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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.
What the Night Understood
I feel the early evening breeze
on my bald head,
as I take the garbage out.
Tomorrow's gonna be chilly,
and I have chemo,
so better rock a hoodie.
The sunsets in South Florida,
best seen in Publix parking lots,
are as magical as a daily Monet.
From my stubborn street,
I can see the Everglades on fire,
and beyond forever.
I am a meta martyr,
writing poetry on a fake moon Friday,
like something out of a Springsteen song.
Complete with blue collar doldrums,
and the dichotomy of nostalgia,
my daughter still holds my hand in parking lots.
The Astronomy of Almost or How Constellations Miss
Love hurts
because it tells you the one thing
no one wants to hear:
sometimes the right person
shows up
before the right version of you.
It feels like failure.
It isn’t.
It’s timing.
Two people becoming themselves
at different speeds.
She is learning to believe in the weight of her own soul.
He is trying to stay loyal to a dream
the world keeps asking him to retire.
For a moment,
they make each other braver.
The city shifts.
Subways feel navigable.
A park bench whispers
go ahead, float awhile.
And it almost works.
But growth asks for distance.
And love isn’t just who you choose
it’s who you’re willing to become.
They don’t end because they failed.
They end because they changed.
Years later, in the poetry aisle,
one look explains everything.
In another life, they stay.
In this one, they become.
That isn’t tragedy.
That’s adulthood.
The quiet ache of knowing
some people save you
by not staying.
Grateful & Looking Forward
I am just an idiot
with hangnails,
sipping tea
after a long day
of writing wayward poetry
about the man I was
the person I want to be,
coercing myself
to be present
despite the past,
and in spite of
the future,
haggling with my health
to hold out
another 40 years
so I can experience it all,
the fog and the fears—
for good or ill—
I should be so lucky
to live this little life,
somewhere in the big universe
that allowed my existence
to coincide with others' lives,
so tonight I rest
my chemistry
and consider everything
but not anything.
Chrysalism
it was a hard winter,
made worse by nice weather.
when ill of health or emotion,
the sun taunts the heart,
especially when it is hot
in December.
now that the rain is here,
I am happy,
hunkering down
with television and time.
there should be a name
for the feeling of relief
when you crawl into bed
after a long day.
I wish it were cold,
so I could be warm.
Emoji of an Anatomical Heart 🫀
When she was in her high school emo phase,
I was in my college reggae phase,
yet here we are, talking about old malaise
from our respective golden days.
She wore a watch
and watched as I read
the book I found
at the NYC marathon.
Everyone has the heat on
in their cars here,
and I am always on
the sunnyside of the journey.
She reads in the passenger seat,
pretty, despite the cigs
and the inebriated eyes,
but it's been a long life.
She calls me a mix
of her middle school crushes:
Mark Walberg and Pauly Shore,
Mark Walberg and Pauly Shore,
which kinda tracks.
I feel a heartbeat in my feet
and a crush coming on,
but it's bad timing, baby,
because I am dying again.
It's Too Much
Is it Monday?
Is it still the weekend?
Where did the holidays go?
Are we still saying Happy New Year?
Where do the years go?
Is it Dry January?
Wet January?
Is 50 Cent in Venezuela?
No one knows.
Get me a coffee.
Happy Halloween.
A Quiet Awe
Meditating on time, memory, and the helpless beauty of letting go...
Instead of treating the past like a courtroom or a trophy case,
I treat it like water, something that flows through me,
shapes me, yet refuses to be held.
The ordinary sits beside the monumental,
and both are given the same weight,
because both are true.
I ain't chasing a clean ending or a neat moral,
just trying to make peace with the fact that everything I have loved,
ruined, survived, and celebrated keeps moving.
I am a fool of the first magnitude
when I feel the malady better
I discard the feeling
that I am dealing only in
habit or happenstance,
and like the foolish forest for the trees
I try to appreciate time
for its moments,
moments for their memories.
Burn the Morning Streets
For Christina
America sucks.
I suck.
But I am just a dumb dad.
and a poor poet.
What the hell can I do?
My world is small.
On purpose.
It revolves around.
My daughter.
My art.
My health.
That is it.
Yes.
We have huge needs.
Better education.
We have huge needs.
Better education.
Universal healthcare.
A president who isn't an evil idiot.
I would love to go burn the morning streets, but...
Unlike Greece.
It's just not realistic here.
In the suburbs of South Florida.
My small convenient corner.
Unless...
The majority.
Start marching.
Start burning.
Start demanding.
Start taxing billionaires.
Start paying teachers.
Stop stopping.
Until then...
I battle.
With my words.
With my love for my family.
Waiting to join the physical fight.
Which I hope is rising.
Hell is Not a Place
it is awareness
without self-deception,
and I am not looking forward
to facing all the people I've hurt.
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