The Finality

I want more...

Getting a press pass to see a band I like 

finds me walking around Fort Lauderdale 

on the first night of Hanukkah,

thinking about the finality of it all.

Writing notes in the corner,

befriending the bartender

via club soda and conversation,

has me thinking about the finality of it all.

To be changed yet still haunted...

I bought myself some more time,

but lost my love of dancing.

I used to do cocaine,

now I go to concerts,

but I am never more aware of death

than when I am trying to dance

at a concert.

I hope I remember to forget the finality of it all...

You can sprinkle some of my ashes down here.

Happy Traumakkah

I smell like the dish pit 

of a Mexican restaurant.

My boogers have collected

from crying.

From butt cancer

to beautiful things.

Evening rain soaked streets

reflecting the light back at me. 

Watching The Shawshank Redemption,

praying at the 'hope' line.

Thoughts of an Ordinary Monster

I will never understand

how a needle on a record

translates to music

(which translates to the soul)

time stands still,

yet it's somehow Monday

next year, I am only reading philosophy 

and books to help me finish my novel,

and maybe a time travel book,

and probably a music biography or two. 

Skeletique

to live and love

is to invite

the wrath of the gods...

I have been

to hell and back,

so you can't hurt me.

I have already paid

the entrance fee,

signed my name in ash.

whatever comes next

will have to try harder

than this life. 

McRibing & driving!

Cutting the Lawn with Left-Handed Scissors

I wanna start

a three piece punk band,

because I am 43-years-old,

and about to battle

cancer again. 

Run Like Hell

Playing pickleball in a little sun shower,
worried my copy of The Bell Jar
that I brought with me is getting wet
without consent from the world.

Kids of the internet are playing
in the background of the river,
and I tell them to run like hell because
beyond that is belief, just out of reach.

I risk it all to risk it all to live
every damn day in this absurd place
called life, measured my minutes
but mostly weighed in smiles.

In that case, I am a rich man,
but my body breaks,

and I can't get back any days,

even if I win this volley.

So run like hell, children, for miles
and miles until you find something
worth stopping for, for standing still
is the most insane investment ever.

Once you stand still and kill time,
it becomes a crime to move,
so shake until you can’t make
anymore memories or take another step.

Young Ryan would be so stoked to be bothering ska legend Monique Powell of Save Ferris!

two hours, sixty minutes

sad/happy on the rumbler.

nineteen stops.

nostalgia will never let me go.

so I have to break up with it. 

like your first love in nyc.

and every time I come to.

or go from.

I wonder if this will be my last time. 

It's a Little Warm in Heaven

It's a little warm

in the Newark airport.

It's a little warm

in the concourse level 

of Rockefeller Center.

It's a little warm

in the Winter Garden Theatre

during the matinee showing

of Mama Mia.

It's a little warm

on the uptown 1 train

amongst the death of the MetroCard.

It's a little cool

in hell. 

 

the same warrant in dire circumstances to achieve equilibrium and clear away sorrow to create space for positivity.

My cancer is back. 

My brother-in-law/best friend blasts Butthole Surfers at 5am for me. 

The moon looks like its from Star Wars

Pernille is leaving Paris.

Kendra Jean is nowhere to be seen.

My sister has disappeared on me.
Lauren Grace still hasn't called me back from last year. 

Tara Kelton's art makes this hospital lobby tolerable.

Wake me up when I am beautiful. 

Bonus episode of Bothering the Band with my buddies Eamon McGrath and Oldseed,
whose new collab album "Jet Lag" is incredible!

St. Mark's Place, Friday Afternoon

You can't listen to Stereolab

and walk through Autumn leaves

without nostalgically thinking

about love you lost.

Suddenly, I am afraid to run into her,

because of course it would happen

when I am meeting a date

on a cold afternoon in St. Mark's Place.

But, alas, I don't see her,

yet I still think about her the whole time,

and look at every brunette

over the blonde's shoulders. 

Fait Acompli

I am so tired of being

the center of my own attention;

I want to live outside myself,

where the POV of birds

sees me reading Raymond Chandler

and watching the Magic lose,

and get jealous of my mindfulness. 

Having a panic attack on the Staten Island Ferry

What about?

New York, fear, love, you, the universe,

nothing, everything, my shoes, 

my friend Franco, god, etc.

Why?

Cancer, life, scorpio syndrome, 

my mom, the future, my phone being on 17%,

where to get the Uber, street meat,

water, promises, etc.

What to do?

Put on a sad jazz playlist, put on my coat,

be positive and grateful, write poetry, 

tell the people I love that I love them. 

Ghosts of a Good Time

Instagram is nothing but death and consumerism,
so I miss the optimistic vibe of 2010s’ Willytowne...

With music and mayhem and shared warehouse space,
Williamsburg had a moment that’s still being chased.
Once long-fertile ground for the strangest delights,
it changed over the decades…and again overnight.

We were just shy of what spells real adulthood—
which is tragedy or pregnancy—
living on craft beer, bad decisions, and borrowed rent,
believing the East River shimmered just for us,
between my Manhattan and her Brooklyn. 

Now the streets feel curated, the chaos buffed clean,
and all that’s left is the residue of fine gone youth
lingering like her perfume in a thrift-store coat—
proof we were young once,
and stupid enough to think it would last.

Musician and social media personality, Petey USA joins us for a solid convo about songs, social media, squirrels, swamps, smoking cigs and surviving it all with humor.

Already on a Knife's Edge

reading the new issue of Rattle

during commercial breaks

of the Magic-Bulls game.

I was going to ride

a stationary bike during

these night games, but

I am dealing with more cancer scares,

which means more tests,

which means more biopsies,

which means more wounds,

which requires time to heal,

so poetry it is.

I think we live our lives

over and over again,

but that means

I will have to endure

my childhood again

just to get to the good parts

like this evening. 

the Magic won,

the poetry inspired,

the leftover pecan pie was still good,

and I am still alive. 

Hmmm...

she's sending me love poems

on Instagram,

while posting pics of her

and her boyfriend. 

12 Minutes with God

Grace Church, Broadway.

Organ meditation, 4pm.

I'm all over the place,

but my feet are here

in these ugly Hokas. 

I am writing poetry

in the pew,

the hymnal of 1982.

I peed at Grey Dog on University

and got a coffee with half-and-half

and a splash of time travel.

In a week from Tuesday,

I will be sliced open again,

but right now I am here. 

Under the stones and stained glass,

trying to talk to Hashem,

who goes by a different name in this place.

But it is the same in my case,

and I am hungry and my phone is on 4%,

but this is time well spent.

After praying, 

I walk by Union Square,

and remember old lives. 

Gratitude, infinite. 

Nostalgia, invaluable. 

A Shell Station of a Man

Past the steeple homes of Staten Island,

wondering what they worry about inside,

their lives the same as mine, wonderfully

mundane and hopefully entertaining.

Going to a Friendsgiving in Park Slope

on November 29th with Samantha,

sending what may be the last book

to Kendra Jean cuz I could die soon. 

Missing Manhattan more than ever before;

Brooklyn was as good as good goes

for as long as it went until I was spent

and had a decision to attend. 

Either way, I am gone,

a different dude or a dead man

(insert some quote about abandon plans),

one more drop at Strand. 

Meet me in the Poetry section;

my body won't be there, but my books will be,

and legacy is the thing I have always been looking for.

Hopefully, I found it. 

Tradition: A Jukebox Musical

it's a perfect day for a matinee,

so I took the kid to see & Juliet on Broadway.

from Backstreet to Britney,

she now connects to the pop hits of the 2000s.

treasures bend and break,

but songs and traditions will live forever.

got Levain cookies after,

which is now another tradition of ours. 

Dyker Heights

a tree looking like two people kissing.

reading Rudolph Steiner's The Philosophy of Freedom.

the possibility of autumn. 

the R train to Manhattan. 

a neighbor sweeping leaves like it’s a sacred duty.

kids kicking a deflated soccer ball down 74th.

the sun snagging on brick row houses, refusing to leave.

the laundromat neon flickering.

I pause by the dented mailbox on 71st.

asking why it feels like it wants to whisper.

go on, there’s still time, it says.

Sorry, I am having breakfast with ghosts...

Listening to Kings of Leon,

looking towards the future,

hoping to live as long

as David Lynch. 

Been going to the hood

to hoop lately

just for the helluvit

and having a great time.

Considering Kentucky,

checking Google Analytics,

hoping Dale and Pat

are doing well these days.

At a local dive,

putting Mazzy Star on the juke,

while it rains outside,

and I write poetry about the past.

Wondering if, 

in all the world,

there's anyone who

can't stop thinking of me.