for the 4th of July...
and somewhere
between the explosions...
you're reading my poems,
this dumb blog...
I always hope
I haunt you...
I always wish
you'd call.
Poem
so you're in Louisville
for the 4th of July...
and somewhere
between the explosions...
you're reading my poems,
this dumb blog...
I always hope
I haunt you...
for the 4th of July...
and somewhere
between the explosions...
you're reading my poems,
this dumb blog...
I always hope
I haunt you...
Pain Is Personal
Cancer makes you selfish,
no matter who is
by your side
or in your support circle.
The body is a loud country.
It demands your full attention.
I used to be selfish
for all the wrong reasons.
I wanted more.
More praise.
More love.
More of the room.
Then I changed.
Or at least
I thought I had.
Now I know
pain is its own gravity.
It pulls every thought
back toward the body.
I am never more present
than when I am in pain.
The breath.
The heartbeat.
The ache beneath my ribs.
The weight of my own name.
Nothing is theoretical anymore.
Not love.
Not fear.
Not this morning's sunlight
finding its way across the floor.
Cancer did not make me
a better person.
It made me remember
that every moment of comfort
is a miracle so ordinary
we almost always forget
to call it one.
Low-Key Heart Arson
when it thunders,
do you look up at the sky,
welcoming what's coming,
or asking why?
when you fall in love,
is your heart set ablaze
for days and days?
these are the questions
that matter to me now.
not how to avoid the lightning,
but whether you'll step outside anyway.
not how to escape heartbreak,
but whether you'll hand someone
the matches.
every beautiful thing
comes with a warning label.
the ocean.
the diagnosis.
another human being.
still,
i'd rather leave this world
with smoke in my lungs
and ash on my hands
than die
having kept everything
perfectly fireproof.
To Prettier Pastures Where Receipts Don't Exist
to prettier pastures
where receipts don't exist
and angels never ask
what anything cost.
you smell
like you just climbed out
of a swimming pool
in the middle
of an apartment complex.
chlorine and sunscreen.
the ordinary perfume
of being alive.
you are Fort Lauderdale.
you are six or seven summers.
you are Saturn,
too far away to blame
for any of this.
my favorite pair of jeans
still remembers your shape.
they've been to Montreal,
Manhattan,
parking lots after midnight,
cheap bars with expensive heartbreak.
every rip arrived honestly.
now they hang in the closet
like an old photograph,
frayed at the knees,
holding together
mostly out of habit.
sometimes I think
that's what love was.
not forever.
just a pair of dungarees
that fit perfectly
until they didn't.
where receipts don't exist
and angels never ask
what anything cost.
you smell
like you just climbed out
of a swimming pool
in the middle
of an apartment complex.
chlorine and sunscreen.
the ordinary perfume
of being alive.
you are Fort Lauderdale.
you are six or seven summers.
you are Saturn,
too far away to blame
for any of this.
my favorite pair of jeans
still remembers your shape.
they've been to Montreal,
Manhattan,
parking lots after midnight,
cheap bars with expensive heartbreak.
every rip arrived honestly.
now they hang in the closet
like an old photograph,
frayed at the knees,
holding together
mostly out of habit.
sometimes I think
that's what love was.
not forever.
just a pair of dungarees
that fit perfectly
until they didn't.
Spent Sunday in the ER
the vending machine
ate my dollar.
the guy across from me
kept apologizing
to nobody.
they called my name
like they were reading
a raffle ticket.
got stabbed,
did a CT scan,
no morphine.
I walked out
with another bracelet,
another bill,
another sunrise.
hell of a way
to spend the weekend.
An Ode to Eternity
The river does not hurry
toward the sea.
It simply keeps
becoming itself.
The heron lifts,
the wind forgets my name,
the trees continue
their slow conversation with the sky.
If eternity exists,
perhaps it is not elsewhere.
Perhaps it is this,
the world offering itself
again and again,
without asking
to be understood.
compartmentalizing grief in order to keep moving forward
when you have cancer,
you grieve your own self...
you grieve your own self...
it's chaos and absurdity made flesh.
to keep going,
keep working,
keep living,
I have to put cancer
in little compartments
in my mind,
while I keep life
in little compartments
in my heart.
Poem
We talk about fate
the way gamblers talk about luck—
as if naming it
might make it stay.
the way gamblers talk about luck—
as if naming it
might make it stay.
And I'm here,
trying to pin it to the page
before it disappears,
trying to make something, anything permanent.
out of moments
that reminded me
how beautiful it is,
that nothing is.
trying to pin it to the page
before it disappears,
trying to make something, anything permanent.
out of moments
that reminded me
how beautiful it is,
that nothing is.
6.6.26
Cocaine and Kelly Monday.
Bayside and Taking Back Sunday.
For a few hours
we were the main characters,
forgetting how small we are.
The other band arrived with their emo anthems,
as the club soda sweated in my hand,
Death has terrible timing;
it always arrives
in the middle of the song.
But EVERYTHING continues,
which might be the saddest thing
or the most beautiful.
The night grew complicated
in the simplest way,
and later than a long time,
but worth every minute.
I wanted the moment to last forever.
Instead it has become memory,
and memory is greedier than time.
Bayside and Taking Back Sunday.
For a few hours
we were the main characters,
forgetting how small we are.
I was her sugar baby,
sweetened by proximity,
and we called it fate—
that careful lie lovers tell the stars.
Even the South Florida heat
seemed willing to let us have this one.
sweetened by proximity,
and we called it fate—
that careful lie lovers tell the stars.
Even the South Florida heat
seemed willing to let us have this one.
The sky holding back
it's daily summer violence.
Bayside opened the show
like a beautiful wound,
the kind of music that reminds you
there are people walking around
with entire graveyards hidden in their chests.
We waved at Nick, the bassist—
whose done my podcast twice—
ghostlike recognition
between stage lights and distance.
I wanted them to play longer,
but that's the problem with joy:
the moment you notice it,
the moment you notice it,
you're already measuring its ending.
as the club soda sweated in my hand,
then somebody collapsed in the crowd.
it always arrives
in the middle of the song.
But EVERYTHING continues,
which might be the saddest thing
or the most beautiful.
Fireworks erupted above us
without warning—
white flowers,
brief stars,
little explosions against the dark.
For a minute
it felt as though the night
was showing off.
without warning—
white flowers,
brief stars,
little explosions against the dark.
For a minute
it felt as though the night
was showing off.
We got shirts,
and got the hell out of there
on our own terms.
The night grew complicated
in the simplest way,
and later than a long time,
but worth every minute.
I wanted the moment to last forever.
Instead it has become memory,
and memory is greedier than time.
So I preserve the fireworks,
the music,
the ambulance lights,
in this poem,
with the brief terrible knowledge
that the moment (and the music)
is all that matters.
Former Mess, Current Miracle
I used to be a disaster
with a pulse.
Now I’m still here
and that feels like
a technical win
against the odds.
Getting Emotional Watching the Knicks Parade
The city's on my TV again,
confetti caught in the summer air,
and strangers are crying
like they finally got something back.
I used to walk those streets
thinking I had forever.
Now I'm in South Florida,
watching a championship parade
and feeling homesick for versions of myself.
The players wave from buses.
Everybody looks invincible.
I know better now.
Still, when the crowd starts singing,
I sing too.
For the city.
For the years I lost.
For the years I might still get.
And for a minute,
with the noise turned up loud enough,
it feels like we're all champions
of something.
Weaponized Hope
the scan says one thing.
my fear says another.
I let them fight it out
in the parking lot.
then I sharpen a little hope
against the curb
and keep it in my pocket
like a switchblade.
not because I'm certain.
because cancer expects surrender,
and I'd rather stab back.
Hooly
flinging heartbreak around
until it becomes an art medium
set to ’80s new wave, string-swollen hooks,
and aughts Britpop.
I was strolling around Crown Heights at golden hour,
a little book-drunk and hopelessly infatuated with a girl
who’d “I used to work with”
when I realized: this wasn’t a love song,
it was a limerence song, an anxious attachment anthem.
The late fashion designer Alexander McQueen once said
it was a limerence song, an anxious attachment anthem.
The late fashion designer Alexander McQueen once said
there’s blood beneath every layer of skin,
and barely concealed
under the cheer was a scrabbling, clawing desperation.
Here am I
under the cheer was a scrabbling, clawing desperation.
Here am I
a boy clinging for dear life
to one perfect moment
for fear that another may never arrive.
sneaky peaky death
death keeps peeking at me
from behind books,
from the back of movies theaters,
from social fucking media.
it is everywhere,
reminding me of TIME!
death pops out of the medicine cabitnet,
finds me alone at restaurants,
follows me to the bathroom,
being all coy like it is inevitable.
oh, precious time,
reminding me I am alive (for now).
death keeps dancing
in the shadows of concerts,
in the corner of my office,
everywhere I try to hide.
I miss haircuts
I loved me hair,
Was proud that,
At 40.
I still had it all
Unlike some
Of my friends
And most fathers
Here in the burbs
When my hair
Grows back
I will visit
My gangster Puerto Rican barber
Get a good fade,
Trim the beard
Which will hopefully
Be back too
Was proud that,
At 40.
I still had it all
Unlike some
Of my friends
And most fathers
Here in the burbs
When my hair
Grows back
I will visit
My gangster Puerto Rican barber
Get a good fade,
Trim the beard
Which will hopefully
Be back too
Grace & Hammer
I’m excited to write
A terrible sentence:
The workers sing to themselves
And I want to cry.
This is how
The bracelet is made:
Whiskey, an old skateboard,
And the glue of experience.
I have a heart,
It attacks me every day:
Filling with rain
And crackling with a wildfire.
Elvis is dead
But I am still alive:
Summoning dumb poems
In the misty morning time.
A terrible sentence:
The workers sing to themselves
And I want to cry.
This is how
The bracelet is made:
Whiskey, an old skateboard,
And the glue of experience.
I have a heart,
It attacks me every day:
Filling with rain
And crackling with a wildfire.
Elvis is dead
But I am still alive:
Summoning dumb poems
In the misty morning time.
Go Knicks!
Watching game one
Of the 2026 nba finals
Painfully aware of
How short life is.
Should I be doing something
More with these hours?
What should I be doing?
When I think like this
A shiver shoots down my arms,
Warm and unsettling,
My entire existence in thought.
I’ll read all those death books
Which are piled near where I sleep
When I beat cancer.
Of the 2026 nba finals
Painfully aware of
How short life is.
Should I be doing something
More with these hours?
What should I be doing?
When I think like this
A shiver shoots down my arms,
Warm and unsettling,
My entire existence in thought.
I’ll read all those death books
Which are piled near where I sleep
When I beat cancer.
I hope the Knicks win,
so at least I can say
my second favorite NBA team
won a chip in my lifetime.
Poem
so many pills.
so many doctors.
so many aches and pains.
so many sleepless nights.
so many fears.
so many reasons to live.
perforce
I use a concert ticket as a bookmark
in a book I would love to send to her,
in a book I would love to send to her,
but I have sworn off any correspondence
with ex lovers when I got cancer again!
The concert ticket is from seeing Tokyo Police Club
with ex lovers when I got cancer again!
The concert ticket is from seeing Tokyo Police Club
in Santa Ana, California
right after I was diagnosed with cancer
the first time.
The book is called The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P
and it is all about a writer with a conscience,
the first time.
The book is called The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P
and it is all about a writer with a conscience,
something I have hidden
in my wasteband like a gun.
Poem
Look in the midnight mirror
and say "Run, run, pure beauty"
three times fast, one time slow,
and I will write you a poem
in the steam of the same mirror
about love, life, and death.
and say "Run, run, pure beauty"
three times fast, one time slow,
and I will write you a poem
in the steam of the same mirror
about love, life, and death.
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