Ay Diablo Mio

I deleted all my old voicemails
including hers.

That felt important.

Not because I am angry.
Not because I am healed.
Mostly because I am dying.

I deleted the photographs too.
The screenshots.
The little digital archaeology
of a relationship
that should probably
be left undiscovered.

Kendra Jean,
you were a beautiful mistake
with excellent timing
and terrible timing.

I will always give you

your flowers, but
I wish us both
the strange luxury
of becoming people
who no longer check
if the other one
is online.

And honestly,
I have other things
to worry about now.

Like where I put my keys.

Temptation Redeem?

the split in the timeline
came two Septembers ago

with a dagger deep

in Adam's rib.

I wade in the day

of that crevace,

an undecided railworker

at a boney crossroads

is this heaven, the future
or a Publix parking lot
at night
after a thunderstorm?

the little pieces of sky
caught in every puddle

like some cheap portal

to another dimension.

but I refuse
the blonde ghosts
who beckon me
from the light.

Poem

Outside,

autumn is arriving
with no idea
what is happening to me.

Thanks again to Backcove books in Portland, ME!

verecund

I went back in time
and found a younger me
leaving poems behind,

unpublished,
unread,
waiting in the dark.

I brought them forward
one by one,

like messages
from a life
I had forgotten living.

Different years.
Different loves.
Different wounds.

But somehow
the same voice
was waiting there.

So this book
is not new.

It is a door
I finally remembered
how to open.

I sat right in front of Brad Pitt at the US Open and I was self conscious the entire time

Every time I shifted
in my seat
I became aware
of my entire physical presence.

Was I sweating?
Was I sitting weird?
Was I taking up too much space?
Was I clapping too loud?

Ben Shelton was serving
like his life depended on it
and I was worried
about farting on an Oscar winner.

Did Brad Pitt hear that?
Did Brad Pitt smell that?
Is Brad Pitt looking at my back
or is he watching Ben Shelton?

Do I look like a man with cancer
or just a man who ate too much?
I wonder if Brad Pitt knows
I’m thinking about farting in front of him.

I wonder if this is what being alive is.
Watching tennis.
Having cancer.
Trying not to fart on Brad Pitt.

The News

The scan showed
more of it.

A few new places
where the cancer
had decided to live.

The doctor talked
about lungs
and treatment
and next steps.

I nodded.

Then I went home
and watched baseball.

Funny thing
about the body.

It can betray you
and still expect you
to get up tomorrow.

Perovich

What’s with the new last name
on LinkedIn?

Did you get hitched?
I can’t find anything about it
anywhere on the internet.

Did you add an old family name?
That’s what I’m hoping for.

I guess I can’t be mad
if you did get married.
After all, you’re a catch.

It’s just the final nail
in the coffin
of us.

I hope you’re happy.
And I hope he (or she)
treats you perfectly,

because you deserve it
after everything
I put you through.

I really love
the revelation/overdose poem.

Keep writing.
Keep in touch,
somehow.

Thanks to Hand and Foot

(Or should I say thanks to Back Cove Books?)

No Gods, Just Molecules

There are parts of me
the universe
will never know.

The small humiliations.
The private griefs.
The thoughts I never said
out loud.

But the trees know.

They have watched me
standing beneath them,
saying nothing.

And the trees
are the universe.

So maybe
the universe has been listening
the whole time.

Maybe every molecule
I have carried through this life
belongs to the same old machinery:

carbon,
salt,
water,
stardust,

briefly arranged
into a man
who thinks he is separate.

What a strange comfort,

to realize
I have never been hidden
from anything.

I am not known
because someone
is watching me.

I am known

because I am made
of the same thing
as everything else.

LAMBORGHINI SYNDROME

After the beach
gimme a good western
like Tombstone
to fall asleep to.

Something with
bad men,
clean motives,
and a gun
that always works.

I dream of making
stuffed bell peppers
in a naturally well-lit kitchen.

Not a penthouse.

Just counter space,
a sharp knife,
and enough energy
to stand until dinner.

I have nothing to offer
right now
except pain.

It isn't noble.

It doesn't make me
interesting.

It just hurts.

I went to get gas
and had to come home
and rest for two hours.

There was a time
I would've called that
a waste of a day.

Now I call it
the day.

I used to hate naps.

Now I take them
with a heating pad
pressed against my back,

like some washed-up outlaw
who finally figured out

the hardest part
of being a bad guy

is getting old enough
to need a classic ugly recliner.

One Armpit Is Stinkier Than the Other

One armpit
is stinkier
than the other.

This feels unfair.

Both have received
the same soap,
the same deodorant,
the same opportunity
to behave.

Yet one
has chosen violence.

I will not name
the guilty party.

But we know.

Mixed Playlist

1. Just West of Nicollet by Lambchop

2. The Laugh is in the Eyes by Julia Holter

3. Kick Stones (The Boys) by Westside Cowboy

4. A Round of Applause at the End of the World by Wild Pink

The Last Treatment

Today
I walked into radiation
for the last time.

Same room.
Same machine.
Same strange blue light
humming above me.

But something was different.

I knew
I was leaving.

For months
I lay beneath that machine
and tried not to think
about what it was doing
to the thing inside me.

Today
I thought about tomorrow.

No appointment.
No waiting room.
No gown.
No countdown.

Just the door
opening,

and me
walking through it.

I don't know
what comes next.

But for the first time
in a long time,

next
sounds pretty good.

Hours

I wander from room to room
like a man in a museum,

disaffected grief
following me
from exhibit to exhibit,

reminiscent
of clock hands
circling what they cannot change,

while delicata squashes
ripen quietly
in the kitchen.

this is not time

I carry memories with me
like drugs in a pocket.

September seems so far away,

but it is less than a month.

Can't believe it is 2026

and I am turning 44. 

My daughter just turned 12,

and I am battling cancer again.

I don't even remember 

what it's like to be normal.

the five years between sobriety and cancer

was the sweet spot. 

time is much more

than a construct. 

Homecoming

Like Odysseus,

I've spent months

outsmarting monsters

that don't have names

in ancient Greek.

My cyclops

glows blue

and hums

before each treatment.

The sirens

sound like

good scan results

that teach me

not to celebrate

too early.

Every mile

home

costs more

than the last.

Christopher Nolan

will tell the story

with impossible scale.

Mine

is quieter.

One radiation appointment.

One infusion.

One prayer.

One more day

rowing

toward a version

of home

I haven't met yet.

Poem

Just over here

trying to figure out

how to pay bills,

be more present,

battle cancer, 

give my kid an amazing life,

eat healthy, stay in shape, 

save money,

not go insane. 

The last episode (at least for a little while) of Bothering the Band is with Evil Island.

An endless supply of surprise symptoms and side effects

“Brave the storm that was meant to break us…”
      - Percy Jackson and the Olympians

From January to July
I was dying
the whole time…

Not metaphorically.
Not dramatically.
Quietly. Slowly.
One symptom at a time.

My body became
a house with alarms
going off in every room.

Nausea,
a stomach turning
against itself.

Heartburn,
a furnace burning
behind my ribs.

Bloody shits,
my insides spilling
the war I couldn’t see.

Constipation,
a body refusing
to let go.

Headaches,
a pressure drill
boring through my skull.

Body aches,
like every bone
had been bruised from the inside.

A perpetual back pain,
a dull knife
left twisted in my spine.

A shy bladder,
a traitor organ
whispering warnings
before every exit.

My body kept a ledger
of every insult,
every chemical assault,
every battle scar
no one else could see.

The world saw me standing.

It didn’t see
the battlefield
beneath my skin.

Max!

Lick the Lock

I resent my body

and the things

it is doing to me

the quiet betrayals

the hidden wars

beneath my skin

I carry its weight

like a sentence

I never agreed to

I listen for signs

in every ache

every change

as if I could bargain

with the hands

that built this cage

but still I wake

still I breathe

still I remain

and somewhere inside

this body I hate

something is holding on

something is fighting

without my permission

something is asking

to be loved

This episode with Tom May of the Menzingers is elegant and full of fireworks!

I Hate That I Am Getting Used to This

I hate that I am getting
used to this.

To doctors and needles,
and pain and fear.

To the language of bloodwork.
To waiting rooms.
To strangers saying,
"This won't hurt much."

I hate that I know
which vein behaves,
which elevator goes to oncology,
which ceiling tiles
to stare at during an infusion.

None of this
should ever feel familiar.

And yet,
somewhere along the way,

survival
became a routine.

What Punishments of God Are Not Gifts?

As I sit here and suffer,

I thank Hashem for the pain,

because it reminds me 

I have lived and I am still alive. 

It is, indeed, a gift to exist,

and with that comes suffering,

and there is no escaping that

whether you are Buddhist or Catholic. 

I did not learn to be grateful

for the thing I wish most didn't happen,

but I have come to realize

it makes me more human. 

If you are grateful for your life,

then you have to be grateful for all of it,

including loss and suffering, 

because it allows you to love more deeply.