Believe me...
From the colors of my spring
to the Kshatriyas.
From the easy evil
to Roland Flint.
From cancer
to Diogenes.
...I wanna believe like a child.
Going to the Oncologist on Groundhog Day
Drove to Boca 100 times today,
passed a Thai place in Deerfield Beach
where a gorgeous girl works.
Forgot to send her
my favorite Tom Petty song
back in 2023.
She still thinks her job defines her,
and I still think
I could bartend.
I am so glad I don't
work in a restaurant
in 2026.
The service in South Florida sucks;
it's mostly girls in leggings calling me 'bruh'
or boys in shorts scrolling their phones.
I pass an Arby's
and crank up 'Walls' by Tom Petty,
from the "She's The One" soundtrack.
I read her poems
in the waiting room,
with my mask and beanie on.
Cancer should change me
like a giant epipheral party
in my egoless soul.
But I can still be petty,
especially in traffic,
with no place to put good news.
Life Starts From Here
I hope you can tell,
at least from the poems,
that I am trying
to be a better man.
Title: Heartburn
my spirit animal
is a cheese-addicted coyote
with acid reflux
always on the verge
of a panic attack.
he steals from dumpsters behind taco bells,
howls at the moon like it owes him money,
believes every siren is personal,
every shadow a diagnosis,
every burp a prophecy of doom.
still—
he keeps moving.
heart on fire, stomach in revolt,
limping through the night with crumbs on his mouth,
convinced the next bad decision
might save his life.
Curiosity #183
Whether it’s in a week
Or a wonderful forty more years,
I'm curious what people will say
About me when I am gone…
But ultimately,
I do not
Really want
To know.
Wanna wear hotdog costumes and go play ski-ball?
I find myself
getting annoyed
at the little things.
The self-checkout lanes,
because it feels
like work!
I wish there were
a pill for that,
because I do not like it.
How I have to log in
to everything
all the time!
It's okay,
I knew she'd
never call.
But I didn't know
I'd get super annoyed
at the wind!
And here I am writing
an annoying poem
with a dumb title.
supervene
I like your Mary Oliver style poems,
but I'd rather read your real voice.
The autumnal oaks speak
to the happy half moon
under which serpents
swallow their tales.
Might as well cue the Dave Matthews
and read Infinite Jest while you're at it.
The river rides the horizon,
like a roller coaster of time,
carving up the mountains
in the image of eternity.
Sure, every twig is important,
but when's the last time you snapped a twig on your thigh?
Poem
Catherine O'Hara died.
This is the worst day ever.
Despite having cancer.
For the second time.
In two years,
This is the saddest.
I have been in a while.
Ghost Garden
the lilies sprang up
where the homes were torn down.
the lavender lingers
where love was left behind.
the roses remember
names no one says anymore,
and bees hum through empty air
as if someone is listening.
at dusk, the soil exhales grief,
roots holding what we couldn’t,
a garden grown from ghosts
that still know how to bloom.
where the homes were torn down.
the lavender lingers
where love was left behind.
the roses remember
names no one says anymore,
and bees hum through empty air
as if someone is listening.
at dusk, the soil exhales grief,
roots holding what we couldn’t,
a garden grown from ghosts
that still know how to bloom.
Boise Noise
meet me in Boise.
middle of the country,
middle of our lives,
where nothing’s supposed to happen
and somehow does.
we will go to a dive bar.
low ceiling, bad lighting,
a jukebox that still believes in itself.
the bartender will have the eyes
of someone who’s seen worse
and kept the lights on anyway.
we’ll drink cheap
like we’re arguing with time.
laugh too loud.
pretend the past doesn’t exist.
it’ll sit between us anyway.
quiet,
like an unpaid tab,
like a scar that doesn’t ache
but never shuts up.
we’ll talk about nothing.
weather. music.
who moved away.
who didn’t make it.
who got sensible and disappeared.
this is the middle—
not the climax, not the wreckage,
just the long chord you hold
because you forgot how the song ends.
outside, Boise hums—
traffic, neon,
some kid starting a band in a garage
because rage still needs somewhere to go.
we won’t fix each other.
we won’t promise shit.
we’ll just sit there,
two bodies proving
we didn’t imagine everything.
meet me in Boise.
we’ll make noise
quiet enough to survive.
.png)
surviving the tiktok apocalypse
every day it is a tragedy of political proportions.
or some douchebag dancing to someone else's song.
how do I raise a daughter amidst this madness?
how do I battle cancer with positivity?
the ruins of empire at least have good food.
I hope I have more years ahead of me than behind.
Playlist 1/27/26
1. Mudroom by Tiny Habits
2. Baby I'm Yours by Arctic Monkeys
3. I Believe in Love by Tyler Ballgame
4. Half Crazy by The Barr Brothers
5. A Little While by Yellow Days
Dire Nostalgia
I caught a nasty case of nostalgia
while watching Stranger Things
the other afternoon.
Nancy reminds me of you,
how she adorably furrows her brow
like you used to do in stairwells.
She is my favorite character,
because she is tougher than she looks,
just like you.
It's infectious, the nostalgia, not the show,
and I call your phone,
just to hear your voice via your outgoing message.
Hoyt Street, Brooklyn, This Afternoon.
I grab a matcha and refuse to match Franco's energy,
who is abuzz after his trip to Gstaad,
but still somehow complaining about being broke,
so I lead with perspective and annoying positivity.
We drop some copies of my new book
at a bookstore, and I tell Carlos
to keep whatever money they make
as a thank you for the prime display.
We drop the ball on meeting Jongo,
but he burned an eight ball of coke last night,
so Franco takes his time talking to a girl
in the Self-Help section of the store.
He fails and I steal a Gwendolyn Brooks book,
and then we drown our sober sorrows
at a friend's bar, commiserating with the day drunks,
because we used to be them.
Evening temperatures slow daytime hustle,
so I ditch Franco and dawdle on down to Willytown,
where the gal I am seeing is singing sad bastard folk songs
in the back of a Mexican restaurant like it's 2010.
Her burgundy lips and Dua Lipa body,
are better for my bald head (but she is into the cancer thing),
and she is better than the selfies she posts,
but sometimes I still miss Kendra Jean when I kiss her.
Been thinking about changing
my favorite color to green,
I tell this to Marty as I walk back to his apartment,
which I am renting.
Over the phone, I tell him I have cancer again,
and he makes a joke because that's how he copes,
but I make him promise not to sell the boat
until I can come back to LA and take her out.
Can't wait to take off this balaclava,
and take my meds, while looking in the mirror
at my old guy neck, longing to grow my beard back,
even though everyone says they like my clean-shaven face.
I wanna be healthy enough soon enough
to take on ten jobs for the next ten years
to save up enough for my daughter to go to NYU,
and me to live in NYC again full time.
Son of Doubt
punchline after poetry,
bleeding our souls.
philosophy after failing,
eating my spirit.
no grey skin win,
no howling lip.
give me cancer and confusion,
make me fall in love with a dancer
before death sleeps on a futon.
like a drunk raccoon with a question,
gently resurfacing from the depths to ask
knock, knock?
this is how the end begins,
says the internet.
earn information,
awww snap!
she is a very good man,
and I am the son of doubt.
Ludic
I am an idiot,
there's no way
I exist.
I read books,
and make lists,
that's it.
I am just
a cursed coyote
with a fist.
I am beatific
and just existing
is holy shit.
Playlist 1.22.26
1. Could This Be Love by Silverdeer
2. I'll Be a Mess Without You by Chief State
3. The World, So Madly by Ratboys
4. Can You Swim? by Chet Faker
5. Haunt Me by Kaskade
Tongue Kissin’ on Butts Road
We were killing time
in Boca Raton like a bad idea.
Met in the poetry section
Just lipstick smudged and breathing hard,
A holiness we hadn’t outgrown yet.
when’s the last time you just made out with someone
not love, not forever, not fate
when’s the last time you just made out with someone
just alive, just now, just late
in Boca Raton like a bad idea.
Met in the poetry section
of the Barnes & Noble by FAU.
when’s the last time you just made out with someone
no plans, no future, no alibis
when’s the last time you just made out with someone
just mouths remembering how to lie
We drove nowhere on purpose,
middle-aged hands, teenage urgency.
The radio hummed a Gin Blossoms song,
we leaned across the console slowly.
when’s the last time you just made out with someone
like rent wasn’t due and bodies don’t ache
when’s the last time you just made out with someone
for the simple, stupid joy of the mistake
No talk of tomorrow or who got hurt,
No inventory of regret.
when’s the last time you just made out with someone
no plans, no future, no alibis
when’s the last time you just made out with someone
just mouths remembering how to lie
We drove nowhere on purpose,
middle-aged hands, teenage urgency.
The radio hummed a Gin Blossoms song,
we leaned across the console slowly.
when’s the last time you just made out with someone
like rent wasn’t due and bodies don’t ache
when’s the last time you just made out with someone
for the simple, stupid joy of the mistake
No talk of tomorrow or who got hurt,
No inventory of regret.
Just lipstick smudged and breathing hard,
A holiness we hadn’t outgrown yet.
when’s the last time you just made out with someone
not love, not forever, not fate
when’s the last time you just made out with someone
just alive, just now, just late
You laughed at me
about starting over.
I said yeah, it's not over
until it's over.
Henceforth
I am not my hair.
I am not my past.
I am my actions henceforth.
I want to enjoy this middle
and be of service,
not just on the surface.
Three months of 2026
was only 16 days,
earrings and all.
Since the stars
won't wait for the well,
neither will I.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)