South Florida Sunset Song

You say you like the wind blowin' through your hair
Well, come on roll with me 'til the sun goes down

South Florida sunrise

[Verse 2]
Say you wanna hit the highway while the engine roars
Well, come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

That South Florida sunset, oh yeah

[Verse 3]
Caressing you from Fort Lauderdale to Orlando
Well, come on, roll with me 'til the sun dips low

Florida sun, oh girl

When I'm far from home and them pink clouds show
Stuck out somewhere with folks I don't know
'Cause you keep me nice and you keep me warm
Wanna feel you on me, can't wait to get back here again.

Ooh baby, you're so gorgeous
How 'bout you and me... 
take a little trip
In the big body back to NYC?

Take a ride with me, baby, you by my side
How does it sound, you and I?

Goof Mode (Do Yo Thang)

Gnats in my eyes
as I ride my bike
and call her 
just to say hi. 

We laugh
about our respective trauma,
talk music
and music podcasts.

The speed of her responses
makes me smile,
and we go off on a funny bit
about bands.

Oregonian Sunburns is the name of my emo band, I say.
All the guys in the band are named Chase or Taylor, she says. 
And the guys named Chase have girlfriends named Taylor, I say.
Our band name is Fuck You Yankee Blue Jeans, she says. 

She has a new coworker
who is from NYC and is in a band
called The Hasbens,
because apparently there's two guys named Ben. 

I laugh all the way to the bank, literally, 
because I have to go deposit a big check
which I have forgotten how to do,
and she laughs at my hatred of filling out forms. 

the birds are loud today

What's the difference
between a crow and a raven?


But intelligence comes from wanting
something and learning about it.

So smarts come from heart. 

The Love Poems I Never Sent: “My Heart — The Lake”

goddamn her red one piece
turns lake day into lust
with secret glances through Ray Bans,
and I wonder if she knows
everyone wants her,
including me. 

my hat matches my boxer briefs,
and she notices this,
asking why I wear undies
under a bathing suit. 

this means she notices me,
and so I reply
that's just what I have always done,
since I was a kid. 

that's adorable, she says,
her eyes going up and down my body,
and I am suddenly self-conscious,
because she is stunning,
and I am average at best.

the trail of light 
from a firefly,
signifies the night
and I assume songs are written
for moments like this
where the girl kisses the boy.

teenage dreams come true
in middle age moments
taking us back,
but only with eyes closed. 

just the kiss
is better than anything
after this.


The Songs That Make Thom Yorke Cry

If I ain’t gonna get rich,

I am going to do whatever

The fuck I want.

From copy day jobs

To the music pod,

This is my path to pave.

And I will do it

With confidence

And compassion.

memories have bad timing

they just creep in
when you are crying in the shower
about something else
and trying to enjoy your coffee
without getting shower water in it. 

suddenly, you are thinking about
the time you found weed in Brooklyn
which leads to the time 
you hooked up with a girl
in a stairwell in Manhattan.

time travel exists
but it is a tease
because it only happens 
when you don't want it to,
and it's just a feeling. 

evince badinage

grace strikes us 
when we are restless 
in weird goodbyes

peace finds us
when we realize
we have forgotten the war

indifference identifies us
without care or celebration,
but a hidden smirk

love leaves us
with an everlasting
impression of forever

never nudges us
to not chase
the things we are afraid of

fear finds us
either formidable 
or forgotten

fate folds us 
into the lives of others
to be changed

poetry slices our lives
twice as wise,
opening our eyes to possibility. 

We are not the same people anymore.

I don't need the new iPhone. 
I am even over dive bar poems. 

I want
post basketball weed and espresso.
I want
a new book
and the Yankees on in the background. 

I don't even care if they win. 

I am into Michelle Wolf
and cookies are coming,
so let's see where this kismet kills me. 

Christmas is 100 days away. 

Simple afternoons
that drift seamlessly 
into easy evenings...

I won't use up all my wishes
turning jetskis into gold. 

I am too old to give a shit,
but still young enough
to seek peace. 

Brittany, take the pancakes away!

Once upon a diner,
under a coincidentally placed painting
of Uncle Pecos 
from Tom & Jerry,
eating breakfast—
pancakes for the table
—mentioning the matrix
with Abigail.

Our server
is an attractive woman with face tattoos,
a canvas so bold,
she's a story herself,
her visage displayed,
a tale of her journey,
her own matrix,
made of inside jokes,
with yoga friends,
and bearded men. 

In a corner booth, 
where the morning sun does play past the creepy kitchen staff,
a plea arose with Abby's yawn,
"the waitress is into you," she says,
but I exclaim no way,
because I am rusty
and never think that way.

To prove this,
one embarrassing break or another,
I asked Brittany not if Abby were right,
but that we had a wager
and I bet she could gather the stakes
if she looked at my face,
and if I were right
she should leave the plate,
but if Abby were correct,
she should take the pancakes away. 

What Weather Was Heard

deliberate or not,
the purpose of destruction
is always present. 

I archive my feeling,
attempt to give grace a go,
but just write a stupid poem. 

it's raining,
and I have become hyper aware of my mouth
since I have stopped drinking. 

smiling at the horizon,
so many buried hatchets,
but without problems there would be no solutions

I am a little boy
but my body is 40 years old,
the past is letting me live. 

just a clown
wondering aloud,
how soon is now?


I have this rule ritual...

If I see you in my dreams 
I have to hear your voicemail
and hope that you are fine.

Yeah, so am I.

And it’s not a lie, 
that I just wanna press my nose 
up to the glass of your life.

It's almost October
so that must be why
you are on my mind. 

All the ghosts gather in the autumn.

I truly hope
there are flowers
in some of your poetry.

And I am doing my thang
diffusing with humor,
a distraction from your dream visit. 

All the dogs were looking away.

they are all time capsules

every list.
every post. 
every poem.
this bullshit. 
iPhone notes.


I am a paycheck.
I am a breath of bullshit.
I am my choices. 
And my choices are me. 

Sure, change occurs
in the fist of a spider, 
but at a certain point 
you must ask yourself:
What would Bowie do?

He would flirt with the idea of an autumn getaway,
and then conquer the cosmos. 

pawky cleek

opened another box of books tonight—
always kind of strange to "lose"
and "find" pieces of me
and also very weird shelving myself,
but how appropriate. 

hello moon, do you see me
and my books down here,
existing under your shadows
and shine, 
all in due time?

you have to meet
the big muddy moments,
delivered to you
along with clean white roses
to love the little things
like a dirty Strand sticker on your first chapbook. 

I wish there were
a social media platform 
for these idiosyncrasies—
no lies or self help,
just bruises and dog-eared books. 

as I close tabs in my life,
and drink coffee at night,
I am at peace with my war,
because I am just a shelf
of simple spines. 

Self Aware Poem

Do you ever forget
what you look like
and then catch a glimpse
and think
"not as bad as I thought."

What's the punctuation
of that above stanza?
like should it end with a question mark,
and should that question mark
be inside the quotation?

I wonder if
other people have these thoughts,
silly little existential ponders
that just need
a little solidarity.


Purple wristband.
Still on my wrist. 
A week after the show. 
I wonder if it will work. 
for Band of Horses.
in October. 

Heavens' Ghosts

I am a lucky boy:
I wake up to poems from Charlie,
and compliments from the beautiful Drag
before music and coffee.

Life is not linear:
It goes up,
round and round,
up to Heaven,
and then back down.

The latter:
I can chase the day
or let the day chase me,
either way I will be free. 

Fernald by Monday

Belly full in Miami. 
I'll never retire from being a goof. 
Microdosing edibles.
Skinny skiing. 
Bullfights on acid. 
Banging bracelets in the backseat.
Watching Caddyshack.
Wasting time. 

Jam the Storm

I've been putting The Simpsons on
as background lately.

I never really devoted time to the show,
which is beloved by 90s kids
such as myself,
and comedy nerds
such as myself.

I give it peripheral time now,
because I want an idiot's existence,
simple and unjuxtaposed. 

If you ever play pickle ball 
at sunset in Lululemon,
this poem is for you,
because even basic bitches
need beauty bestowed upon them,
and I wish I were them. 

But as any normal human should do,
I rewatch La La Land,
and handle life 
by mainlining feelings. 

Next week is already exhausting,
so let's jam the storm before it starts!

I'd do anything to be your anything

I don't need to be your everything
(in fact, I don't have the energy for that),
but I would like to be your something funny.