Pork Boredom
The rain comes and I go.
Not going to be sacred with shoes.
Never been bored in my life.
I scream read in my head in the morning.
Eat bacon and think of love.
Wearing a mask at Starbucks.
Ordered a Shaken Brown Sugar.
Got a compliment on my boots.
From a black dude.
I bite my bottom lip.
And boogie in the 'Bucks.
Like the grass outside.
Is red in the sunset wind.
I'll be on the wall someday.
My memories just stories.
That other people tell.
Until those people die, too.
I don't want pity.
I'd prefer grace.
Or even pork boredom.
I don't want god's sake.
I'd rather have a cake pop.
I pray to parents I never had.
Trying to break habits.
Some inherited, past down to me,
Like an old hutch,
And some I acquired, picked up.
Along my long journey
To this middle.
disposable camera
apparently it is an electric psychedelic thursday morning
so says spotify
by three o'clock i will be done for
all the live long day i punch a bunch of buttons,
maybe move a mouse which is just a plate
fighting digital distractions like drugs
probably play pickleball later with a woman
that looks like an amalgam of all the long island girls i loved
get beaten and eaten by bugs
if you start the day early it should end earlier
the night coming just after my coffee table dinner
today will just be pictures tomorrow.
🤯
getting back to normal is a chore.
moving on is a must.
Summer's over.
my daughter is starting middle school.
I am a cancer survivor.
And I wear shorts and use emojis now.
dynamic being
We all have so many layers,
and a spectrum of emotions
and aspects of ourselves
that are brought out
by different people,
different environments.
None of us are static,
and this is why generalization
is categorically inaccurate;
nothing is black and white.
Life has given us these multitudes,
but our systems strip them from us,
so it is up to each individual
to not reduce the self
to fit what the world wants you to be,
thus moving through the thick blockage of fear.
My Cake Era is Coming to an End
I dress like Adam Sandler
on casual Friday,
write about food too much,
and eat a piece of chocolate cake
every day.
But I beat cancer
(got my chemo port out)
so I am spent the summer
indulging in sweet treats and fast food.
In addition to the cake,
yesterday I had Taco Bell,
but I also stopped at McDonald's
for french fries.
My chest hurts like a bastard,
and I am still not allowed
to go swimming or play basketball,
so I end the day with a trip to the bakery
to buy tea and a piece of cake.
My inner child, he is always with me.
I may have this experience now,
and all these years behind me,
but ultimately I’m the same vulnerable,
sensitive, curious, wondrous, exalted little being.
So when I interview one of my favorite musicians on the pod,
or walk around NYC by myself,
I can't help but think how excited young Ryan
would be at all of this.
You never know where you are in the story...
An air conditioned attic.
Nick Drake tunes.
Her heartbreak.
My cancer.
This is the part you don’t know is a chapter.
This is the part that isn’t titled yet.
The janitor
in the background
sweeps the same tile
where I once told a joke
that made someone
fall in love for five days.
My ego plays lead,
but the plot ignores it.
It’s not about me.
But I’m here,
so I write it like it is.
Each tick of the clock
could be the cue—
or just another second lost
in the long edit of nothing.
Moments. Milestones.
Sock, sock, shoe, shoe.
A simple morning
might be your climax.
You never know where you are
in the story.
Middle?
End?
The part they skip in the movie?
It’s all of us.
It’s none of us.
A coffee lid,
a missed call,
a breeze in the wrong direction—
and suddenly,
you’re in Act Three.
Heard 'I love you' from Los Angeles...
going there in september,
still seeking
how many times
can you move on?
Poem
I think I like falling in love in the stairwell light.
So, come on, baby, let's do this right on an NYC night.
Don't question it, let's fool around, and mess with fate.
Tell your pa, tell your ma that you love who you hate.
Don't question it, let's fool around, and mess with fate.
Tell your pa, tell your ma that you love who you hate.
NYC Update
A beer garden thrift market,
too many DJs,
and race weekend at an art gallery?
Velvet ropes and rooftop bottle service for some,
and events happening elsewhere across the city for others—
think textile art in a century-old sewing shop, an all-vinyl radio fundraiser,
and a scent club deep-diving into the world of tea.
You’ve also got queer circus confessions,
techno behind a gallery, zine launches, open-air concerts, block parties,
and yes, more DJ sets than any one human can reasonably handle.
Whether you’re all for espresso martini or Carib beer,
there’s something on the calendar
that’s going to make you stay out too late.
I fucking love NYC in the summer
for all the right and wrong reasons;
hand-rolled cigarettes
and corded headphones are back, baby!
and so am I!
Is the G train running?
Who cares!
I am a timid observer of time
because (from the Poetry Fest
Velvet ropes and rooftop bottle service for some,
and events happening elsewhere across the city for others—
think textile art in a century-old sewing shop, an all-vinyl radio fundraiser,
and a scent club deep-diving into the world of tea.
You’ve also got queer circus confessions,
techno behind a gallery, zine launches, open-air concerts, block parties,
and yes, more DJ sets than any one human can reasonably handle.
Whether you’re all for espresso martini or Carib beer,
there’s something on the calendar
that’s going to make you stay out too late.
I fucking love NYC in the summer
for all the right and wrong reasons;
hand-rolled cigarettes
and corded headphones are back, baby!
and so am I!
Is the G train running?
Who cares!
I am a timid observer of time
because (from the Poetry Fest
to dreams of Kendra Jean)
it goes too fast
and it goes too slow.
and it goes too slow.
SCARY COOL SAD GOODBYE #75
The bar was packed
with an assortment of unsavory-looking men
and lizard women who seemed like they’d evaporate into a puff of smoke
the moment that they set foot outside the blood-red room.
Eric had a whiskey, Greg had a beer,
and I ordered a club soda, no ice, no lime.
The bartender gave them theirs
and took their time with mine,
which arrived with ice and a lime.
We toasted to silence and comedy,
Brooklyn and bullshit under our breath
but knew we would be back
in this type of bar for the rest of our lives.
Bopping Around Brooklyn
the crack of the billiard balls.
clean brunettes, no bras.
groovy molars.
CitiBiked up and down Guernsey Street.
read Eileen Myles poetry.
in Transmitter Park.
smoked weed with Rob Dean.
L'Industrie lunch.
new hipsters hitting the streets.
while I am lost, literally and figuratively.
they're larping as cool kids.
this is the first they've heard of freedom.
Eric misses the G train.
Franco is full of zig-zags.
Angry at time.
So was I, not anymore.
Demyan/Van Remmen.
Yankees/Cubs.
Wimbledon at Kent Ale House.
Adam Santiago/Samantha.
Throw Nikes over powerlines.
Cut bracelets off my wrists.
Piss into the East River.
Sunset vinyl and half a million bodega flowers.
No more chemo port.
I am scared always.
But I never want to stop short of the stage.
Why BOOP when you can BOP?
Generational poems.
Tardy to the party.
Still have shame and envy.
Will always have NYC and poetry.
clean brunettes, no bras.
groovy molars.
CitiBiked up and down Guernsey Street.
read Eileen Myles poetry.
in Transmitter Park.
smoked weed with Rob Dean.
L'Industrie lunch.
new hipsters hitting the streets.
while I am lost, literally and figuratively.
they're larping as cool kids.
this is the first they've heard of freedom.
Eric misses the G train.
Franco is full of zig-zags.
Angry at time.
So was I, not anymore.
Demyan/Van Remmen.
Yankees/Cubs.
Wimbledon at Kent Ale House.
Adam Santiago/Samantha.
Throw Nikes over powerlines.
Cut bracelets off my wrists.
Piss into the East River.
Sunset vinyl and half a million bodega flowers.
No more chemo port.
I am scared always.
But I never want to stop short of the stage.
Why BOOP when you can BOP?
Generational poems.
Tardy to the party.
Still have shame and envy.
Will always have NYC and poetry.
When your song comes on the bar but it’s empty...
Eric won his pool game.
Franco has quit smoking five times.
I order a club soda.
The bartender holds the lime.
When Bushwick Blues
by Delta Spirit finally comes on,
everyone is gone
but my heart is full,
part nostalgia, part hope.
I get into a fight with a straw.
Feel youthful for a moment.
Look in the mirror behind the bar.
See a young me looking back.
I write a poem on a beverage napkin—
Franco has quit smoking five times.
I order a club soda.
The bartender holds the lime.
When Bushwick Blues
by Delta Spirit finally comes on,
everyone is gone
but my heart is full,
part nostalgia, part hope.
I get into a fight with a straw.
Feel youthful for a moment.
Look in the mirror behind the bar.
See a young me looking back.
I write a poem on a beverage napkin—
something stupid that I would have written twenty years ago,
when the world not making sense made sense—
and hand it to a fine gone gal on the Rumbler,
and hand it to a fine gone gal on the Rumbler,
just like I would've done in 2008.
I am a fool.
An aging vampire of the hipster generation.
Reliving things for the last time.
Not for long.
My fiction wiggles into the world…
When the Bushwick manipulator
meets the Willytown cowboy,
the two battle it out
over a girl at Sophie’s on the LES.
Their Carhartt beanies go flying,
a ZYN pack is used as a weapon,
neither are wearing socks
so their delicate ankles get bit.
meets the Willytown cowboy,
the two battle it out
over a girl at Sophie’s on the LES.
Their Carhartt beanies go flying,
a ZYN pack is used as a weapon,
neither are wearing socks
so their delicate ankles get bit.
I watch from my lies,
and jot down notes in my phone,
spinning this like it is a movie
made just for me.
The absurdity of identity,
The absurdity of identity,
the haunting past,
the writing future,
why can't I be fact?
I wanna outlive Ozzy!
the man likely lived more life
in a random weekend in 1974
than my combined past, present,
and future, but...
I hope to make it to 82,
with tons of tales
about love and loss...
not to mention fatherhood,
creativity, cancer, sobriety,
punk rock and hip hop...
mostly, I just want more days,
more minor moments
and major milestones...
all that said,
I hope to live in the present,
where my feet are,
not in this future or that past.
fight or flight
i keep wondering
what I would do
if I ran into you...
besides sweating
and stammering,
I just hope I look cool.
just got a snazzy haircut,
and won a game of air hockey,
so feeling good.
can it happen now
just so we can
get it outta the way?
I was all nerves last weekend
when I met a friend in Park Slope
and we walked to that Barnes & Noble.
it was closed
and you were nowhere in sight,
but my heart fell down the stairs.
Shrimp Salad
big fan of pondering
the great mysteries...
love, death, you, me, etc.
how sad, how lovely
is it all?
my excuses to live
better be better
than a hypocrite's shrimp salad.
the great mysteries...
love, death, you, me, etc.
how sad, how lovely
is it all?
my excuses to live
better be better
than a hypocrite's shrimp salad.
cheeks red with comedic regret,
skip the harassing embarrassment.
my reasons to live
better be better
than my excuses to die.
because if they are not,
then why go home?
instead, listening
to Pearl Jam's "Black"
and going back in time
with Justin "Leslie" Foyil.
standing in the present,
while pretending the future is forgivable.
sometimes a mango goes oopsy.
sometimes a Yankees player's surgeon son says you have cancer.
sometimes love leaves.
everything should end
with a "To be continued..."
until you're dead
for a decade.
I’d love to talk poetry with you.
I was looking.
Of course I was.
Typing your name like a reflex
I never unlearned,
hoping Google forgot
how many times I’ve searched.
And there you were:
a poem and your voice.
Five years is approaching.
Which is ridiculous.
What's more ridiculous is this.
This poem (mine, not yours).
I make breakfast with someone
who pronounces sestina wrong
in the most endearing way.
But still,
there’s your byline
like a paper cut
I keep tasting.
Glad the degree wasn’t just
a slow heartbreak
in workshop form.
Glad you’re out there
Of course I was.
Typing your name like a reflex
I never unlearned,
hoping Google forgot
how many times I’ve searched.
And there you were:
a poem and your voice.
Five years is approaching.
Which is ridiculous.
What's more ridiculous is this.
This poem (mine, not yours).
I make breakfast with someone
who pronounces sestina wrong
in the most endearing way.
But still,
there’s your byline
like a paper cut
I keep tasting.
Glad the degree wasn’t just
a slow heartbreak
in workshop form.
Glad you’re out there
(in the District, uprooted from Brooklyn)
making perfect things sing.
I will always read.
making perfect things sing.
I will always read.
every line.
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