I keep going to type a text,
and then delete it,
or toss my phone aside
to dwell on what to say.

I'm sure you see the iPhone dots
that signal the other person (me) is writing a text,
but there is so much to say,
so much to do, that even a perfect message won't suffice.

I try to call but the book created a barrier,
when it was supposed to be a bridge,
in which I see flaws similar to my own,
and you read through the lines of real desire.

I am not evil, but I am choices,
yet I believe people can change,
and redemption is possible within love,
because life is both long and short, depending.

I am not my flaws, but my flaws are me,
and just as I listen to sad songs to remind,
I read certain books to remember and refresh
the certainty that hearts evolve if given the chance.

just enough torment

at the end of five white claws,
and a day of traveling,
I check my Twitter to see all
these Follow Friday notifications.

I don't have it in me
to be funny or snarky,
just quite maudlin, drunk,
and so so thankful I can make her laugh.

simple joy, quiet ghosts

god we are romantics,
writing about the avenues of living.

within seekers,
it's not about me or she.

the point is sharp,
stabbing hearts through windows at night.

miss the future
before it passes by.

never knowing
is more dangerous than anything.

I'd rather be cold
than warm. 

days of mayhem don't define us,
is that a wrinkle in your pallet brow?

reassurance is a hit commodity,
and I pay for it with credit. 

Nammer and a Hail

with the wolf,
getting at the yak,
talking growing up
in the ghetto.

crushing hard mikes,
like college girls,
but with a Big L soundtrack,
such a sweet sweaty palm sing-a-long.

switching to other introductions,
such as a restaurant's life,
broken blinds and how much
we hate brunch.

in a suburban sea,
the wolf howls for me,
and sees the world similarly,
even after I escape this place.

he offers vodka,
but I decline because of time,
and I gotta drive,
weird to not feel anxiety here.

it's not often you meet an animal
with the same sharp teeth,
gnawing at this same position 
just different mechanics.

little talk of love, reels of regret, 
because midnight doesn't matter
just as jail stories aren't judged,
and work is tomorrow. 

rare is the moment 
of couch relief when
I don't look at my phone,
just hand a stolen plate to start.

Killed by Florida

it's all fun and games
until you wake up in the morning.

I hate this place,
especially when the temp drops
from 90 to 89
and all the yentas
start claiming it's "nice" out.

the shopping centers depress me;
the bugs annoy me;
the suburbs surprise me;
the good people are rare.

I gotta get outta here,
before I lose it (again).

Plus, I must show someone
that you have to dare to dream,
chase good goals and risk a few things
to make your path through the woods. 

One day, she'll understand.

Living means leaving
this swamp, where
the only excitement is a new Chick-Fil-A 
and car crashes.

put warrior purity back in me

rage in code — 
shorthand grenades of inner tumult 
and self-loathing.

is a losing battle,
deviously oblique,
a catastrophic effect on its main creator.

totemic to capture 
the confusion and pain of the times,
beginning as a reaction 
to live all the way through.

Schrödinger's Toast

When you stop the toast
to check to see if it’s toasted enough
and then push it down again,
does it start the toasting process
all over again or does the toaster remember
where it was in the toasting process?

no more love poems

There is more gray in my mustache,
And while I may be angry, I deal
With anger differently these days.

This is an angry poem,
With a little fight left in it,
But no more love poems —
Forever — if I can help it.

I’d rather be soulless
With a full head of hair
Than on this rollercoaster.

Not being given a chance
Is my miracle dispatched,
A lullaby from somewhere
Close then taken away.

The journey converged
And was cut in half with her hatchet;
That’s why this is an angry poem.

Sometimes we cause hurt,
Jump-boarded between the end
And the beginning, but I’d rather
Be angry than in love.

don't be mean to me

I am not an opus.

you asked me my purpose,
and I overthought it,
because it's simply writing,
cultivating creativity,
laughter and love.

Of course.

tell that voice in your head
to listen to the one in your heart,
and take a picture
while I'm young.

Rest my past.

tired of being first place
at second best,
but I'll take niceness
and the air of hands.

Lost in the difference.

give up the ocean
to begin again,
gambling on fun futures
to let us be guided by
time's only relief, proven.



we are only our desires,
therefore love is all we are,
by virtue of habit, happenstance,
and how the world will end with us. 

Whisper Into the Stream

who wants to go to the woods with me
just to scream?

gibberish and song lyrics and poems,
then whisper something to the odd stream.

it's just that it's so hard to have
seamless dreams. 

there are so many rocks in my beans

driving around,
listening to Bob Seger songs
as if I were in a Bob Seger song.

I wanna go to a live show,
doesn't matter if it's magic,
I just want to feel the world
and know that it still exists.

all I have is four corners,
a can of tuna,
and a can of beets.

maybe a few C chords,
mixed with some G chords,
and a capo to plug up
a hole in hope.

this ain't my 85th rodeo,
for I have been here before,
but this time I will capture the all.

R.I.P. Huf

our dark

ego is a bullshit joke from God,
and love is a venom gift. 

searching for meaning in the meaningless,
we tend to attach morality to mortality
when they couldn't be further apart
in our dark. 

blessed to be a witness,
I see dreams as they see me,
raucous river right down the middle
in our dark.

time for my neck
to betray me. 


she's the apple,
I'm the eye.

listen to the train rumble by
somewhere in the distance,
and realize we are somewhere 
in the distance
to someone else.

one hot minute,
2:45pm to 2:46pm,
of wonder.

a day at a time, too,
they adjust,
and I hate being right,
never say goodbye.

but feel a hello
for eternity. 

Good Tuesday Blues on a Friday

listening to the new Fleet Foxes album
on the autumn equinox, feeling important
right in the middle of future nostalgia,
where I will smell this song water again.

sleepy but not tired, I see
what the wind needs in me,
blowing away my good Tuesday blues
with the weather of forever. 

even feeling good makes me
nervous, because of the frequent 
quick flip of the coin that gambles
on where my cloudy shoes will take me. 

our little choices reflect
the alternative in the skies in lakes
for the places we call home
and the changes it takes to remake thee.

Kick Rocks

eating bacon while driving;
this is my crime,
and worrying about a butt
in the morning.

oh, to be alive,
and actually enjoy it,
like a genuinely 

please hear my eyes
as I pull buildings down
to keep us warm.

trade the world 
for a moment
and a moment
for the world.

a dream team at leaving,
maybe we surprise time
by sticking around,
and singing loud.

wine and vomit,
the past, the present,
believe it's meant to believe.

a quiver of cobras

just as this love
is more than life,
first things are fast,

and last night's honesty

compels me to conquer
belly-dry, puerile hearts
from the new start.

everything repeats,
because we can't let go.

I've been conditioned by fear,
everyone and nothing;
these are the places I've made decisions.

find me,
don't let go of the rope,

for I am real,
and I am here.


Inside Poem

drinking a White Claw
from a bendy straw,
breaking the law
with my grandma,
while high-fiving a cat paw
on a see-saw. 

you really did a number on me this time

day after day I think about you
first when I wake,
and now the birds are gone while
I bike in the rain.

I'd say this isn't fair,
but you'd just throw the past in my face;
that's the crutch, not me –
I am more concerned about the future.

for the longest time,
I felt I wouldn't qualify,
but the simple hope you gave
you also took away.

Shofar Service

The Rabbi blew the ram's horn
on the front lawn of the orthodox neighbors,
who invited everyone, but probably
weren't expecting the tattooed vagabond.

I walked over without phone
just to feel something different,
and I believe it worked. 

Praying with social distancing strangers,
and just wishing the best for everyone in my life,
or just on the outside of it,
and peace for me despite sweating.

After the 30 blows,
I walked back with good Hashem tears,
the same fears but new selfish hope.

you're my favorite laughter

went for a midnight drive
to feel alive.

garage giggles
are missed,
so I gun it through
yellow lights,
and stop signs with the white border,
because those are just suggested, right?

considering Taco Bell,
but I got other things to drown sorrows,
like podcast cruising,
texting Justin about it all. 

what if I just drove to New York?
I am too old for roadtrips. 

the empty suburban streets are mine,
until cops at a 7-11 scare me with a follow,
even though I am doing nothing illegal,
unless you count code 143. 

I cruise back with the windows down,
write shitty poems in the Notes of my phone,
wish for more wishes, 
and that my truck was a time machine.

not surprised at your sabotage

things were good
and you got scared.

I hope it doesn't end (again) like this. 

do I need to write your name
to get your attention, Kendra Jean,
and to prove to you?

I'd do whatever it takes,
and you'd know that if you weren't a ghost.

surprises come with sadness sometimes.

this one hurts heavy,
but is not surprising at all. 

...when fans send me photos 
of them reading my books.

Glory A

sad news this morning out of Washington,
and I am thinking about lions.

Yves Klein painted everything blue
and wasn't sorry.

all I've done in September
is wait for October.

I don't want to save the world,
I was just looking for a Brand New York City.