with the one thing
we can’t get back:
time.
The Different Types of Forgiveness
Sometimes ya gotta forgive the bad guy
And sometimes ya gotta forgive yourself
While other times ya gotta forgive the future...
For not turning out the way you planned,
For the dreams that shifted, the paths rerouted.
Sometimes ya gotta forgive the past,
For the weight it left on your shoulders,
For the words you can’t take back.
And sometimes ya gotta forgive yourself
While other times ya gotta forgive the future...
For not turning out the way you planned,
For the dreams that shifted, the paths rerouted.
Sometimes ya gotta forgive the past,
For the weight it left on your shoulders,
For the words you can’t take back.
And sometimes, ya gotta forgive the present,
For not being enough, or being too much,
For moving too fast, or not fast enough.
Forgiveness isn’t always a gift you give—
Sometimes, it’s the only way to let go.
For not being enough, or being too much,
For moving too fast, or not fast enough.
Forgiveness isn’t always a gift you give—
Sometimes, it’s the only way to let go.
The Description of Wonder
I wonder how O’Hara
Would describe
My vibe.
I wonder how Hemingway
Would describe me
Up close.
I wonder how Sylvia
Would describe
From afar.
I wonder how Breece pancake
Would describe
How I talk.
I wonder how Bukowski
Would describe
How I walk.
I wonder how Carson McCullers
Would describe
My environment.
I wonder how Hunter
Would describe
My cancer.
I wonder how Cheever
Would describe
My dreams.
I wonder how Vonnegut
Would describe
My changes.
I wonder how Phillis Wheatley
Would describe
My death.
Would describe
My vibe.
I wonder how Hemingway
Would describe me
Up close.
I wonder how Sylvia
Would describe
From afar.
I wonder how Breece pancake
Would describe
How I talk.
I wonder how Bukowski
Would describe
How I walk.
I wonder how Carson McCullers
Would describe
My environment.
I wonder how Hunter
Would describe
My cancer.
I wonder how Cheever
Would describe
My dreams.
I wonder how Vonnegut
Would describe
My changes.
I wonder how Phillis Wheatley
Would describe
My death.
Sloptimistic
I am just a sloppy optimist.
I have never cared less
than I do right now.
I have never cared more
than I do at this moment.
Let's dance and do nothing.
Let's Cultivate Naïveté
I haven't dreams
since I had surgery
in November 13th
which was also
my dead mom's bday.
Last night I really felt
that I need to get back
to dreaming;
reality is too much
sometimes most times.
Everyone's at AWP
in Los Angeles,
and I am stuck
in South Florida,
going through chemo.
Pernille is pretty
and poetic,
but in Paris;
parcels and people
are expensive to send.
Politics won't save us,
and billionaires certainly
won't save us,
it is up to us
to save us.
It's no secret
that I love being stupid,
and that I am fortunate
to now be allergic
to negativity.
Ignore death
by falling in love
with traffic
on the way to Target,
buy something meaningless.
It's fun to find
beauty and playfulness
in every little thing;
it's punk rock
to point it out.
Antigone
nearly antithetical,
my current self
and my former self
in conversation,
from both perspectives,
at once openhearted
despite myself,
then sardonic to a fault,
we’re all like individual
swinging pendulums,
refusing time
from our ankles,
but I am not going anywhere.
To Be “Successful” as a Copywriter
I must forget myself—
step outside my own frame,
see through borrowed eyes,
wear a stranger’s skin.
It’s a temporary shift,
but for a time, it’s real.
Like running, like meditating,
like speaking hard truths aloud,
it gets easier with practice.
Living has made it easier too.
With each year, I see more,
do more, feel more—
love in ways I once
couldn’t comprehend.
Experience carves empathy,
awareness expands perspective.
I learn to listen, to step aside,
to hold another’s wants as my own.
This, I think, is what Sugarman meant:
A copywriter is not just a writer,
but a collector of moments,
a seeker of truths,
a participant in life.
The Screen Faded to Black and the Movie Ended
I pressed EXIT.
The home screen blinked awake,
offering a million other stories,
each one waiting, each one ready.
“Oh, look,” Kelsey pointed.
I followed her hand.
"Where the Wild Things Are."
She smiled. “I was just reading that with Beau.”
“Wanna watch it with him tomorrow?”
“Let’s watch the trailer first.”
The boy, Max. The Wild Things.
Their world, vast and untamed.
The music swelled, the cuts quickened,
and between the chaos—
a quiet truth in white letters.
"Inside all of us..."
The trailer faded.
I hit rewind.
“Again?” Kelsey asked.
“Just that one part.”
Because inside all of us,
there is something untamed.
Something that reaches,
something that understands.
And in that moment,
watching words flicker across the screen,
I knew—
this was the work.
Not just mine, but everyone’s.
To see, to feel, to understand.
The Bulletin: A raw energy of collisions, crossovers, and reinventions
Having such a butt-ugly spring
that images of flowers breaking through the crust
of the last winter's salt and dirt
just doesn't feel right.
But this weekend?
It's just pulsing with a desire
to create something new
out of the familiar.
From the stage of the scorpio moon
and its story of fractured identity,
to jazz jams and sugar shack reimaginings,
to the quiet opening of my mouth in Little Italy.
There's a lot to dive into
There's a lot to dive into
when I am feeling well
that I am overwhelmed
by life's little possibilities.
Strange behaviors
and the instincts
that drive us
are pushing me to the edge.
If you had let me...
I would have followed you forever if you let me.
I would have battled with you for our entire lives had you let me.
I would have done anything for you had you let me.
I would have been your shoulder to lean on forever if you had let me.
I would have journeyed with you to the end of time.
I would have kayaked any river or any lake.
Hiked any mountain.
Snorkeled every ocean.
Sang every song.
Talked to every stranger.
Until the rivers ran dry.
And the birds stopped singing.
Until the rocks turned to dust.
I would be by your side.
I would have battled with you through anything.
I would have done anything for you.
I would have followed you to the end of the world.
I would have battled with you for our entire lives had you let me.
I would have done anything for you had you let me.
I would have been your shoulder to lean on forever if you had let me.
I would have journeyed with you to the end of time.
I would have kayaked any river or any lake.
Hiked any mountain.
Snorkeled every ocean.
Sang every song.
Talked to every stranger.
Until the rivers ran dry.
And the birds stopped singing.
Until the rocks turned to dust.
And the suns last light faded.
I would be by your side.
I would have battled with you through anything.
I would have done anything for you.
I would have followed you to the end of the world.
And back.
Drawing even if you’re not very good at it
When in doubt, step outside.
Let the sky stretch your mind,
let the wind shuffle your thoughts.
Change the scenery as often as you can.
Walk until the streets start to rhyme,
until the billboards blur into poetry.
When moving makes you tired, stay.
Stay until boredom bends into wonder,
until stillness cracks open something new.
A deli sandwich is a sacred ritual.
Paper crinkling, mustard biting,
the perfect ratio of bread to becoming.
And a new pair of $1 thrift store sunglasses?
That’s not just eyewear—
it’s a whole new version of you,
ready to outrun any crisis,
at least until sunset.
someone in boston keeps reading my blog
I assume Brooklyn is Kendra Jean.
LA is a few funny folks.
Miami and Manhattan are me.
Deerfield Beach is Lauren Grace.
But who the hell is reading this shit in Boston?!
jackhammer attack
I know some punk rock poems
about grief and loss,
but I also know some hip-hop songs
about faith in the future,
and my brain is moshing between them,
thrashing in the pit of
do more, be more, fix everything now.
The rent is due,
the world is burning,
the doctor’s appointment got rescheduled,
I forgot to call my sister back,
the economy is collapsing (again?),
I should probably stretch more,
drink more water,
delete social media,
start journaling,
be better, be better, be better.
There’s a jackhammer attack to all of this,
a rapid-fire pounding of
wake up, check in, freak out, repeat.
Am I doing enough?
Am I making the right moves?
Is this what it means to live,
or just to survive?
And yet, in the middle of the noise,
life keeps slicing through—
the sun hitting just right on my morning coffee,
a stupid joke that makes me snort-laugh,
a song I forgot I loved coming through cheap speakers,
someone texting just because.
Maybe the world is a runaway train,
maybe I’m just hanging on,
but in the chaos,
there are these brief, cutting moments,
reminders that I am here,
I am alive,
and for now—
that’s enough.
Infinte Goose
the swan eats its tail feathers.
with each passing moment
there is less of me
and more of the horizon.
I keep getting uglier and deader.
You working tonight?
Wanna go throw hot dogs
into the Atlantic Ocean?
I love the ballerina song you sent me.
I saw Donnie Darko
on the big screen,
and some bozo sat right next to me.
Maybe he was a time traveler.
I can only offer
friendship of fucking
these days.
I am quicker than karma.
If it were me,
I'd pick the friendship,
because the fucking is mediocre at best.
But at least I don't start sentences with 'but'.
I belong to sons
of Elvis
and daughters of Nixon.
We are all loomsters!
I just want to be more
for her,
and keep living.
Round and round and round we go...
Severed Attention
Thanks for the Solidarity, Dirks!
I am starting to think
it is not the best use of my time—
splitting myself between
this world and Lumon’s halls,
where the lights hum sterile
and everyone whispers of purpose.
I am starting to feel
like I am being forced to watch,
guided by unseen hands,
my friends and social media acting as my Kier,
nudging me ever forward,
as if they wrote my protocol in some break room decree.
I am finding myself
putting off watching,
stalling outside the door of the next episode,
until a friend asks if I am caught up—
until I must pretend,
like an innie at a conference room table,
that I belong here,
that I understand what is unfolding,
even as my mind drifts elsewhere,
wondering if I will ever escape.
A Hammer Coming to Terms with a Nailgun
I appreciate the irony of desire,
which so often commingles bliss and doom.
In the four years since Kendra Jean,
I got tired of a few things:
the color blue, singing about sadness,
and shying away from the shadows.
which so often commingles bliss and doom.
In the four years since Kendra Jean,
I got tired of a few things:
the color blue, singing about sadness,
and shying away from the shadows.
with a resting heart rate between
Switzerland and Balto,
an introspective reflection on the emotional weight of youth
and relationships borne of bonding
and relationships borne of bonding
over a shared experience.
the process of pushing through
a melancholic period
until you break through to the other side
is like raising a glass to a toast
is like raising a glass to a toast
that will give energy to all the salsa dancers in the room.
Mary Oliver was right,
darkness is sometimes also a gift.
The Transmigration of Souls
I think about my own existence too much.
Does everyone think about death daily?
Or is it just the people with something to live for?
I may be the background
of so many other people's movies;
an assistance coach
in the game of life.
I am the skull in Hamlet,
demanding the impossible...
to live forever.
Of all the things that go unsaid...
So many Saturdays come and go,
only to be killed by Sunday,
buried by Monday,
grieved by Tuesday.
The horror of it all;
days are long,
but life is short.
More days,
that's all anyone wants,
really.
Meet me where
the water ruins the sky,
and let's talk
about all the reasons why.
Nina from Accounting
She's a spicy pisces bisexual
but only dates men.
She does a keybump
while I take a three minute piss.
None for me, I say,
I have cancer.
We talk while taking turns
on the toilet.
And then we dance back to the bar,
where Nina orders a moscow mule,
and I order a club soda.
LCD Soundsystem comes on.
Nina kisses me casually,
as she has done for years,
a ham-fisted friend with benefits,
and who am I to argue?
We've been doing this
for four years,
since she had blonde hair
and dark eyebrows.
But she is a collector of clowns,
and I am ugly but funny.
"You're a poet first," she said
"and a human second."
After, at the bodega,
she steals chocolate milk
and we do Etheline and Royal's walk
through Prospect Park.
On her South Slope stoop,
she kisses me again and says
"Write me a poem
like Frank O'Hara tonight."
"Already did," I say
and then she invites me up
to see how she can balance
a coffee mug on her hip.
Eremitism
walking through the lobby
of Fountainebleau Miami,
wearing a mask,
and an Outkast shirt,
clutching a SmartWater
and a book of poems.
What a beautiful day—
60º and sunny—
to feel utterly repulsed by existence
like a little Kafka creation.
The future is the only thing
forgiving me,
sadly at sea,
having seamless dreams
of a different place.
Next time I am in LA,
I will buy an Eve Babitz book.
I am just a jeans
and black t-shirt
(with a Yankees or Magic hat)
type of boy;
I don't belong here.
I can't wait to never
drink Gatorade again,
and never
leave Brooklyn.
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