or even think about the future;
we can just laugh and wander
and party with pro poets.
She's not supposed to answer!
she fucking picked up!
she should be living on Neptune!
she's an extraterrestrial, a ghost, a myth,
not a real person who picks up
a *67 blocked caller!
some people never got over Vietnam,
or the night their band opened for Nirvana.
I guess I'll never get over Kendra Jean.
for a split second,
her voice sounded like leaves rustling,
older but still optimistic.
my question
is why
did she pick up?
she had to know it was me.
maybe she was drunk.
what if she were meant to?
Forgiveness, Can You Imagine?
Can I forgive myself?
Can I forgive my body?
Can I forgive my sister?
Can I forgive Kendra Jean?
Can I forgive my dreams?
Can I forgive rejection?
Can I forgive my mother?
Can I forgive my childhood?
Can I forget it all?
I don't know.
Not the best, just better.
I ask Thrasea.
Please explain to me
the why of this war.
I ask Agrippinus.
Tell me how Trump
dupes these dumb dumbs
into devoting themselves.
I ask Hashem.
Why did you give me cancer
on top of everything else?
I ask Buddha.
Is life without pain?
I ask Plath.
Is poetry sacred?
I ask Marcus Aurelius.
What matters most?
They all answered the same:
Because there was something else
Because there was something else
that not even the most powerful dictator
can deprive you of without consent:
your dignity, your self-respect, your values.
They continued.
If you can maintain these objectives
even on the worst Wednesday
in your world,
then you can be better.
When Do I Call Myself a Survivor?
Enid invited me to a poetry reading in Fort Lauderdale,
and since I haven't been on a stage since last September
(and need the practice for the NYC Poetry Fest) I agreed,
but that was weeks ago and when the day finally rolled around,
Charlie bailed on me and the sky looked like rain,
so I was hesitant to the whole adventure.
Once there, I was happy to be amongst the cliches
of this particular subculture again:
the slam poet, the girl and her crystals,
the dude who talks to long and then reads a rhyming poem
about his best friend who apparently died yesterday.
I stood in the back, kept my sunglasses on, and soaked it all in,
until my name was called and I had to read my "intentional" poem
about cake (!) prefacing it with the news that I had just finished chemo
two weeks ago and this was my first time on stage since LA.
Pacing on the stage that wasn't a stage at all
but just a corner in a vegan cafe in a nondescript strip of shops,
I read my poem about how I pace while eating cake,
and then another poem about being accosted
by a MAGA fag for wearing a mask.
After the show, Enid and I ate vegan cupcakes
and gossiped in the back about Sam's abortion,
and the other readers, some of whom came by to say hi,
but one called me a survivor and I had to stop her,
because I am not ready to be a "survivor" especially
since I had barely begin building my life back.
Hell, I still have my port in!
No matter how hard it was, I don't want this to define me
(I will never add 'Cancer Survivor' to my IG bio),
but rather I am just a proud poor poet and a dumb doting dad.
That is my alliterative legacy, and turns out
the dude who read rhyming poems
about his dead best friend...well, turns out it was his dog!
I'm still writing 2011 on my checks...
just kidding!
who the hell uses checks these days?!
I don't have the spoons for this,
the passing of time.
I was born in 1982,
looking further afield.
Last Thursday is when
the universe was created.
It all folds into me
and my memories.
of the future,
we are just jokes.
...the checks I used
were whimsical.
bought for the cashier's,
God's laughter.
Pencil Territory
Permanence is not real,
I'm shrinking into Walserian microscripts,
and I need a 45-minute hug
just to get back to a baseline
resembling my normal.
This poem will either make you nostalgic for a time you never lived through or convince you that we’ve accidentally created the most sophisticated torture device in human history and you’re all just walking around pretending it’s normal.
Listen, children of the digital age,
let me tell you about a time
when human connection
wasn’t reduced to algorithmic interactions
and dopamine-triggered thumb spasms.
Your generation thinks you invented anxiety,
but we had to actually work for ours
and somehow we were still happier than you are
with your infinite entertainment and zero attention spans.
You missed the last era when life felt like an adventure by default,
You missed the last era when life felt like an adventure by default,
when your brain wasn’t hijacked by notification addiction
disguised as communication tools.
disguised as communication tools.
You missed a time when mystery was normal,
when waiting was a skill instead of torture,
when uncertainty felt like possibility
instead of a technological failure.
Skaters Over 40
Anyone else
look at set of stairs
and think,
the young me
would have at least
look at set of stairs
and think,
the young me
would have at least
tried to 180 down it?
“Ryan Marcel Without Tears.”
Life’s events, its catastrophes and joys,
are plotted with such absolute randomness
that everyone should at any moment be prepared for death.
I seed the future with the following fine how-do-you-do:
an intuitive, if sublimated, strand of compassion,
which had been stirred by my stature as a father.
And another that is a thorough cynicism
inculcating myself with a belief that I am living through times
of almost limitless avarice and corruption.
The whiplash from kindness to cruelty,
is becoming ingrained in the human condition,
but I hope to personally lean towards patience.
Song: Daddy Got French Toast
There's goo on the roof
and a jew in the bathroom
but I am NED
(no evidence of disease)
definitely not dead.
My colon's intact
my brain’s on toast
my appendix took a nap
but I love it the most!
Chomp chomp sizzle
go the eggs in the skillet
my daughter drew a wizard
out of syrup and jam
on a piece of ham.
Doo-wop bop!
The transgender waitress sings—
Daddy beat cancer
and now he’s eating chicken wings
for breakfast like one lucky bastard.
Pour more maple,
stack it all real high
for I’m the king of this morning
Hash brown casserole
looks me dead in the eye
whispers “you did it”
and I start to cry—
but only a little
'cause my tears taste like pecan pie.
From chemo to gravy,
from fear to fried toast
I’m alive, I’m absurd,
and a jew in the bathroom
but I am NED
(no evidence of disease)
definitely not dead.
My colon's intact
my brain’s on toast
my appendix took a nap
but I love it the most!
Chomp chomp sizzle
go the eggs in the skillet
my daughter drew a wizard
out of syrup and jam
on a piece of ham.
Doo-wop bop!
The transgender waitress sings—
Daddy beat cancer
and now he’s eating chicken wings
for breakfast like one lucky bastard.
Pour more maple,
stack it all real high
for I’m the king of this morning
Hash brown casserole
looks me dead in the eye
whispers “you did it”
and I start to cry—
but only a little
'cause my tears taste like pecan pie.
From chemo to gravy,
from fear to fried toast
I’m alive, I’m absurd,
I am marching onward,
but right now I am here
but right now I am here
with my baby
and I’m buttered the most.
and I’m buttered the most.
Kendra Jean, Call Me, Please!
I still remember
your laugh in the morning light,
like church bells tangled in summer night.
Your name on my lips was a whispered prayer,
now it's smoke in the wind, just hanging there.
Kendra Jean, do you still wear red?
Do you still dream in songs we said?
I’ve kept a note of yours in a jacket sleeve,
read it slow on nights I grieve.
I don’t want much...
just a voice, a sign,
a “hey, how’ve you been?” across the line.
So if you catch this through some breeze...
Kendra Jean, call me, please.
like church bells tangled in summer night.
Your name on my lips was a whispered prayer,
now it's smoke in the wind, just hanging there.
Kendra Jean, do you still wear red?
Do you still dream in songs we said?
I’ve kept a note of yours in a jacket sleeve,
read it slow on nights I grieve.
I don’t want much...
just a voice, a sign,
a “hey, how’ve you been?” across the line.
So if you catch this through some breeze...
Kendra Jean, call me, please.
Cake!
I stand in the kitchen
and take a bite,
leaving the spoon in the box
to go sit on the couch,
scroll, while periodically
looking up at the hockey game.
And then I get up,
walk through the kitchen
to the box on the counter,
take another big bite,
drop the spoon,
and return to the couch.
Moments later,
I get up again,
take a bite,
then sit back down.
During a commercial break,
I get up again,
and steal another bite,
plopping down on the couch
with a mouthful.
I look at my phone,
I check the score of the game,
I get up,
and spoon a bite.
I will do this all weekend,
breakfast, lunch, dinner,
during the NBA Finals
and the Stanley Cup Finals.
Until the cake is gone
or gross,
I will eat it
in little visits,
using the same spoon.
Flesh Wounds in Ithaca
Oh devils,
it’s true...
I can still fall
hard,
fast,
and foolishly
in love
in the blink of a brink.
All it takes
is a voice like Billie Marten’s
(velvet and British vowels),
and I’m done for.
Today it hit me,
right in the lobby
of a play.
She stood alone—
white sundress,
blonde like a boy's daydream,
jacket draped over gorgeous collar bones,
white roses blooming in hand,
waiting.
And then—
she spoke.
To me!
Complimented my Yankees hat.
Well hell,
now it’s official—
I still got it
(Bad).
Ring My Bell
Chemo is done.
The bell was rung.
Tears were shed.
Now I want someone.
To ring my bell.
I haven’t had sex.
In forever.
Instead, I am celebrating.
By reading a book.
And eating empanadas outside.
Not a bad conciliation prize.
But have you tried sex?
The bell was rung.
Tears were shed.
Now I want someone.
To ring my bell.
I haven’t had sex.
In forever.
Instead, I am celebrating.
By reading a book.
And eating empanadas outside.
Not a bad conciliation prize.
But have you tried sex?
If you’re a poet, where’s your poetry?
If I were a girl in a book,
life would be easy, annotated,
dog-eared in all the right places.
But here I am—
watching you gesture like you’ve read Neruda
in the original Spanish,
sweating metaphors into the salsa scene,
spinning syntax in your UX decks
like it’s verse.
And that MFA?
Collecting dust in a Dropbox folder
titled “FinalFinal_THISone.docx.”
You quote Emerson like scripture,
but even Ralph sees through you—
says you’re full of shit.
So tell me,
where are the stanzas that ache?
The lines that sting and bloom?
The ink you swore you’d spill
when the world finally let you speak?
If you’re a poet—
prove it.
New Muse
My old muse never showed
when I was kicking cancer,
so now I am in the market
for a new one.
Maybe Pernille.
Maybe Lauren.
Maybe Jeff Buckley's Grace album.
I’ve been a basement
of myself.
a low tide with no full moon to blame.
The grass outside is gold like an apology
the sky is wide enough to forget your name
and still—I look for my own shadow
and can’t find where I’m standing.
There are people in ironed shirts
telling me what my hands can’t touch
telling me how not to love you anymore.
I still sing.
you still dance, even in absence—
you always were louder than distance.
I tell the night:
new blues.
like a first heartbreak in borrowed denim.
battle cry.
like the sound you made leaving
quiet, but
in all caps.
I don’t sleep.
not since you folded your smile
and put it in someone else’s drawer.
But this ache,
this beat-up beautiful ache
is the only thing
that hasn’t lied to me yet.
I don’t want to be low again.
I want to climb out of this
without scraping your name off the walls.
No one tells me who I am
or who I can’t mourn.
not even you.
Not anymore.
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