lines,
and screamy punk vocals for
McCoy Tyner’s meandering piano,
sensual bass from Jimmy Garrison,
steady drums from Elvin Jones,
and some smooth saxophone a la Coltrane.
Trivia: This was recorded just a mere seven miles away
from where I am right now in Englewood Cliffs, NJ.


You Aren’t Killing Time. Time Is Killing You.

Death is not this thing in the future, 
but something that is happening now. 

It is the ticking hand of the clock. 
It is the spring flowers. 
It is the fall harvest. 
It is the summer rain. 
It is the first snow of the year.

It is always happening,
so you better battle back by doing something you fucking love. 

cute poem, might delete

There's a cool Paris-based lit mag
that you should submit to;
I wish I could send these things to you.

It's called Love Love,
and they are doing cool shit,
but what do I know? 
I am just an outlandish bandit. 

Tell Lisa that Coyote Blood sent you,
not that you need it,
because your work was always solid. 


today is only today for today

Basketball (played).
Brunch (no carbs).
Baseball (spring training tradition).
Basketball (watched).
Oscars (fall asleep an hour in). 


I wanna be a shoulder

read your poetry
hear you laugh
give you song
listen to songs you give me
be a shoulder
for tears, tiredness, today, tomorrow...


March meets me with dreams of you

Last evening in the park,
I stared at the bare shadows 
of black tree branches against a deep sky. 

It was blue hour, 
not quite night-night, 
6:30pm in early March. 

The sky crowded with clouds,
dotted with the white lights of planes,
and textured with shadows.

I stay away from wars these days. 
I like my arms too much.

I read Chaliapin's memoirs 
until I began to snooze
and have visions of you.

We are flirting with each other
as spring flirts with our mornings
and time tantalizes our midnights.

Last night I was not lonely. 
I felt “of the world” in a way I rarely do. 

Suddenly, after a dreary winter, 
the colors come back,
and I want to call you.

Each season brings new life, 
yes, 
but also marks the cessation of life. 

It’s a painful truth, this poem points out, 
the inherent grief of the passage of time. 


*Hammer sold separately

I lived in bars 
and basement poetry shows...

I died there, too.

But I made the Grim Reaper’s job hell.

That’s what I wish for you, for anyone. 
To make the sonofabitch curse your name as he drags you down. 
To make him swing a few times. To miss a few more. 

I even gave him a run for his money...

I made him swap out his scythe for a hatchet.
I made him swap out his hatchet for a *hammer.
I made him swap his hammer for a 40oz of Olde English and a bag of blow. 

I traded it all for a dull pencil,
and a home,
and I would do it all again. 

That’s it, kid. 

Make it so hard to killed 
that you get the mother fucker in serious trouble 
with his employer...

That’s it. 

What a glorious, thunderous way to live. 
To single-handedly ruin the Grim Reaper's weapons and wisdom
at your outright refusal to die…

Just do it in theaters instead.


aside from the sheer, gobstopping sadness of it all...

Some poets are defined by their tragedies. 

Others simply carry on in spite of them.


As if the bitter details cut too harshly 

against their docile image to become lore,

I am unburdened by expectations of coolness or relevance, 

and my initial too-cool-for-school demeanor 

disguises some undeniable riffs, 

the poetry's signature heartworms, 

despite decades of exposure, 

hopefully never seem to burn out. 


The moment you've all been waiting for! The dynamic duo of Ninja Sex Party return to drop knowledge, spread their dream seeds, and save the earth with their new album THESE NUTS!


Grateful AF

I have lost so many things in the fire...

Like John Coltrane and universal truth.
Like New York City and my youth.

But I still have Sam Cooke and poetry.
And I still have curiosity and philosophy. 
And I still have coffee and comedy.
More importantly, I still have all the memories (of you and me).

So while I may have scars from all the burns,
I am extremely thankful for what I have learned (to love).

...so maybe I haven't lost anything, but gained everything?


Remain with Stilpo

I'm lean, clean—if a little sleepy.


I fuse the laid-back sound of the 1990s

with millennial steel, Brooklyn bullshit,

and countrypolitan filigree.


I am the Descartes of anxiety.


I feel tall in the morning,

and small in the evening.


I look like the kind of guy

who read Fight Club in college,

but I was retyping The Great Gatsby

in community college. 


I am an idiot,

But at least I don’t have an ego.


I put the hopeless 
in 'hopeless romantic'
cuz I still love a girl
that disappeared.


Though I am scared,

I have no choice 

But to keep chasing bravery.


Back on my reggae breakfasts,

my punk rock lunches.


Though I am scarred,

I have plenty of heart,

and hustle.


I remain with Stilpo,

because my soul can't be killed.


In these dumb poems,

I will live forever. 



Mornings

I wanna read all the books.
I wanna watch all the movies.
I wanna listen to all the music.
I wanna love with all my heart. 

I am receptive and willing to fail.
I am writing, exploring. 
I am headlong to discover.
I am discovery itself. 

I'm between youth and death.
I'm between wars. 
I'm between love.
I'm between addiction and fatherhood.

I am not native to optimism. 
I am not opposed to pessimism. 
I am not a dead doe yet. 
I am not alive either.

I'm my mother's mercy voice.
I'm my father's silence. 
I'm famous simplicities of my existence.
I'm forgotten Florida Robert Frost.

I will self-reconcile.
I will let poetry define me.
I will keep in touch.
I will afford a paradox.
I will disagree with death.


rock bottom in a bookstore

Zeno had a whole other life as a merchant before he came to philosophy. 
Epictetus spent a long time as a slave before he attended Musonius’ lectures.

Stan Lee created his first hit comic, "The Fantastic Four," just shy of his 39th birthday.
Toni Morrison wrote her first novel, "The Bluest Eye," at age 40.
Rodney Dangerfield didn't catch a break until 
he made a hit appearance on "The Ed Sullivan Show" at age 46.

Sure, some people find success early. 
Some are steeped in it from an early age, 
equipped with the best that their parent’s money can buy. 

But plenty of us didn’t. 
Plenty of people are just like you or me. 
A chance book recommendation, a chance encounter, 
a rock bottom moment in a bookstore, 
a mentor, a friend, at some institution of higher learning.

When they came to success was not that important. 
What matters is that when they found it, they got serious about it. 
I am ready for that next step. 


The world needs more poetry and less "influencers"

Blood spills on barren pages, Love dances with poetic rages. Each word a death, each line a life, Submitting poems for the slaughter.

With sweaty hands and hopeful sighs, We send our comedies to die in distant skies. Through self-doubt and lethargy, our words take the wish's leap, others' hearts will keep.

For every rejection, a scar added to soul, For every acceptance, a scar added to the universe. We write, along bridges burned, sending off poems to be judged so our very existence can endure.

Kendra Jean, you should submit here, because the world needs your solidarity. You are a damn good poet and I am honored to know it.


This episode of Bothering the Band with Deap Vally was tough to schedule but it is so worth it, because it was so fun, and they are calling it quits as a band after this tour, so listen up cuz it could be like their last one, but I'd bet it's probably their best one.

Tale

Saw Ryan Buynak downtown with his fly down,
hustling among Star Wars nerds towards the tail end
of the pretty good part of the night, vulnerable,
and dimwitted in his fascination with time.