Keepsake
while I am in New York City,
someone in Columbus, Ohio
keeps reading my weird little words,
keeping me wondering who the hell it is...
at least I now know
who is reading from D.C.
(After Everything)
The Governor's Island Ferry is dramatic,
like a slow-moving poem with a rusty hull
and no punchline. But today,
it is fucking perfect—
wind in my mouth, the setting sun doing cartwheels
on the East River, and my friends,
my beautiful, loud, word-drunk friends,
are back, right behind me.
We’re all on the upper deck
talking about who’s divorcing who
and whose 10th chapbook got picked up
and how this year someone brought a harp
(for real, a big ol' harp!),
and it feels like the city has been
saving this weather just for us,
like a secret it forgot to whisper
the last seven summers.
Brian says something funny,
and I almost fall overboard laughing,
and it’s not lost on me
how good it feels to almost perish laughing
instead of falling over from treatment.
The poems today were messy and brave
and probably overshort,
with at least one haiku
about cake, cocaine or late capitalism,
and someone cried at the open mic
and we all clapped like lunatics
because they made it. We all did.
Mike brought me up
on the White Horse stage like a brother
and we hugged because we are both afraid,
because it has been so long for both of us,
and before I read,
I touch on what happened,
just say something like:
"It has been several lifetimes since
I have been on this stage,
and after just beating cancer,
here’s a poem I wrote
after seeing a pigeon land
on my IV pole.”
And I hope the audience
caught the quiet little echo of survival
tucked between the silly lines.
Later, some brilliant Bimbo hands me scavenger hunt;
someone else hands me a beer but I turn it down;
a frisbee hits be in the belly;
Thomas finds me and I feel forgiven;
and then Eileen fucking Myles,
and then Anne fucking Waldman!
Holy hell, Hashem, it’s good to be back.
See ya next year!
anyone who ever lived in New York when they were young knows this feeling...
there are three key moments
that define your relationship with the city:
the first is when you arrive,
full of piss and poetry,
ready to let this place
chop your heart in half.
the second is when you leave it,
and that grip the city had on you,
that deep sense of romance
starts to loosen...
but the third moment
that's the one that gets you (me):
it's when you come back,
and walk past it all,
tracing the outline of your former life...
every block has a ghost;
a place you fell in love,
a place you fell out of it;
that restaurant you worked at;
the building you lived in...
the city hasn't stopped,
and it never really does,
it's just all a bit smaller somehow.
maybe you meet someone for lunch;
a new friend from a different chapter,
someone you've never crossed paths with before.
it's that strange overlap
of past and present,
of who you were
and who you've become.
so when you (I) sit down to eat a bagel
next to a pile of trash,
for some reason
it feels a little different this time.
maybe you are more aware of it,
because New York doesn't care if you've changed,
but somehow it always shows you
that you have.
that define your relationship with the city:
the first is when you arrive,
full of piss and poetry,
ready to let this place
chop your heart in half.
the second is when you leave it,
and that grip the city had on you,
that deep sense of romance
starts to loosen...
but the third moment
that's the one that gets you (me):
it's when you come back,
and walk past it all,
tracing the outline of your former life...
every block has a ghost;
a place you fell in love,
a place you fell out of it;
that restaurant you worked at;
the building you lived in...
the city hasn't stopped,
and it never really does,
it's just all a bit smaller somehow.
maybe you meet someone for lunch;
a new friend from a different chapter,
someone you've never crossed paths with before.
it's that strange overlap
of past and present,
of who you were
and who you've become.
so when you (I) sit down to eat a bagel
next to a pile of trash,
for some reason
it feels a little different this time.
maybe you are more aware of it,
because New York doesn't care if you've changed,
but somehow it always shows you
that you have.
runway runaway
"Ryan more'll step off the Spirit flight
at Laguardia anonymously erranded,
to eat street meat, and meet for tea
in Greenpoint or walk under
the shadow of the Empire State Building.
Didn't we stare at each other
length of the life
and read headlines
in faces through
holes in the NY Times?
Well, while I'm here
I'll do the work—
and what's the work?
To ease the pain of living
with poetry.
Everything else,
a drunken dumbdumbshitshow
or death."
your name’s still the best line i ever wrote.
governors island.
new york city.
saturday, maybe sunday.
bring a hat,
it gets hot with all the souls floating around.
i’ll be the one
in the paint-splattered shirt
pretending not to look for you.
there’ll be nothing monks,
some crystal kid yelling verses into a mic,
and me—
trying not to remember the sound of your laugh
cutting through the noise
like it was meant to.
we can call it closure.
we can call it art.
hell, call it nothing at all—
just show up.
and if you don’t,
i’ll still write poems about you
until the ink runs dry
or the city swallows me whole
or cancer kills me.
Qs without any As
long weekend in louisville?
how are dale and pat doing?
why do you read my blog?
why am I still waiting for you to call?
did you keep that shirt I left?
is this just nostalgia playing dress-up
or something you also regret?
why do I still write like you're reading?
why does silence feel like a reply?
how much time has to pass
before I can call and just say hi?
what song do you hum these days?
do you ever still think of those nights?
was it love, or just timing?
how are dale and pat doing?
why do you read my blog?
why am I still waiting for you to call?
did you keep that shirt I left?
is this just nostalgia playing dress-up
or something you also regret?
why do I still write like you're reading?
why does silence feel like a reply?
how much time has to pass
before I can call and just say hi?
what song do you hum these days?
do you ever still think of those nights?
was it love, or just timing?
Xiphoid Process
I saw her right when I walked in,
but pretended I didn't,
texted her "I'm here." from the back,
and just stole gorgeous glances.
Her dad’s cover band is killing Neil Young
and I’m trying to pretend that it’s ironic—
but I’m tipsy on club soda
and the way she laughed
when I told her the Aunt-Linda-looking lady
Her dad’s cover band is killing Neil Young
and I’m trying to pretend that it’s ironic—
but I’m tipsy on club soda
and the way she laughed
when I told her the Aunt-Linda-looking lady
dancing near the stage flashed her dad.
Her brother plays his guitar low
like he’s praying to the gods of metal.
I clap.
She laughs again—
and I feel it in my chest
like he’s praying to the gods of metal.
I clap.
She laughs again—
and I feel it in my chest
like a sudden thunder clap.
Somewhere between "Harvest Moon"
Somewhere between "Harvest Moon"
and “Keep Your Hands to Yourself,"
we talk poetry and modern ballerinas,
as I imagine a life where I could just Stay
under this neon forever.
under this neon forever.
The fans are working, the ice is thin,
my back is to the band,
my back is to the band,
but my eyes are hers,
yet they refuse to lock
out of some childhood vulnerability,
which leads me to leave.
Outside, the Florida heat thickens.
Outside, the Florida heat thickens.
Her name sounds like a whisper
I have the desire to say aloud.
I have the desire to say aloud.
She's walks away wearing that tank top
like it’s part of a personal weather system,
pulling storms into her orbit.
like it’s part of a personal weather system,
pulling storms into her orbit.
My determination will be my greatest asset
Thankful for the attention
The sunlight paid me
In unsolicited detail.
The plainest blade
Of St. Augustine grass;
The skin on her hands.
I am a wolf released
Calling after the future in vain
As if I know the plan.
I do my best
To trot along,
Describing a wide arc.
I want to give
Every pebble
My hummingbird attention.
The sunlight paid me
In unsolicited detail.
The plainest blade
Of St. Augustine grass;
The skin on her hands.
I am a wolf released
Calling after the future in vain
As if I know the plan.
I do my best
To trot along,
Describing a wide arc.
I want to give
Every pebble
My hummingbird attention.
the countenance of meeting a time traveler
I smell the novelty
And consider its edibility.
I am young
Despite my years.
I am brave
Despite my fears.
Plenty of time
On an invisible clock
Is not reassuring
Sometimes I am punched
In the face by regret,
A loser who can’t seem
To forget.
I look back upon
Selfish days,
And I am angry
At that idiot
You have to live for the future
Because the past will eat ya.
And consider its edibility.
I am young
Despite my years.
I am brave
Despite my fears.
Plenty of time
On an invisible clock
Is not reassuring
Sometimes I am punched
In the face by regret,
A loser who can’t seem
To forget.
I look back upon
Selfish days,
And I am angry
At that idiot
You have to live for the future
Because the past will eat ya.
the true and eternal reality
In the juxtaposition
Of death
And transfiguration
the true and eternal reality
Exists with the whispering
Conspiracy between trees
And the further register
Of their leaves,
Leaving us to wonder
If god is talking to us
Or if she is just going about
Her business and we are
Just byproducts of a different existence.
never punish yourself for this
when we kissed
in that TGIFridays,
the entire universe
skipped a beat
and I said the quietest
and loudest "Wow"
in the history of hearts.
Sandwiches Are Better In The Summer
Sandwiches are always good
but they’re particularly great in the summer,
especially after a long day in the sun.
Last week, after the park,
I used a little smoke gruyere
and top round corned beef,
along with some brioche from TJs
to make a blissfully delicious sammy.
It hit the proverbial spot
like poetry mixed with love,
and the sun winked at me
from the corner of my notebook.
but they’re particularly great in the summer,
especially after a long day in the sun.
Last week, after the park,
I used a little smoke gruyere
and top round corned beef,
along with some brioche from TJs
to make a blissfully delicious sammy.
It hit the proverbial spot
like poetry mixed with love,
and the sun winked at me
from the corner of my notebook.
Pair it with some Ruffles
and I am living the regal dream,
if only for a mayonnaise moment.
I like the concept of existence
When the day comes calling
And last night’s fears subside
I see the universe in the mirror.
Do donkeys dream of death?
Is the ouroboros aware of the eternal return?
Do pigeons ponder pride?
From the leaves in the trees,
To the sun sitting in the sky,
Sometimes a day is just a day.
But then there are things
That don’t make any sense
Like love and jellyfish.
The weight of being alive,
educated, and empathetic
in 2025 is overwhelming.
Misery is wasted on the miserable,
Life is a walking poem,
And Death comes for us all.
You take a chance
on being happy
even though later on you know you’ll be sad…
The Credibility Gap
No game on tonight,
so I’m knee-deep in Vietnam footage—
Netflix, couch,
working legs,
heart in triage.
The lifestyle of the average and anxious:
home,
awake,
not sure why.
Over and over,
I’ve had to convince the cosmos
that I belong here.
Or at least,
pretend I believe it myself.
Some nights,
nothing matters.
Others,
everything does—
and both feel too big to hold.
I’m turning 43.
There won’t be a parade.
There will be dishes.
I blink slowly through it all.
Once had bartender swagger.
Now I chase
“cool dad” vibes.
I embrace my rebel era,
especially when I've already fought death
and won.
So yeah—
I’ll treat each Tuesday
like it’s the Friday of a long weekend.
Because it is.
Because I said so.
Because I’m still here.
Slough Pinnock
read this poem in a British accent...
I don’t deserve anything
But (yeah, I said but!)
The service in this town sucks!
I Tucked into some bad lunch meat,
But the hospitality is the same
As a rave in Miami.
From bussers wearing flip flops,
To servers wearing Lululemon leggings,
But (yeah, I said but!)
The service in this town sucks!
I Tucked into some bad lunch meat,
But the hospitality is the same
As a rave in Miami.
From bussers wearing flip flops,
To servers wearing Lululemon leggings,
I say to these people
Get used to death
Because life is full of it.
We wanted paradise but got a host
in camel toe tights
With a liberal studies degree
And gen z anti eye contact indifference.
From my end of the telescope
Surviving is the short end of the straw,
Get used to death
Because life is full of it.
We wanted paradise but got a host
in camel toe tights
With a liberal studies degree
And gen z anti eye contact indifference.
From my end of the telescope
Surviving is the short end of the straw,
and dealing with life
is like Cliff Burton on the bus.
no leaks this season
I don’t want to give
the stars credit
for my passion.
The Scorpio moon
Is asking me
To transform.
I’m still operating
On half adolescence;
Growing old is tough.
My heart is a corsage
Saved in a year book
In a garage in Florida.
The only way
You learn patience
Is by force.
the stars credit
for my passion.
The Scorpio moon
Is asking me
To transform.
I’m still operating
On half adolescence;
Growing old is tough.
My heart is a corsage
Saved in a year book
In a garage in Florida.
The only way
You learn patience
Is by force.
The Nevers
the nevers come in with the white tide
off the back of the bent balcony
where the widows go to smoke
and the rats commit suicide.
up from the gail, over the rocks,
whispers whip through the wind's tongue,
begging to be heard and held
by forgotten fathers felled by the sea.
let loose by lips of the lords
who languish over the land,
between where the horizon holds court
and heaven and hell hope for hearts.
the nevers arrive by night
and refuse to let go of love,
taking it all back down with it
as dawn dances up the hill.
everyone knows nothing lasts,
yet we all try to hold on
with our human hands
to things that are already gone.
Perspective isn't Perfect
the look back is messy
and the look forward is fickle,
forgotten often is the present,
which some people need
a periscope to see.
my perspective ain't pretty,
for it presents itself in me
as a constant quest
to be better than I was yesterland,
but it is fucking hard.
my default is fear,
forged by my mother,
and from an early forever
I have been trying to shed that skin
to find a new home.
now that I have,
I keep waiting
for it all to make sense,
get easier, lighter,
but it is still a childish chore.
you'd think coming close to death
would make it all automatic,
but it is harder than ever
to gloss over the inconsequential
and focus on the worthwhile.
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