I want to live in a small, mainstreet town 

where it is always the first days of Autumn.

It’s Friday evening.

I’m trying to push past the bastards of this week,

and the never-ending sweaty threads of Summer. 

Surprised to feel ebullient.

The air heavy with fermentation, with endings. 

It’s exciting, these pseudo-changes;

my body forever cueing in to the back-to-school feeling—

who will I meet this year? Who will I be?

Feeling...blobby, 

I don't want to be a writer today;

I want to be evil or an idiot,

far from myself & my dreams.  

I have such a high threshold for discomfort, 

due in no small part to how I was raised, or lackthereof.

But fear & its mammoth impact on life & creativity

is something I did not request—

these aspirations could not be whittled down 

to whatever works, even if I tried,

despite what Instagram entrepreneurs tell me.

There is no shame in just existing.

Yet I can't just sit here and elegantly suffer

life's silly accidents without words.  

Poem

I am not into overthinking anymore. 

I am so over it. 

collapse the decades

The 2010s are vanquished 

and the 2020s have definitively become.

I wish I could go walk around the 90s for like a week.

I would love to watch myself when I first moved to NYC in 2005. 

Collapse the decades into

heartbreak, forgiveness, and melancholia.

Expand myself with 

liberation in lightness and in unabashed optimism.

I can't time travel,

but I can travel time. 

Paintings and Mazes

Life is wild and wonderful,

and comedic and tragic,

sad and magical, 

and a collection of choices...

Choices to paint the walls an off-white, 

cover up the blood, 

which bathroom to use, 

forfeit the head for heart, 

hang the charcoaled sketch,

or burn it in the clawfoot tub.

However, what isn’t always apparent are the revisions,

the study, the observances of love and grief,

choice of burned before relief, 

the olive green rug or the lonely Peloton bike.

It's the spaces between the sentences, 

the door between the room, 

the dreams between the wakes,

the ruffled sheets between the sleeps

that make up the most invaluable things

that make up us and our existences, respectively,

all intertwined, all the time. 

Van Gogh painted Starry Night 21 times,

but I want to know about the tea

between the brush strokes,

the dried-blood bandages from his ear.

What nobody tells you

is usually what matters most about something. 

Y'all gotta hear this incredible episode with “The Country Music Superstar” himself, yours truly, Dale Hollow, whose debut LP, Hack of The Year, drops on Friday, ya'll!

Patient/Still

standing in the kitchen,

eating cheese,

texting Erin about the NYC Marathon

and Danielle about how there is no way

our boss knows who Minor Threat is...

South Florida Sunset Song

You say you like the wind blowin' through your hair
Well, come on roll with me 'til the sun goes down

[Refrain]
South Florida sunrise

[Verse 2]
Say you wanna hit the highway while the engine roars
Well, come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

[Refrain]
That South Florida sunset, oh yeah

[Verse 3]
Caressing you from Fort Lauderdale to Orlando
Well, come on, roll with me 'til the sun dips low

[Refrain]
Florida sun, oh girl

[Bridge]
When I'm far from home and them pink clouds show
Stuck out somewhere with folks I don't know
'Cause you keep me nice and you keep me warm
Wanna feel you on me, can't wait to get back here again.

[Interlude]
Ooh baby, you're so gorgeous
How 'bout you and me... 

take a little trip

In the big body back to NYC?

[Outro]
Take a ride with me, baby, you by my side
How does it sound, you and I?

Goof Mode (Do Yo Thang)

Gnats in my eyes

as I ride my bike

and call her 

just to say hi. 

We laugh

about our respective trauma,

talk music

and music podcasts.

The speed of her responses

makes me smile,

and we go off on a funny bit

about bands.

Oregonian Sunburns is the name of my emo band, I say.

All the guys in the band are named Chase or Taylor, she says. 

And the guys named Chase have girlfriends named Taylor, I say.

Our band name is Fuck You Yankee Blue Jeans, she says. 

She has a new coworker

who is from NYC and is in a band

called The Hasbens,

because apparently there's two guys named Ben. 

I laugh all the way to the bank, literally, 

because I have to go deposit a big check

which I have forgotten how to do,

and she laughs at my hatred of filling out forms. 

the birds are loud today

What's the difference

between a crow and a raven?

Intelligence.

But intelligence comes from wanting

something and learning about it.

So smarts come from heart. 

The Love Poems I Never Sent: “My Heart — The Lake”

goddamn her red one piece

turns lake day into lust

with secret glances through Ray Bans,

and I wonder if she knows

everyone wants her,

including me. 

my hat matches my boxer briefs,

and she notices this,

asking why I wear undies

under a bathing suit. 

this means she notices me,

and so I reply

that's just what I have always done,

since I was a kid. 

that's adorable, she says,

her eyes going up and down my body,

and I am suddenly self-conscious,

because she is stunning,

and I am average at best.

the trail of light 

from a firefly,

signifies the night

and I assume songs are written

for moments like this

where the girl kisses the boy.

spontaneously,

teenage dreams come true

in middle age moments

taking us back,

but only with eyes closed. 

just the kiss

is better than anything

after this.

🫀

The Songs That Make Thom Yorke Cry

If I ain’t gonna get rich,

I am going to do whatever

The fuck I want.

From copy day jobs

To the music pod,

This is my path to pave.

And I will do it

With confidence

And compassion.

memories have bad timing

they just creep in

when you are crying in the shower

about something else

and trying to enjoy your coffee

without getting shower water in it. 

suddenly, you are thinking about

the time you found weed in Brooklyn

which leads to the time 

you hooked up with a girl

in a stairwell in Manhattan.

time travel exists

but it is a tease

because it only happens 

when you don't want it to,

and it's just a feeling. 

Calling all fans of the TV show LOST! This episode with podcast producer turned documentary film producer Ralph D. Apel is destiny!

evince badinage

grace strikes us 

when we are restless 

in weird goodbyes

peace finds us

when we realize

we have forgotten the war

indifference identifies us

without care or celebration,

but a hidden smirk

love leaves us

with an everlasting

impression of forever

never nudges us

to not chase

the things we are afraid of

fear finds us

either formidable 

or forgotten

fate folds us 

into the lives of others

to be changed

poetry slices our lives

twice as wise,

opening our eyes to possibility. 

We are not the same people anymore.

I don't need the new iPhone. 

I am even over dive bar poems. 

I want

post basketball weed and espresso.

I want

a new book

and the Yankees on in the background. 

I don't even care if they win. 

I am into Michelle Wolf

and cookies are coming,

so let's see where this kismet kills me. 

Christmas is 100 days away. 

Simple afternoons

that drift seamlessly 

into easy evenings...

I won't use up all my wishes

turning jetskis into gold. 

I am too old to give a shit,

but still young enough

to seek peace. 

Brittany, take the pancakes away!

Once upon a diner,

under a coincidentally placed painting

of Uncle Pecos 

from Tom & Jerry,

eating breakfast—

pancakes for the table

—mentioning the matrix

with Abigail.

Our server

is an attractive woman with face tattoos,

a canvas so bold,

she's a story herself,

her visage displayed,

a tale of her journey,

her own matrix,

made of inside jokes,

doubtless,

with yoga friends,

and bearded men. 

In a corner booth, 

where the morning sun does play past the creepy kitchen staff,

a plea arose with Abby's yawn,

"the waitress is into you," she says,

but I exclaim no way,

because I am rusty

and never think that way.

To prove this,

one embarrassing break or another,

I asked Brittany not if Abby were right,

but that we had a wager

and I bet she could gather the stakes

if she looked at my face,

and if I were right

she should leave the plate,

but if Abby were correct,

she should take the pancakes away. 

What Weather Was Heard

deliberate or not,

the purpose of destruction

is always present. 

I archive my feeling,

attempt to give grace a go,

but just write a stupid poem. 

it's raining,

and I have become hyper aware of my mouth

since I have stopped drinking. 

smiling at the horizon,

so many buried hatchets,

but without problems there would be no solutions

I am a little boy

but my body is 40 years old,

the past is letting me live. 

just a clown

wondering aloud,

how soon is now?

Ibtissam

I have this rule ritual...

If I see you in my dreams 

I have to hear your voicemail

and hope that you are fine.

Yeah, so am I.

And it’s not a lie, 

that I just wanna press my nose 

up to the glass of your life.

It's almost October

so that must be why

you are on my mind. 

All the ghosts gather in the autumn.

I truly hope

there are flowers

in some of your poetry.

And I am doing my thang

diffusing with humor,

a distraction from your dream visit. 

All the dogs were looking away.

they are all time capsules

every list.

every post. 

every poem.

this bullshit. 

tomorrow's. 

iPhone notes.

screenshots.

bookmarks. 

tattoos. 

playlists. 

loves.

etc.  

WWBD

I am a paycheck.

I am a breath of bullshit.

I am my choices. 

And my choices are me. 

Sure, change occurs

in the fist of a spider, 

but at a certain point 

you must ask yourself:
What would Bowie do?

He would flirt with the idea of an autumn getaway,

and then conquer the cosmos. 

We got to befriend the husband and wife duo known as Corvair, who make arty power pop, love Bowie as much as we do, and put peanut butter cups on S'mores!

pawky cleek

opened another box of books tonight—

always kind of strange to "lose"

and "find" pieces of me

and also very weird shelving myself,

but how appropriate. 

hello moon, do you see me

and my books down here,

existing under your shadows

and shine, 

all in due time?

you have to meet

the big muddy moments,

delivered to you

along with clean white roses

to love the little things

like a dirty Strand sticker on your first chapbook. 

I wish there were

a social media platform 

for these idiosyncrasies—

no lies or self help,

just bruises and dog-eared books. 

as I close tabs in my life,

and drink coffee at night,

I am at peace with my war,

because I am just a shelf

of simple spines. 

Self Aware Poem

Do you ever forget
what you look like
and then catch a glimpse
and think
"not as bad as I thought."

What's the punctuation
of that above stanza?
like should it end with a question mark,
and should that question mark
be inside the quotation?

I wonder if
other people have these thoughts,
silly little existential ponders
that just need
a little solidarity.