What the actual fuck?

Fuck the 2-party system.

Fuck the Electoral College.

Fuck the Machiavellian divide-and-conquer mission.

Fuck all the people who don't see that.

Fuck conservatives.

Fuck liberals. 

Fuck this fucking place. 

It's hard to focus on work today.

It's impossible to pretend to care.

The future feels fated.

I feel fucked. 

I swear nothing's fair.

And no one cares.

I'm giving up.

Fuck unchecked capitalism. 

Fuck the illusion of choice. 

Fuck this black-and-white bullshit.

Fuck the you-vs-me madness.

Fuck the lack of morals.

Fuck your Bible-thumping Uncle David and Aunt Linda.

Fuck the fact that this doesn't change shit.

I am a cartoon criminal!

The world is taking crazy pills!

Next week, at least, I will be asleep.

Lighter, because of the lack of colon.

Lighter, because of perspective. 

Heavier, because of circumstance.

A middleweight in the fight of my life. 

Fuck me.

Fuck you.

Fuck empires and their changing mascots.

Fuck politics.

Fuck poetry.

Fuck cancer.

Fuck this feeling of doom. 

Bothering my buddies Illiterate Light on the best episode of Bothering the Band ever? Listen and let me know!

sadness and grief and joy and beauty and ugliness

Somehow it can all coexist.

every worry is a bullet

Wisdom, like a cell, when the blind lead the way,
You’re the passenger in a runaway.
The road twists left, your hands feel bound,
A restless wheel pulling, never sound.

Death whispers, “Enough, one day you’ll know,”
Your faith’s a secret kept hidden below,
A pull like desire, a long slow burn,
As life’s heavy gears grind and turn.

Stuck in a box, in a race with no lane,
Trapped in the chase, both feet in the chains.
“Anger’s default,” they write in the sand—
Love’s learned slow, with a steady hand.

Life’s echoes, the humdrum we repeat,
You cast and wait, watching time deplete.
If there’s meaning, put your hands up high,
But can you hold it, or will it pass by?

Eyes that lock in thought-filled cages,
Love written down in yellowed pages,
The mirror cracks, the self takes flight,
In the silence that slips from night to light.

This isn’t a life; it’s a crafted line,
This isn’t revolt, it’s the lull of copywriting.
Stoic to tears, breaking free then bound,
Wrestling meaning from the empty sound.

The concrete’s heat, the grass so cool,
The future fades like a fading jewel.
Yet somewhere in these loops and wires,
Is a spark that never tires.

The new Bon Iver album

gimme ellipses

behind things behind things behind things,

a speyside comma,

and awards season...

oh, how my life has changed

since I bought For Emma, Forever Ago on CD

at the now-gone Virgin Megastore in Union Square

upon the recommendation of the register person,

who saw I was buying a Jose Gonzelez album

and knew I would like more sad bastard folk music. 

...the boy on that bench

is still in me somewhere,

with skinny love 

and his whole life in front of him.

synonyms for save

how many synonyms for save
can you think of today
if you knew you were going to die
tonight?

Hope as a Daily Practice, Joy as Rebellion

“[Joy is] a refusal of the alienation they tell us that we ought to believe is true.” 

- Ross Gay, Poet 

Making art (and poetry and music, etc)

is in itself an act of hope. 

It’s a belief in your life as it is, 

as it will be, 

and in the future. 

Hope is such a tricky word these days,

because of how it’s been co-opted. 

Maybe joy has been a little co-opted too, 

but I think particularly [with] hope—

it’s the thing that gets us out of bed 

and makes us keep practicing the sonata 

or whatever the thing is that you’re trying to do that day. 

In that sense, it’s a daily practice. 

 Writing is a hopeful act,

especially in the face of abject hopelessness.

I know a lot of things...

but I don't know

why. 

big evenings

when all this is done,

I am going to Tokyo

to wander the alleys

and just eat.

I'll put it all 

on a credit card

with good rewards

which I will then use

to go to paris

to visit Pernille

eat bread and drink coffee,

in bookstores. 

maybe I'll go back 

to Montreal,

revisit the past

to accept the future.

Got to bother one of my recent favorite bands, Peach Pit!

we are not quite emperors

Listening to Daniel Johnston at 5am.

Black coffee in a red Coyote Blood mug.

Reading Danielle Altman's piece "Fake Blake" while taking a shit. 

Laughing aloud at the Geddy Lee posters part.

I used to live in stories like these.

Hipster youth choose-your-own-adventures. 

The poems had their own life.

Never about horses, flowers, beauty and, like, nature. 

Always about working; the labor of just living every day.

Being young was fun. Being young was dumb. So is love.

Not anymore. I want wisdom. 

But Taylor Swift songs and suburban sunrises aren't so bad.

My brutal companion is writing.

Heavy with grief as of late.

And the curse of ambition as of always.

But the magical, quiet morning hours still king me. 

#cheesesoftheweak

End of Oct

Happy Birthday, Sylvia.
Happy Birthday, Kendra Jean.


I’ll quite often on these birthdays—
[or] on a magnificent Monday
while grocery shopping,
[or] on a random Friday while writing—
pick a bunch of roses up and tell myself
I’m buying them for them.


Their initial beauty is inspiring,
as red as rage,
blooming in shadows of my basket,
cut brief by grief.


As their petals fall,
I recall the poetic minutes
that make the moments
that make the memories.

Poem

You don't even need to call,

just write something

that I can see,

and let me know

you give a shit,

that's it.

It’s my birthday and SURPRISE I have a new book out #NOBUTS it’s all about not making bullshit excuses so don’t be a BUTHEAD!

Figure Skating Around the Elephant in the Room

You should update your website.

It's still the ballerina motif. 

You are bigger than that. 

You should use the photo. 

on your website.

As your LinkedIn avatar. 

You should send me.

Your poems. 

Forever. Please.

You've thought about it.

And I promise. 

Forever won't be long. 

Mixtapes are Forever

If you’ve ever made a mixtape
(or a playlist),
you know the process—
carefully choosing each track,
making sure the order flows just right,
thinking about how every song
will make the person feel when they hear it.


It’s a labor of love, and let’s be real, it’s personal.


You’re sharing the music that speaks to you,
hoping it’ll connect with someone else just as deeply.



Every time I hear Switzerland,
I think of you,
and I hope every time you hear it,
you think of me.

The muse is headed to a persistence of cormorants

Reading poetry outdoors 

at the open shoreline,

I haven't thought about the past

in a raven's age.

it seems the harder I swim

the faster the sea eats me

and my seamless dreams.

It's all fear and future now,

even the birds know the business

of battling the winds

to beat the storm.

4 Lines

I'd love to know

how you've changed

in the four years

since we last fucked. 

tardigrade

I am crushed
under the weight
of my own nostalgia.

tell me everything is alright…

navigating the past,

fighting the future,
is this what you call evolving?

tell me everything is alright…

indecisiveness

and the freedom within it,

I am an excited creature of terrified habit.

The Algorithm of Autumn

I am a starving coyote. 

I find the places that provide me with creative sustenance. 

Then, I return to them, again and again.

The corner booth.

Of a basement bar in East Nashville.

Whose name I will not divulge here. 

The Recency bias of Chicago. 

When passion gets the best of you.

And I have unprotected sex with an old friend.

Reading alone in Brooklyn.

Reminded that the art we create.

Creates us. 

These moments of eavesdropping.

on our own existence.

is what and where we seek to revisit. 

My God is long-winded.

And loves a good callback. 

Especially if it involves a joke. 

Always Autumn. 

This is where we collide.

This is where we conclude. 

September seems so long ago

flirting with thin-lipped chicks from Long Island.

I wonder if pulling the cancer card would work.

there are too many flaky Laurens lurking about. 

they all want to date a poet until it actually happens. 

trying to get some work done before my birthday.

yawning at the Yankees game yet stressing.

praying for the patience to be present.

yesterday. tonight. tomorrow. eternal recurrence.

I am a collection of women.

exhausted with myself.

you were the gem of my hem.

all the good songs. 

Aside from the cancer, 8th grade Ryan is living his best life.

Getting paid to write.

Traveling a bunch.

Going concerts for free.

Being a dad is especially rad. 

Plus, I get to eat cookies

and Taco Bell

whenever the hell

I want!

If 13-year-old me

could see me now,

I think he'd be confused

but pretty stoked.

Psalm

“Life is moronic entropy controlled by no one 

      and that’s pretty much the full story.”

              - Ellory Smith

inducted from the streets,

I am just an animal;

even I don't know

what I need.

and then I slid

across your wrists,

and nobody seemed

to notice.

out of breath

from the thought of death

running around my brain

all damn day. 

Guys and ghouls, we have a spooktacular Halloween episode with our friend, the TV Guidance Counselor himself, Ken Reid!