COYOTE BLOOD

nolens volens

Oh I was hoping you'd call

after your shift

just to shoot the shit.

I'm growing my hair out,

doing the opposite

of most chemo peeps,

and I think you'd like it.

You asked for a poem,

and I texted:

we are tied to each other by time.

Did this suffice,

and get you through the night?

I wrote you two poems,

and waited up

but remembered that

I hate being right.

I hope all my LA peeps are safe & sound.

cherry coke on the stereo

hope our dancing doesn't knock it down,
the syrupy suds swirling in the speakers,
ruining it for the long haul, but we don't care,
because this moment—and the music—is all that matters.

We are doomed creatures
whose bread is a Target run
and whose circus is social media.

As January freezes fragile
in the first few days
I am easily allowed
to change my mind
because I am dying
but aren’t we all?

The calendar is still innocent
the future is still smooth
like the sounds wasps make
before they fight the bees for the flowers.

I used to not chronicle the hours
with strong drink
and vast ignorance,
but now my commitment
to the days fades less easily.

And though I may be doomed, too,
I begin the page blank
and end it covered in blood.

Poem

Me: Show people my books.

Algorithm: Never.

Me: Show people my podcast.

Algorithm: Not a chance.

Me: Show people my favorite cheese.

Algorithm: That's more like it.

All Affluent White Women Walk the Same

From the short-stepped gait

to the long-swung arms,

it's autopilot in Lululemon,

holding a Stanley and a grudge.

Jappy, waspy stepford wives

strutting in RBF resentment,

schlepping their baggage

all the way from high school.

Despite their crystals

and their essential oils,

perspective is a magic

we all take for granted.

Glued to their phone,

or reading Colleen Hoover on their kindle

playing chicken on the sidewalk

with dogs and/or kids.

With particular reference

to their heelstrike transients,

the trot cadence is that of a mustelids

in Uggs or Crocs.

Angel Numbers

For Lauren Grace

Not just peanuts

but submarine secrets

Jimmy Carter got gone

and school starts tomorrow

My daddy wasn't no more

since day one.

I can't play an instrument

but I sure can spiritualize a stereo

Correspond with me

as I will gamble on hope every time.

Crown Shyness

My hope is that

– if the world doesn’t end –

some nerd In the future

finds a few of my books

and sets on a course

to find them all.

In the process,

he makes a podcast

and a documentary about my work

that gets turned into

a feature film

starring the era’s hottest stars

and winning future awards.

The tsunami effect

is that the whole world

falls in love with poetry again

and heals itself

– politically, socioeconomically, etc –

for the rest of time, NBD.

We’re all on our way out, act accordingly

How’s that New Mexican mornin’ treat in’ ya?

Full of turquoise and coyotes, I hope.

I’m sorry I didn’t text you back

Mentally I was in Brooklyn.

Physically I was in the longest shower

just to feel warmth.

You were just a girl from deep Bushwick,

taking the L to city, while reading Jung.

I was just a boy, full of coyote blood,

reading Rimbaud as I got on the rumbler.

Back around '08,

we were tiptoeing down Bedford Ave.

Brooklyn was the coolest place in the world,

and we were just two kids acting up.

And now we are lost in adulthood,

checking in as friends.

Our legs ran in opposite directions,

but hearts still hear the music.

How’s that New Mexican morning treating ya?

Cactus selfies and Christmas salsa, I hope.

Intarsia

I go out into the world for choices.

I stay inside my world for the dependability.

In a parallel universe,

I could have been a scientist,

had I had the write teacher.

I struggled in science classes—

I never even took high school chemistry.

I remember driving my 8th grade science teacher

—Mr. Hilliard—crazy by asking why there were a certain number of electrons in an atom,

or why they orbited in a certain way.

He was like, “Because that’s the way it is!”

And I was like, “But what’s the story?!”

My super talented pal James Olstein illustrated this supportive artwork!

Having an inside joke with yourself

It's okay to not be OK!

Like so many others,
I’ve been steeped in grief, sadness, and fear—
from the presidential election to my cancer diagnosis,
I’m trying to encourage myself to stay in the discomfort,
but my instinct is to laugh at it all.

Hear me out!

Sometimes, you have a funny thought that no one will get except you.
That might sound lonely, but what if you see it as the opposite?
Lately, I’ve been trying to be my own friend, to develop a rapport with myself,
and I think that cultivating inside jokes makes one’s brain a more hospitable place to be.

You're welcome!

a wolverine ripped my dick off!

My sad friend Foyil

is living under pontiac skies,

working at a 7-11

within walking distance,

refusing to write poetry

over some backwards ass

notion of oppressive opportune timing

and depressive self doubt,

with a splash of sober situational

rewind-and-play fear.

I tried to make him laugh,

while he talked in generalities

about life and failed art,

focusing more on response

than the reason

to make art in the first, ethereal place:

to evolve your own soul.

Like me,

he inherited his 'why me?' attitude

toward the world

from his parents,

who barely scraped by

and had enough dimes

to give him a guitar,

but certainly didn't have the tools

to make a confident, intelligent man.

Too scared shitless to try,

he blames Orlando, Florida,

and scores of wayward women,

wondering why he attracts crazy,

and the whole time he is telling me this

I am thinking 'brother, I've been there."

Mostly, you have to be open

to anything, to change,

for once you are open

you will surely laugh

at a phone conversation

between two friends

who haven't talked in a long while

opening with the line

"a wolverine ripped my dick off!"

aren't ya curious?

are you back in New York now?

are you reading my blog?

how are Dale and Pat?

did you go ice skating?

I hope you are writing every day

and that it has some place to go.

I don't wanna change your life,

but, there's a warm wind blowing the stars around

and I'd really love to talk to you tonight.

aren't ya curious?

about the cancer.

I won't ask for promises

so you don't have to lie,

and we've both played that game before:

Let's laugh and say I love you,

and then say goodbye.

It was a quick December, remember?

The year is 2008,

you're in a shady hipster bar,

drinking $3 PBRs,

wearing your cutest business casual

with Chuck Taylors,

and you're hearing Electric Feel by MGMT

for the very first time.

Life is good

and love is real.

Those simple moments...

Like sitting in your car,

while it's raining

and you just fell in love

with the most beautiful girl in town,

and the most perfect song

comes on.

Life is good

and has meaning.

Or...

Out of all the restaurants

in New York City,

you had to walk into The House,

around the time I was on the fence,

and writing poems

using titles of Bon Iver songs.

Life is good

and sometimes surprising.

And...

All my best poetry batches

were assembled like mixtapes

made in my twenties

for people I loved

across multiple lives,

from the subway

to stairwells.

Impatient with Shooting Stars

I believe in the sky's possibilities,

but I also believe in asking why,

yet I will gladly take a couple

more unexplained miracles.

I went from an epiphany on the F train

to being a dying dad in the blink of an eye,

poetic walks through record stores

to hospital beds.

In the grand scheme of things,

I feel so small,

but I have been preparing for this

my whole big existence.

I have six inches less of my colon,

but I have a lot more laughing to do...

at love, at addiction, at the universe,

now at death.

I hope that I am larger than life to someone,

but I don't know how to capture

the big bad my world,

only my little place in it.

Somewhere between Gandhi

and Ed Gein

is little ol' me,

and I am happy.

Dry Erase Board Resolutions

Be her hero.

Be Richard Hell for a spell.

Sneeze louder.

Be a boy with an orchid.

You can’t heal

without going through hell,

trust me.

Fight off my demons,

and write poetry

in your sleep.

Be here.

Get your pepperoni dogs outta my face!

Three bananas

and a Lululemon giftcard;

give her the egg

and tell her I am glad

that she is not dead.

Watching Die Hard

and doom scrolling,

the devil at my elbow,

fears alayed.

In the annular yahoo forest,

storm dancing with high hopes,

loud music and still a little wonder,

joy to the world,

and the raccoon in the alley.

Barbary Lion

Jerking off as the sun comes up,

thinking about how I prefer

stairwell blowjobs to lingerie sex any day.

It's been four years

and it was four years last time,

with any luck

that's a lotta changin'.

Florida now,

New York then,

I'll feel better

I don't know when.

Another stanza

just to say

I miss ya.

Song #46

I see scarecrows
in my rearviewmirror.
I see the love of my life
in my dreams
but I can't hear her.

dirt naps don't solve destiny,
they just delay my demise.
peanut butter cup battles and the blues,
dominate my eyes
whenever I try to listen.

how can I find a sword
to open up a fence?
how can I forget forever
in my sense of the word
never?

I see orioles at dusk,
as I drive past the exit where I grew up.
I see the love of my life
in the reflection
of a coffee cup.