Dread is Just Part of the Process...

there’s something kind of beautiful
in knowing that in the long run,
dread didn’t prevent me from making things.

we create a lot of art,
apparently,
in the presence of fear;
it’s not impossible that i might do it again.

fears and perceived failures 

from my younger self 

makes me sad for him.

i wonder whether everyone feels this, 

whether it’s something you get over or just integrate. 

Neighborhood Gods Unlimited

"It is July, and my life consists of tiny moments. I somehow don’t look so far into the future and feel no pressure to create perfection or be perfect. I reflect deeply on my patterns and past, seeing soft ways to heal. Life doesn’t feel big right now, and it is marvelous."
          - Pernille Mo

Heaven throws hatchets at us.
We have to figure out how to catch them 

and throw them back with more force.

Hell throws halos at us.

We have to figure out how to hide from them,

or hurl them into the head honcho.

But isn’t it quite good that we’re alive,
having these problems, here in the modern world
rather than in, like, 1670?

Could've been hatched as a spider,

only to be squished 

by a slammed screendoor. 

Should've been turned into a turnip,

only to be eaten by an allergic asshole

and shit out on Sunday. 

Would've been baptized by fire,

only to drown in the bottom 

blue part of the flame first. 

I am aware of the whole universe

and the whole universe is aware of me,

as I dawdle along in my dumb days and doldrums.

Unbeknownst to the summer,

I am surviving successfully

on the simple things like new shoes and old shows.

The skin at the crease of my elbow

may be looking old and loose,

but my soul will always be 25. 

I may die tomorrow

or in 42 more years,

but I will forever romanticize the present. 

nothing inspiring.

i can't wait to not have goals.

just wade into the river of living.

and be alone together.

no more tears because of fears.

just tv, sunsets, certain songs, a cardigan sweater.

see ya later, social media.

peace out to my past. 

nothing but blissful ignorance.

alleviate my allegiance. 

damn the devil.

my blood stream screams.

I beg to be blind of the times. 

cancel my dreams.

I deserve nothing.

and I can't wait for it. 

P - what's your hulu password?

ir·rev·er·ent

/ˌi(r)ˈrev(ə)rənt/

adjective

1. showing a lack of respect for people or things that are generally taken seriously.

   "he had an irreverent sense of humor but could always be counted on for sage advice"

A.I. B.S.

I have always had a bad(?) habit 

of judging a thing by the character 

of the people that enjoy it. 

It is the impulse that has on many an occasion

stopped me from entering a rock climbing gym, 

or any establishment with a Cyber Truck parked outside.

But as of late, none are irking quite as much 

as the scourge of AI nonsense 

that seems to have gripped our collective consciousness. 

The people that seem to be the most bullish about it 

carry a worrying degree of overlap with the people convinced 

that Cryptocurrencies would replace the entire existing monetary system. 

These are, in my estimation, amongst the worst of us, 

and anything they stand in such ardent support of 

should be approached with a strong degree of openness for derision.

To use the moniker Artificial Intelligence 

for the recent proliferation of the little language-based internet toys 

in increasingly common use is a misnomer to put it kindly. 

I absolutely abhor and am loath to include any at all in anything I do, 

but given my decades-long experience as a copywriter, 

please forgive my impending (albeit reluctant) use of a few.

Cows

I will never

be too old

to yell "Cows!"

when driving by

a field of 

cows. 

Pork Boredom

The rain comes and I go.

Not going to be sacred with shoes.

Never been bored in my life.

I scream read in my head in the morning.

Eat bacon and think of love. 

Wearing a mask at Starbucks.

Ordered a Shaken Brown Sugar.

Got a compliment on my boots.

From a black dude. 

I bite my bottom lip.

And boogie in the 'Bucks.

Like the grass outside.

Is red in the sunset wind.

I'll be on the wall someday.

My memories just stories.

That other people tell.

Until those people die, too.

I don't want pity.

I'd prefer grace.

Or even pork boredom.

I don't want god's sake.

I'd rather have a cake pop.

I pray to parents I never had.

Trying to break habits.

Some inherited, past down to me,

Like an old hutch,

And some I acquired, picked up.

Along my long journey

To this middle. 

disposable camera

apparently it is an electric psychedelic thursday morning

so says spotify

by three o'clock i will be done for

all the live long day i punch a bunch of buttons,

maybe move a mouse which is just a plate

fighting digital distractions like drugs

probably play pickleball later with a woman 

that looks like an amalgam of all the long island girls i loved

get beaten and eaten by bugs

if you start the day early it should end earlier

the night coming just after my coffee table dinner

today will just be pictures tomorrow.

We discuss live music, ponder if Tom Cruise has ever had Papa Johns, and talk a lot about Taskmaster with the hilarious comedian/actor Michael Rowland!

🤯

getting back to normal is a chore.

moving on is a must. 

Summer's over.

my daughter is starting middle school.

I am a cancer survivor. 

And I wear shorts and use emojis now. 

dynamic being

We all have so many layers, 

and a spectrum of emotions 

and aspects of ourselves 

that are brought out 

by different people, 

different environments. 

None of us are static,

and this is why generalization

is categorically inaccurate;

nothing is black and white. 

Life has given us these multitudes,

but our systems strip them from us,

so it is up to each individual

to not reduce the self 

to fit what the world wants you to be,

thus moving through the thick blockage of fear. 

My Cake Era is Coming to an End

I dress like Adam Sandler

on casual Friday,

write about food too much, 

and eat a piece of chocolate cake

every day. 

But I beat cancer 

(got my chemo port out)

so I am spent the summer

indulging in sweet treats and fast food.

In addition to the cake,

yesterday I had Taco Bell,

but I also stopped at McDonald's

for french fries. 

My chest hurts like a bastard,

and I am still not allowed 

to go swimming or play basketball,

so I end the day with a trip to the bakery

to buy tea and a piece of cake. 

Poem

Starting over

doesn't have to be big,

it can consist of little things

like letting go.

My inner child, he is always with me.

I may have this experience now, 

and all these years behind me, 

but ultimately I’m the same vulnerable, 

sensitive, curious, wondrous, exalted little being.

So when I interview one of my favorite musicians on the pod,

or walk around NYC by myself, 

I can't help but think how excited young Ryan

would be at all of this. 

You never know where you are in the story...

An air conditioned attic.
Nick Drake tunes.
Her heartbreak.
My cancer.

This is the part you don’t know is a chapter.
This is the part that isn’t titled yet.

The janitor
in the background
sweeps the same tile
where I once told a joke
that made someone
fall in love for five days.

My ego plays lead,
but the plot ignores it.
It’s not about me.
But I’m here,
so I write it like it is.

Each tick of the clock
could be the cue—
or just another second lost
in the long edit of nothing.

Moments. Milestones.
Sock, sock, shoe, shoe.
A simple morning
might be your climax.

You never know where you are
in the story.
Middle?
End?
The part they skip in the movie?

It’s all of us.
It’s none of us.
A coffee lid,
a missed call,
a breeze in the wrong direction—

and suddenly,
you’re in Act Three.

Dan Mangan is back on Bothering the Band!

Heard 'I love you' from Los Angeles...

going there in september,

still seeking

how many times 

can you move on?

Poem

I think I like falling in love in the stairwell light.

So, come on, baby, let's do this right on an NYC night.
Don't question it, let's fool around, and mess with fate.
Tell your pa, tell your ma that you love who you hate.

NYC Update

A beer garden thrift market, 

too many DJs, 

and race weekend at an art gallery?

Velvet ropes and rooftop bottle service for some,
and events happening elsewhere across the city for others—
think textile art in a century-old sewing shop, an all-vinyl radio fundraiser,
and a scent club deep-diving into the world of tea.

You’ve also got queer circus confessions,
techno behind a gallery, zine launches, open-air concerts, block parties,
and yes, more DJ sets than any one human can reasonably handle.

Whether you’re all for espresso martini or Carib beer,
there’s something on the calendar
that’s going to make you stay out too late.

I fucking love NYC in the summer
for all the right and wrong reasons;
hand-rolled cigarettes
and corded headphones are back, baby!

and so am I!

Is the G train running?
Who cares!

I am a timid observer of time
because (from the Poetry Fest

to dreams of Kendra Jean)

it goes too fast
and it goes too slow.

SCARY COOL SAD GOODBYE #75

The bar was packed 

with an assortment of unsavory-looking men 

and lizard women who seemed like they’d evaporate into a puff of smoke 

the moment that they set foot outside the blood-red room. 

Eric had a whiskey, Greg had a beer,

and I ordered a club soda, no ice, no lime.

The bartender gave them theirs

and took their time with mine,

which arrived with ice and a lime. 

We toasted to silence and comedy,

Brooklyn and bullshit under our breath

but knew we would be back

in this type of bar for the rest of our lives.

Bopping Around Brooklyn

the crack of the billiard balls.
clean brunettes, no bras.
groovy molars.
CitiBiked up and down Guernsey Street.

read Eileen Myles poetry.
in Transmitter Park.
smoked weed with Rob Dean.
L'Industrie lunch.

new hipsters hitting the streets.
while I am lost, literally and figuratively.
they're larping as cool kids.
this is the first they've heard of freedom.

Eric misses the G train.
Franco is full of zig-zags.
Angry at time.
So was I, not anymore.

Demyan/Van Remmen.
Yankees/Cubs.
Wimbledon at Kent Ale House.
Adam Santiago/Samantha.

Throw Nikes over powerlines.
Cut bracelets off my wrists.
Piss into the East River.
Sunset vinyl and half a million bodega flowers.

No more chemo port.
I am scared always.
But I never want to stop short of the stage.
Why BOOP when you can BOP?

Generational poems.
Tardy to the party.
Still have shame and envy.
Will always have NYC and poetry.

When your song comes on the bar but it’s empty...

Eric won his pool game.
Franco has quit smoking five times.
I order a club soda.
The bartender holds the lime.

When Bushwick Blues
by Delta Spirit finally comes on,
everyone is gone
but my heart is full,
part nostalgia, part hope.

I get into a fight with a straw.
Feel youthful for a moment.
Look in the mirror behind the bar.
See a young me looking back. 

I write a poem on a beverage napkin—

something stupid that I would have written twenty years ago,

when the world not making sense made sense—
and hand it to a fine gone gal on the Rumbler,

just like I would've done in 2008. 

I am a fool. 

An aging vampire of the hipster generation.

Reliving things for the last time. 

Not for long.