The Constitution is made up.
The Supreme Court is made up.
We are choosing to play by dumb,
made-up rules when
we could literally just push
these old people down the stairs.
Writer's Block Ain't Real
I am getting bored
writing about you.
No more show tunes.
I’m gonna be okay someday
with or without you.
with or without you.
All the movies I watched this week:
- Lightyear
- Jumanji (2017)
- Top Gun
- Bob and the Monster
- The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent
- Top Gun Maverick
ubi sunt
Now,
more than ever,
you should be writing;
your blog should be
blowing up.
What are you doing?
Are you happy?
How do you feel
about the world?
I want less fear,
what do you want?
Kendra Jean, where do you
share your desire, excitement, guilt, or other emotions?
This is a UI/UX CTA,
an honest wish
to learn how you feel
about the present world.
poem
Maybe you don't read this blog,
maybe it is someone else in New York,
with the same IP address,
first popping up around 2012,
reading this blog all the time.
Dreams are more important than the wind
I woke up to a pair of shoes
next to mine that I had not seen
the night before.
I heard the water running,
and footsteps coming,
but I was alone
the night before.
The door swung open
and a beautiful woman
was holding two cups of coffee,
saying Good Morning.
She kissed my lips,
and crawled in the sheets with me,
as if everything was so natural,
but still new.
She breathed
and turned on the TV,
as if this were reality,
like we had been together.
And that's when I woke up
to an empty bed,
but the shoes were still there.
but the shoes were still there.
galvanized myself
I've always been made to pay
for my emotions...
whether with blood,
sweat, time, tears, or actual money,
I've squared my debt.
from trying to dying,
I no longer
owe you anything.
I've caught a glimpse
of a normal life,
and that's what I want.
Bone Music
at a ninja concert
in an old ice tunnel,
where the musician
is in the market
for a harpsichord.
it must suck to suck,
and everyone sucks
from time to time,
but Lancelot Washington
is the professor here.
I was dragged
from couch to Rebel Scooter
and then made to pay a ten dollar cover
to listen to covers (or rip-offs)
of Animal Collective songs.
the possibility of nights
is what keeps me going,
because who knows
I could find inspiration
or fall in love or learn something.
Don't Be a Dildo
Yes, you.
Reading this.
Just knock it off.
Pick up the phone.
Call me.
Let's laugh.
And get back on track.
I will lift you up.
In the ways you need.
Happily so.
It's weird.
I took your profile pic.
But can't see your profile.
Haha, I gave you the name.
I cherish you just the same.
And I want you in my life.
In any way, shape, or form.
The title of this "poem".
Is an inside joke.
Only one person gets.
The only person.
Who reads this shit.
The only person.
I still can't stop thinking about.
I just had to tell another woman.
Why I can't love her.
It's because of you.
It's true.
Now, stop being a dirty dildo.
And call me.
Reading this.
Just knock it off.
Pick up the phone.
Call me.
Let's laugh.
And get back on track.
I will lift you up.
In the ways you need.
Happily so.
It's weird.
I took your profile pic.
But can't see your profile.
Haha, I gave you the name.
I cherish you just the same.
And I want you in my life.
In any way, shape, or form.
The title of this "poem".
Is an inside joke.
Only one person gets.
The only person.
Who reads this shit.
The only person.
I still can't stop thinking about.
I just had to tell another woman.
Why I can't love her.
It's because of you.
It's true.
Now, stop being a dirty dildo.
And call me.
Poem
I'm no longer in the phase of my life
where I talk about everything
as if it is in the future...
Like, I'm in the future.
The Common Denominator Of Existence Is Loss
50,000-year-old extinct cave bear paws,
human hand bones, stretched and pulled
around audiotape of the earliest audio recording of time,
human hand bones, stretched and pulled
around audiotape of the earliest audio recording of time,
moving, shaking, shucking, jiving...
We are all losers
and that is the biggest win,
especially when looking within;
everybody holds
onto to somebody.
Everyone—né everything—on earth
has lost something, whether physical or emotional or other,
and therefore we are all dealing with that loss,
whether we are dealing with it internally, externally,
inwardly, outwardly, heroically, lawlessly, etc forever.
We are all losers,
because we are all givers;
we give our gifts of time and love
wherever we go, whatever we do;
we give energy to everything from the sun
to working to reading a book, pets, kids, etc forever.
The cow (or almond tree) gives its milk
to calves, cereal, lattes, babies, the sewer.
The friend gives time and energy and love
to other friends, cyclically circling back around,
while we give our hearts to accept it.
Where and how do you give?
What and how are you losing?
More than a game of tug of war,
this is a chess match of where
to invest our loss so make your move
wisely but without regret.
Hahaha Hyena
I laugh at the thought of you
The sense of awe is a kind of reverence.
Googling me and looking at my blog,
Instagram(s), listening to the podcast.
I dreamed you left my bed
to go eat seashells.
I wished you'd given me a bell.
The sense of awe is a kind of reverence.
After we learn where our personal awe is inspired,
we can return to it again and again.
I will look for moments of awe
in the rest of my life,
and try to hold onto them.
All My Arms
I feel the question of emptiness,
as I clutch contempt
for those that don’t know what they have.
Even if it is grey,
or gone.
I carry myself, small,
singing pig-bone cellos
about why
as I clutch contempt
for those that don’t know what they have.
Even if it is grey,
or gone.
I carry myself, small,
singing pig-bone cellos
about why
purple will make me happy—
sixteen avenues,
all directions—
drawn and quartered.
My self-awareness is a sin,
my self-awareness is an automatic bone
in the throat of something on the verge
of being something cold and beautiful.
If I knew what to expect,
I could catch it
in all of my arms.
sixteen avenues,
all directions—
drawn and quartered.
My self-awareness is a sin,
my self-awareness is an automatic bone
in the throat of something on the verge
of being something cold and beautiful.
If I knew what to expect,
I could catch it
in all of my arms.
But the mystery is heavier
than the weight of not knowing what I have.
Imagine me,
taught by tragedy.
poetry is pornography for the soul.
If I can lift my eyes
to the sky,
lift all my arms
to the ground.
Vanity leaves you sleepless;
it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy
to an otherwise undetermined life.
than the weight of not knowing what I have.
Imagine me,
taught by tragedy.
poetry is pornography for the soul.
If I can lift my eyes
to the sky,
lift all my arms
to the ground.
Vanity leaves you sleepless;
it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy
to an otherwise undetermined life.
everything.
a pandemic.
school shootings.
the climate crisis.
looming recession.
women's rights.
the collapse of democracies and the existing world order—
the response that many have to all of this
is to crawl inside a safer space, to find refuge from the chaos.
the world is teeming with threats
to our physical, psychological, and emotional well-being,
and in order to feel safe and secure,
we’ve had to get a bit more resourceful than usual.
enter dissociation.
the response at the root of so much trauma.
whenever human history darkens,
this impulse—to obscure meaning,
to flatten affect, to don expressive masks—emerges.
chaos erupts.
entropy spreads.
mistrust multiplies.
there’s some occult math at work:
overturn enough treasured assumptions
at a proper velocity, and we will begin
to doubt even our most basic impulses.
if the current situation is a verdict
on humanity’s ability to interpret reality,
maybe our interpretation was the problem all along.
maybe there is virtue in remaining inscrutable.
it's all gonna be a bit bittersweet forever, innit?
lost love.
getting older, always.
the wacky world, going to hell.
work.
being tired all the time.
in fact, if my eyes are open I am tired.
forever going back and forth.
Florida, fuck.
making peace with being perpetually sweaty.
never having been to Europe, still.
too many shows.
too many books.
too much music.
never going to get to it all.
hearing the term "Level Up" everygoddamnwhere.
my appearance...the human body requires too much maintenance.
probably never going to own an apartment in New York.
what's a retirement fund? why am I thinking about this?
I hope to sell (and make) a movie someday.
I hope the podcast takes off.
maybe then I can save to retire in Europe.
always trying (striving) to be a good dad.
still making fart jokes.
wish I didn't hate working out.
no more booze to drown my sorrows.
might as well eat cookies
for the end of the world.
at least, the Yankees are winning.
Poem
Bronx-bound and busy,
I gotta work a photo gig,
taking pictures of cakes
on City Island,
not a bad gig,
and my work will be
seen in places
I cannot discuss at present time.
I wanna date a musician
Her set is short for now, but the mix of electronica and pop is arresting
Incorporating ethos of hip-hop alongside surf-rock poetry,
I hate that she used the term "level up"
I want to date a musician, Greg says.
when she dances in the puddle of spilled beer
or fusses with the cable connection on her distortion pedal mid-song,
but any doubt is wiped away when you hear the songs.
she mesmerizes me and Greg from the stage,
as we battle for her eyelashes to bat in one of our directions,
idiots in the summer wind, sweaty Brooklyn skin.
A dirty fox from Jersey, Julia sings of deep sea divers,
capturing my inspiration and Greg's imagination,
and we smile because we know the game is on,
but also because we both know she is too cool for us combined.
Greg is a musician but I am a poet,
and she is both, as well as much prettier than us,
so we are screwed and she is cursed
to walk this earth with idiots like us pining after her.
I hate that she used the term "level up"
but I liked her smile and direction,
not to mention she's a stunning blunette...
that's right, her blue hair
is modern hipster punk rock up top,
with corpo marketing/graphic design down below.
She did the podcast before it was a podcast,
when it was just a written series,
and then Greg asked if I wanted to go see a band,
not knowing the connection.
She may not remember this,
but we met at a party that I didn't want to go to,
and both caught each other stealing books:
hers was Pop Song, essays by Larissa Pham,
mine was We Inherit What the Fires Left, poems by William Evans.
So we have that,
and I pray it comes up
in backstage banter,
but who knows!
I want to live with a musician, I retort.
She'd write songs at home, and ask me what I thought of 'em,
and maybe even include one of our private little jokes in the liner notes.
Maybe a little picture of me in the liner notes, Greg says.
Just in the background somewhere, I say.
I wish I had the confidence of Axel Foley
Guys in their 40s
don't have dreams;
they have nightmares
and plantar fasciitis.
I'd rather kill myself
in the likes of Omaha,
before I die peacefully
in the my sleep in Florida.
I wish I had the confidence
of Axel Foley,
from the first Beverly Hills Cop,
not the second, especially not the third.
Today was a good day,
despite the passing of time,
and tomorrow will be good, too,
if I make it there.
eBay sNeakers
skipped the poetry thing
and movie night was moved,
so gonna watch the hockey game,
shop for vintage Nikes on eBay,
edit the novel and eat cheese...
what are you up to?
Our Proud Local Mohel
Charlie's a new dad.
Enid prefers uncircumcised dicks.
Sam doesn't know how the DMV works.
Abby may be sick.
We are all dying.
Jenna's in the background.
The baby looks fake.
Kate has her panties in a bunch.
The Yankees are on in the living room.
Swinging permaculturalist musicians.
Broken picture frames.
Post podcast interviews.
Waterloo sparkling water.
This poem and that note.
This pen and that phone.
Cut it out.
Slice it off.
See you in hell, dad.
Y'all crazy kooks.
Consider the ibis in my backyard.
Consider 'Consider the Lobster' by David Foster Wallace.
Before and after rain.
The day dries differently with brevity.
Over the atmosphere of happy hour with teeth.
These currently-reading self-care phonies behind me.
They don't know how to be eaten by life.
And let in the "disorientation" and love 'em.
The guy in front of the Pride parade.
Is a Mohel in real life.
It's all real life.
We just have to compartmentalize it.
I do it, too.
I did it all week.
And all last week.
How do you separate yourself from yourself?
I slice myself in half.
And then chop my fucking heart into pieces with a hatchet.
Leaving some in LA, some in NYC.
Some in mouths, some in list poems.
Some in people, some in risks.
Welcome to Smokescreen Season
It’s another heavy day
in a heavy world…
Our strategy of ignoring real problems
and fighting fake ones does not seem to be working.
Let me be extremely clear,
this decision is not about
pro-life vs pro-choice
or religious vs non-religious.
This is about dividing and conquering.
They want us to fight and divide
so they can conquer.
It’d be easy to fix America
but you’d have to piss off
a lot of stupid people
Scheduling a group hug
in Brooklyn tomorrow at 4:00 pm.
We need it.
in a heavy world…
Our strategy of ignoring real problems
and fighting fake ones does not seem to be working.
Let me be extremely clear,
this decision is not about
pro-life vs pro-choice
or religious vs non-religious.
This is about dividing and conquering.
They want us to fight and divide
so they can conquer.
It’d be easy to fix America
but you’d have to piss off
a lot of stupid people
who think this is black and white.
Scheduling a group hug
in Brooklyn tomorrow at 4:00 pm.
We need it.
All This Is
all this is
is me trying
to get your attention.
I keep thinking
the next word,
the next book,
the next gesture
will be the thing
that brings you back.
I am not talented;
just tenacious.
and there is something
to be said
for not giving up.
Happy Dad Day, Dale
I always wanted
to know more
about your relationship
with your dad.
I never met my father,
and now I am trying
to be a father myself,
so I want to always learn.
I had a few role models
that molded me,
but I just want my kid
to never wonder if I love her.
I want to be
the shape of strength
in her eyes,
but it starts with love.
I like that one day
my daughter will read this
and I will tell her everything
when she is ready.
I know your shaking your head,
but I am good at this,
and I wish you knew
more about me.
Poem
and I'd like to think
that if we never speak again
one day you'll look back
on me fondly as someone
who didn't fear the future
when they pictured you
by their side.
I'd like to think
you'll remember me
as somebody you could
have spent your life
if only the timing
had been right.
I'd like to think
you'll remember me
as somebody
who loved you
the best they could
even if it wasn't
always what you wanted
or needed.
and I'd to think
that if we ever speak again
we will lean on laughter
or music to make it
to the other side
whatever that side is
or isn't.
Amended
She texts me:
"I like a man who supplies good surprises."
She will be surprised
when I tell her I am in love with someone else.
She asks me if I have any vices.
I say music, coffee, women.
She loves my Squid book,
and has the fingernail polish to prove it.
She asks me what I am doing.
"Reading Ayn Rand...while jumping on the bed," I say.
In Celebration of Bloomsday, a Few Styles to Wear to Davy Byrnes Pub
Broad-shouldered and brave,
secretly kind,
is how I see myself in my mind,
but I am just bad-postured in a philosopher's shirt.
She flowed out of Charles Dana Gibson's
illustration pen of the 1890s,
confident in unswept hair,
haughty one minute,
mischievous the next.
My friend from Otavalo, Ecuador
encourages me to shave,
saying to surprise the world,
while my daughter has never known me clean-shaven.
I sip my soda,
cheers their pint beers,
in the invisible mirror
I will be the brave Friday poet
in the vein (and dreams) of Joyce.
And with a hint of wildness,
I assist the aforementioned gal
with her decision between
gin and champagne.
From Wu Tang Records to Sylvia Path Books (and the miniature Back to the Future DeLorean Time Machine I got at Walmart today)...
if i had an official office,
I would position myself in front
of a curated bookshelf,
so on all my Zooms
I could display books and records
and sentimental knick-knacks,
changing them out each time
to surprise the other person.
Drunk Bills fan won't stay off social media
if I did move to LA, I wonder
what kind of person I would fall in love with...
a cute, woke asian girl with her septum pierced?
a comedienne with bad tattoos and big breasts?
a preppy gal with the bottoms of her irises showing?
a blonde graphic designer with a past and a perfect smile?
a drunk football chick that is always on her phone?
a punk poet from back east posing as a production assistant?
a Natalie who steals my heart and leaves it in Santa Monica?
if I did move to LA, I wonder
what my days would be like and how the accidents would happen.
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