- Home Alone
- Home Alone 2: Lost in New York
- Back to the Future
- Back to the Future II
- Back to the Future III
- The Karate Kid
- The Karate Kid Part II
- Tommy Boy
- Billy Madison
Movies I watched on cable while in the hospital...
I won't forget you...
Sent out the Bat Signal
for so many years,
so it's probably time
to take it down.
Maybe I will run into you
on the street, in a restaurant,
or a bookstore one day
when we are both old and gray.
I always go to the poetry section first,
and work my way from there,
but there will be no more Sylvia Plath
in the mail.
Every day there are young people
flooding Manhattan and Brooklyn,
looking for inspiration,
finding our forever.
My daughter will be one of them,
depending on where her dreams take her,
and she will find mistakes and loves,
like us.
Now that I am
on the sweaty side of 40,
about to add cancer to my tale,
it is again time to tackle newness and air.
No more blog content here,
because I have to let the memory loose
to float away
on the cloudy horizon.
I am not
going anywhere
but I am
moving on.
Sitting in the doctor’s office and these are my thoughts
Isn’t it weird that Michael Jordan shits?
We are obsessed with the 90s,
Not because of nostalgia
But because we can’t imagine
A future based on this present.
I won’t begin to assume
How this is going to change me.
Anything I buy
Is with the intention
Of having it forever.
My forever may be shorter.
I don’t think you’re an adult
Until you’ve had a child or tragedy.
I have had both,
But I still feel like a kid.
I am a C- dreamer
But an A+ student
At rummaging through
Waiting rooms.
Look, a stethoscope!
Isn’t it weird that dinosaurs had sex?
The Dichotomy of Control (aka Stoicism as medicine)
There are things I hold, and things I must release,
The storm within, the calm that brings me peace.
One hand on the wheel, the other in the air,
What I control is fleeting, what I don’t is rare.
I shape my thoughts, but not the winds that blow,
I choose my path, though where it leads, I don’t know.
The heart beats fast, but time it marches slow,
In letting go, I find what makes me whole.
The paradox of power, the freedom in restraint,
What I command is fragile, but love is faint.
I chase the sun, but never catch its glow,
The world beyond me turns, yet still, I grow.
"Hell, love costs"
We both silently agreed.
Her cig smoke rising.
My heart lowering.
The band encoring.
At the merch booth.
We both buy shirts.
In the parking lot.
We hold sweaty hands.
We are both out of wishes.
Have been for a minute.
But maybe we have some poetic hope.
Remaining at the bottom of purses and pockets.
Driving off in the night.
Stopping at Taco Bell.
Surprise!
She is there, too.
We laugh our pleading asses off.
And go home together.
Pretending for a night.
That love only cost time.
Sitting on the Fence in the Weather
my fear manifests in my mouth,
anxiously gnawing on my lips,
and fidgeting with my fingers.
when I hear the word bitch
I think of a man.
how do you fold a cardigan?
give me cake
and I will give you heartache.
I am the source of my reactions,
and my reactions
are the force of me.
anxiously gnawing on my lips,
and fidgeting with my fingers.
when I hear the word bitch
I think of a man.
how do you fold a cardigan?
give me cake
and I will give you heartache.
I am the source of my reactions,
and my reactions
are the force of me.
Spancel
Wisdom's a cage, but fools are in charge,
Windows of a getaway, a restless mirage.
The quiet pull, a wheel that won’t steer right,
“Enough someday,” says death in the night.
Faith’s a secret, like undressing slow,
And the world tugs left, just so you know.
Life’s the track, and time’s the smoke,
You bleed if you must, or take the streets.
Fall to your knees or stand in defeat,
But you’re stuck in place—no easy retreat.
Racing to the car, dodging traffic’s snare,
A casket in gridlock, anger’s default there.
Write it down, love needs practice too,
The writer meets his muse, then sees it through.
Poets are so pretentious.
We live in future words.
We die in past poems.
I hope for forever.
But settle for stanzas.
We die in past poems.
I hope for forever.
But settle for stanzas.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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