COYOTE BLOOD

Poem

Hashem asks for dolphin skin

when I have already given her

so much of my pine needles

that I am plum out of positivity.

a memory as evidence of existence

I am open to find the future

but I can't get past the past...

even in my lyrics

I am never present.

my weight in the world

is doubled by distance.

I challenge you, reader,

with an image.

the fragility of communication,

the songs of suffering.

I wish I could do it

with more bravery.

Getting Lost and Finding Yourself in Harry Styles’ New Album ‘Kiss All The Time. Disco, Occasionally.’

one shot of white blood cells,

please

I have my life to attend to!

cheers!

to the magic of hearing a song

for the first time and realizing

it might stay with you forever.

cancer is a journey of selfish discovery,

and I am method, scientifically.

the corners of my map

have always been burned,

and I was born and bred

to fight this battle,

fasces and all.

but, oh, how lost I was

and now I am

found?

Winter, Gone, Forever

As winter fades and spring emerges,

Where did the time go?

It feels like just yesterday

we were bundled up against the cold,

digging out of the snow and ice.

Now, the days are getting longer,

and the air feels warmer.

the changing of the seasons

and how their circular renewal

contains within them a kind of finality.

Winter is over—

this last winter is over forever.

Those cold winter afternoons

when you didn’t want to go outside?

When you didn’t want to do much of anything?

When instead, you waited

for the temperature to go up,

you binge-watched some shows,

you doomscrolled the news or social media?

You weren’t killing time…that was time killing you.

death is not this thing in the future,

but something that is happening now.

It is always happening.

It is the ticking hand of the clock.

It is the spring flowers.

It is the fall harvest.

It is the summer rain.

It is the first snow of the year.

it is the first flower

in a cemetery.

Kyle Gass has assembled an otherworldly super-team of badass dudes to back him up in his own project, the Kyle Gass Band...and here we have them all on Bothering the Band!

I'd gamble this poem on you...

are you the New York

who keeps reading this?

are you the DC

who keeps up with this dumb blog?

this girl tells me it's better

not to know.

but I am listening to The Weakerthans

and chomping at the bits.

because life is short

and mine may be shorter than anticipated.

the hard black stars determine fate,

but not fortune or love.

that stuff is up to us,

so ante up.

Volcano Chain

in the year of the fire horse,

I am left to wonder...

will I be inevitable

like the basil I just buried?

Will I be gone sooner

rather than later?

In the great volcano chain

that started with fish

crawling out of the wet ether,

and meets me here

on land

in the foul middle.

what is the future exactly

of it is always unraveling?

like a table cloth

under a never ending feast

of fortune and crumbs,

my life is a note on the piano

in the corner of the universe.

Rant #8012

I followed my dreams

from white ghetto trailer parks

in the shadow of Disney World,

in the whiskey wake of an alcoholic mother,

to a wonderfully wild

and wayward decade in NYC,

in bars and basements,

through the battlefields

of sobriety and self-contempt,

through foggy forests of love, lethargy,

loss, goodness, grace, grief, and hope,

into a a garbage dump behind a Taco Bell of cancer,

off a fucking cliff,

and I will keep following them

until my time and adventures expire.

Mind Full

I read a book faster

if it has short chapters.

I get the dishes done quicker

if I take it one teacup at a time.

I like puzzles

but I hate knots.

I loathe people

but I love gatherings.

I like too much stuff.

Being creative is a curse.

I wish I were an ignorant

downtrodden ditch digger.

From hip-hop to punk rock,

sneakers to hats,

skateboarding to basketball,

poetry to comedy to philosophy.

I love Halloween,

but I hate dressing up.

I love orange juice,

but hate eating oranges.

Consider the Otter

Grace you are better

than a bathroom selfie.

I am worse than someone's

rabbit foot good luck charm.

Grace you are greater

than a forgotten Friday poem.

I wanna be someone's

Monday night little spoon.

Grace you are a grave

and I am a new corpse.

What is alive? What is true?

is the zebra true?
are her stripes alive?

we are all just trying

to change
or fighting change.

from my blue pen on paper,
inner sensations emerge,
formed at the intersection of childhood memories

and the lived experience of the present moment.

am I alive?

am I true?

Monday mornings in an endless February

Dunking Biscoff cookies into my coffee,

Google-mapping an address:

3657 Broadway, Unit 4B
New York NY 10031

I am finally able to listen

to Young the Giant

and the Avett Brothers

without thinking of Biddy's.

After printing out poems,

I go to the hotels near the marina,

and slide pages under all the doors,

then I eat lunch, charging it to one of the rooms.

I guess (I trust),

this is what battling cancer looks like,

and my daughter just got braces,

and the US just bombed Iran.

call me
lets catch up
and not talk
about cancer

I can't change
the past
and I don't have
any answers

but i can
make you laugh...

let’s talk about music
that saved us
in bedrooms with the lights off
when the world felt smaller
and survivable

I know there’s a shadow
in every room now
I know it hums
behind every sentence

but for one night
let me be
the guy with the punchline
not the diagnosis

call me
we’ll sit in the wreckage
and pretend it’s just
another Friday

I can’t fix this
I can’t outrun it

but I can still
make you laugh
like the ending
isn’t written yet.

On this episode, Sean Solomon satirizes everything from music to art to his Aunt Linda!

What the fuck is going on inside my body?

sitting in a parking lot
engine ticking
some old song leaking through the speakers

trying to read
the same paragraph
for the fifth time

chemo brain—
like somebody rearranged
the furniture in my skull
and won’t give me the map

it’s getting harder
to pretend this is ordinary
harder to act like
the body isn’t running
a side hustle of betrayal

i eat crackers
because they’re neutral
because they don’t argue
because the stomach has become
a small, suspicious country

life keeps moving—
traffic lights,
coffee cups,
people checking their phones

and inside me
cells are holding meetings
I wasn’t invited to

what the fuck
is going on in there

i’d just like
to clock out of this skin
for a minute

and come back
to something
recognizable.

Having a Tough Rewrite

close all my tabs

and rot in hell.

sip rooibos

in silence.

boredom doesn't exist

in my business.

I crave creativity

and constant motion.

having a rough go

of writing my future.

but I still hold the pen

and punch the typer tonight.

Breviloquent

I scroll bookstagram
And feel my chest as I breathe.

Inside is a heart
And a bunch of other shit.

It’s just a muscle
But it carries the weight of my world.

Stupid little thing,
Keeping me alive.

And I’m here just adding books
To my Amazon cart.

And farting in Walmart sheets
While she is in the shower.

Maybe I’ll eat a bunch of cake,
Add to the arteries’ story.