Cherry Street

in a window of perfect weather,
we danced up Cherry Street,
past the publishing houses
and the panhandling poets,
round where the park opens up,
inviting us in to twirl away our troubles
and feed albino squirrels all afternoon.

she clung to me
like a damsel in distress

in a Buster Keaton film,
her sundress flowing
under flowering trees,
she feels the breeze,

and says to me
"it's so beautiful to hear Al Green sing about love 

in your head and feel that that articulates how I feel."

I heard the music, too

in the welcomed respite from life,

for Seattle in the spring is miraculous,

despite the hobo camps 

and work waiting on the horizon,

I am here for this latin love affair

that lasted a weekend and forever. 

sometimes ya rhyme and sometimes ya get hit in the head by a hammer

the past clings to our coats

while the future digs moats

right in our path

surrounded by new math

yet we keep going

never showing our work...

Werd Up!

In cinematic scenes of poetic power, 

shared cigarettes stand like pictures 

next to the sunlight on a morning

The sharp edges of tombstones

stand next to a Duane Reede;

Nina Simone's last concert stands next to the songs 

from the cemetery wall.

Every memory speaks of the possibility of a different future: 

Thus, with each moment, with each new image, something new emerges, 

searching for a place of empathy and solidarity at the precipice of life.

Tumblers & Tumors

The grass is green, the sky is blue,
and the Stanley tumblers are pastel
just in time for spring's fine gone

consumeristic doldrums.

How bottles flew off shelves in town.
Hydration crowned the new elite,
As TikToks hummed dumb songs
and Target targets you with this crap.

What good is water
when cells divide?
Still, Owala rises—
A trend begins, a trend is through.

But cancer waits
beyond the bullshit,
A thousand tumblers can’t contain
The quiet ache, the shapeless pain.

Yet still we scroll, and still we buy,
And maybe hope is in the try—
we will never win this war,
but maybe we can wait it out.

I want to die on a hill of tiny courages.

I put my grief

into the spine

and line breaks

of poems.

I listen to strength

in songs

when everything

goes dark. 

Might fuck around

and forgive myself

for not knowing better

and doing my best

with the tools I had

at the time. 

Here I am...

Blasting my silly little music 

and creating my silly little daydreams,

so I don't lose my silly little mind.

I want to die on a hill

of tiny courages. 

Poem

We are so careless 

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 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.

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.

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.

Always honored to have my dumb poems published in this esteemed magazine!

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

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.

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.

Opening Day should be a national holiday!

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...

saw Donnie Darko on the big screen!

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.