the empire of your spirit is enough

not the marches or countermarches,

but the midnight dimness 

of the non-events of the day,

the ideals and aspirations,

the debts and lessons,

that codify real life,

the everyday poetry of doing the dishes,

the nightly philosophy of being satisfied

with simple virtues like love.

Bulletproof

I love the little bubbles

that butter makes in my coffee;

I sip them slow and quiet.

Life is a lighter shade of loud right now,

and I wonder if it will speed down...

Despite the wound on my chest,

bullets are bouncing off me,

ricocheting to yesterdays.

In the end 

of the beginning... 

Light me on fire

in an olive green suit,

black button down shirt,

and some Jordan 1s

that my daughter drew on.

Eat plant-based cobra meat with Larry Bird while refusing to believe lacrosse is hard

I wish tears shot put,

sprayed like a squirt gun,

the kind you win

with tickets that the arcade.

I wish tears made a sound

like a leaky faucet,

turned upside down

like Dr. Seuss' nightmares. 

I wish tears were cold,

like water from a pink Stanley,

next to a plate of lava-centered Totino's Pizza Rolls

for contrast to tongue. 

Fax

The fact that she quoted

"You've been chosen as an extra

in the movie adaptation 

of the sequel to your life"

has been rattling around 

in my head for days. 

The fact that her big eyes

laugh at my dumb jokes

has been killing me,

because eyeball laughter

can't be faked. 

The fact that every time I'm reminded 

by a younger version of me

to be fearless at examining 

the human condition 

and to put a lot of time 

in between love,

I revert to fiction. 

I am so freaking honored to bother Taylor and Ryan of one of my all time favorite bands Local Natives, fresh off the release of their incredible new album, But I’ll Wait For You!

Good Boogers in Atlanta

Chasing fireflies 

in Chastain Park;

didn't know the moon was pink

until I ran smack into her.

Life is a mistress,

her kiss so sweet,

her lips so sour.

My vulnerability

strong like bull;

my sentimentality 

is igneous.

I recognize I am a black cat

giving bad luck to others,

but she is a clover to me. 

We eat Popeyes

because we don't give a fuck,

nothing lasts forever,

especially not us. 

Started life 

behind the starting line,

had to play catchup just to get here.

Leaving for Orlando tomorrow

so we go down to Marlowe's Tavern,

where she can get her drank on

while I do my sober pet thang. 

Blowing good boogers

in the shower,

hope it continues. 

Don't pigeonhole my past

for I am a different person

than I was back then,

and you don't know me since when. 

centripetal farce

round and round we go,

where we stop (die)

nobody knows.

give in to the glory of a little can of Spam,

killing a life of monkey's hope.

I dial a dream,

while sitting next to Medusa,

nor swayed by cruel intention

so desperate to remember your name.

the sure burn of uncertain fire,

but how else do you see love?

legends speak of primordial gods 

who shaped the world in its early days,

but the artist’s painting captures more essence 

than the forest of Heaven untouched by human hands.

At arms' instinct taught war,

to recall what you hate most

inside a dream inside of hope as a joke.

eustress

poetize positive problems...

heading to Atlanta this weekend,

and then to Orlando the following weekend.

all involves good things, 

like cold plunges and concerts,

cookies and playoff basketball,

but I am the worried cunt,

always asking what if?

my resilience to happiness

is still a hurdle.

Name this poem whatever you want!

You don't need a helicopter crash. 

to live in a perfume adverb.

Florida fucks with my head.

it's not often we get a second chance. 

Singing karaoke while the sky is falling.

we only get to go round life's carousel once. 

I like your t-shirt. 

It makes my heart hurt. 

Never felt so confident. 

In nothing at all. 

Cake

I am so sorry
for hurting you.


Back then,
I simply wanted it all.


Now all I want
is time and cake.

a hat on top of a hat

I wear a Louisville hat for you,

and when people ask about it

I quote Bruce Springsteen

and keep the convo moving. 

It's from the 1986 basketball championship team,

but it makes me feel closer to you, Kendra Jean.

I know it's stupid but it's true,

and I can only control 

what I can control,

like the hat on my head. 

The night John Prine went to Heaven I woke up around 3 in the morning and wrote this poem right quick

I wonder if

I am the one

who got away

for someone?

Chaos Logic

I wish manatees flew

and were as bountiful as birds,

making the world 

a little weirder. 

Our future flying cars

will navigate no-wake zones

in the air to dodge

the soaring sea cows,

who are still slow and curious. 

And there goes 

my last alibi

of dreaming 

just to dream. 

The used-to-be-tortured-but-now-super-satisfied poets department

Bloodwork,

then to the diner

for coffee

and eggs

and pancakes

and biscuits and gravy,

cuz I am hungry

and I have less blood

and I have been working so hard

on my health and fitness

since January 3rd

so I am treating myself. 

I am thrilled

to just read my book

at the bar-top,

and enjoy a slow morning,

that even when the cops are called

on someone fighting

in the parking lot,

I don't care,

as long as I can chat about Israel

with the old guy next to me

who turns out to be a pastor from Miami. 

The busboy interrupts 

to talk about love,

and I agree that

hate takes a lot of work,

and I am so happy

in this poetic moment

that most people 

wouldn't give a shit about,

but I add more butter

to my pancakes,

and blow everyone's mind

when I quote Proverbs 10:21:

The lips of the righteous feed many, 

but fools die for lack of sense.

I pay the waitress,

who didn't say much,

and give her a big tip,

because an extra $20 to me

compared to what it means to her 

on a Friday morning shift

where people fight in the parking lot

and satisfied poets leave

with sugar and caffeine 

in their veins,

ready to write the wrongs

of the whole world

before noon. 

Peefing outside the gym (but not going in) with The Greeting Committee!

ceramicist

In cupboards, we crawl again,

along the edges of chipped tea cups

with old foes never forgotten,

and new friends not yet rotten.

Don't be stupid after easter,

turn and burn and bang out 

poverty poems about believing

in seamless dreams of the future.

Let's joke about yesterday,

and never double dare tomorrow,

expel everything you ever thought,

New York feels so cold even when it is hot.

Bacon and spray paint > rising and grinding

From Caitlin Clark to Orlando Magic,
Sunday Afternoons are for basketball.

A belly full of late breakfast of bacon,
Finger tips black and red of spray paint.

I collect on the couch to catch up
on reading and hoops.

Been a long day of writing
And editing in intervals.

Between being a dad
And living a life.

Rising and grinding isn’t always
Athletes and asshole Gary V wannabes.

Sometimes rising and grinding is
Bacon and spray paint.

Then driving your kid to acting
And writing dialogue in the parking lot.

Black Violin

A cowboy hat covered in Christmas lights.
An invisible violin coming from somewhere out of sight.

A rainbow at night. 

Reading Kafka's diaries by the lake.
Tonia unsent a message.

Shirt on the floor no more.

Radiohead song solidarity. 

The third line of this stupid stanza. 

The rose holds me.
Thorns dug deep.

never skip the embodied reference to the foundations that help me believe

I am going to make a country album one day,

but it will be all about the neighborhood of Yorkville in Manhattan,

and be drenched in airport beers and the fears of a 30 year old man

who has a plan but doesn't know how to...

All these LinkedIn losers and Instagram idiots

talk about and talk to creatives who have sold a boat load

of books or bullshit about this or that, 

but they never talk about the upcoming creative

who is carving their art in trees in Central Park

or working three jobs to pay rent and keep creating. 

I used to adhere to made-up deadlines because I thought I was going to die,

but now I don't do that dance because I am afraid to die,

like once something is done or on the verge of attention,

I will croak and it will be part of Hashem's joke. 

Poem

I am an acolyte of bargain orange juice 

and elbow blood on skate pavement, 

helming my soundtrack of indie-pop orchestra, 

telling tall tales of fine gone misadventure 

full of absurdist bon mots and comic non sequiturs.

Unsung cardigans from 90s films worn by the artsy dudes experiencing unrequited love

I based my whole life off of

lovable losers in film and tv,

who wear drooping cardigans

and read philosophy books. 

AJ from Empire Records,

and Ben Affleck's character 

in Chasing Amy,

both artists with big dumb hearts

and secretly in love

with a beautiful brunette.

What's his toes in

My So Called Life,

but most Ethan Hawke

in Reality Bites.

And here I am,

being all artsy and shit,

writing poetry,

wearing a cardigan,

listening to Mazzy Star,

embracing my circular nostalgic journey. 

solidtude rain friday night

Angeles by Elliot Smith

an improvised poem and a soda pop.

Thinking about pancakes tomorrow, 

and putting too much butter because I can.

A Bukowski book pulled from the kitchen,

flipped to a random page that is perfect...

“and when nobody wakes you up in the morning, 

and when nobody waits for you at night, 

and when you can do whatever you want. 

what do you call it, freedom or loneliness?”

How long ago did the song end?

How long ago did the silence begin?