Regarding the Current Need for Poetry

24 Jun

—-8—-

—-8—-

The Sessions Family Looking to Buy Summer Home in Gilead. Shocked When Told it is a Fictional Place.

or

Maybe I’m Done Writing For a While

 
Do I have any poetry left
that’s a decent question.
At this point, what does it matter
that is also one
——–==that it
—————==makes sense
——————————==to ask.
Honestly, I don’t know.
Tinfoil blankets on traumatized babies
aggressive mediocrity in everything
cupidity, stupidity, the bigot’s misery
all of this shit just clogs the throat
of thinking, of promise, of response
like soot, like the charity of inconsequentiality
until we’re chocking
and yet we ask about the poetry…
The folks that I’ve wanted to meet
are all dead now (all I have left really are Errol Lewis and Tom Waits)
The woman that I loved turned out to be
cruel and culpable
The people that I loved elected the
dumbest despot they could find
Poetry, you ask?
Here’s some. Pour me a drink.  

—-8—-

from the nobody left to teach perspective

11 May

-8-

-8-

the kids menu at the bar

 

darling,
you look sweet enough
to make me draw
your man as a villain
in one of my picture books
shit has been getting so serious
lately
that this is a most welcome change
for me to bring out my color inks
keep the hues running
blending
it doesn’t matter
all is temporary
all are temperate until they’re tempted
eventually
regardless of the surface tantrum
the taciturn façade
we all accept
turn away
turn off
and simply order from the menu

-8-

damn, this coffee and this cigarette taste like ten years ago

10 Feb

—8—

—8—

glitch in the abyss

 
listen,
i’m tired of this
back and forth –
if
you’ve noticed
i’ve been busy
thinking about
not thinking about you
– so what do you want?

and just, you know
to be polite
how are you?
are you alright?
well, that’s good
i guess
and, me, well…
it doesn’t matter
it’s been a tough two years, year and a half
the prez, the singer dying, and you
it kind of broke me
for a bit

yeah, i’m better now
and maybe the breaking was the goal, actually
i’m working now, constantly, too much maybe   
and writing, as you see
a field of heather that regenerates after a wildfire
something like that, fuck, whatever, i don’t know
don’t listen to me – i’m stoned and tired
in need of some sleep, abyssal
anyway, what do you want?
it’s you that wound up at my door
—8—

products of the creator, disenchanted

05 Feb

-0-

-0-

viewing party

 
fucking profundity and so
the comedic suicide is set
she made the marks with a plastic knife
that came with the butter packets
meant for a baked potato
that they delivered
from the diner down Shore Front
they were confused when they read the order
hurrying over to bring the succor and the spur  
and if you’ve noticed
I’ve ceased giving names or titles
to anyone involved
as I refuse to grant
any further legacy to fiction
needless to say
she was upset
by these events that turned her
a commission drafted incorrectly
no release, the bruised skin like junky paper
and now not even a spud to
sink her teeth
into

-0-

ash

26 Jan

=9-

=9-

sneezing produces snot, just ask god

 

they burn the details of their history
that contradict their perception of the moment
to keep warm their indignation
and around this fire
they dance and revel
and wail arrhythmically
obfuscating any meaning from their words
like winds that carry smoke
until all that can be heard is
give us barabbas
give us Barabbas
GIVE US BARABBAS!

 

=9-

ash

23 Jan

-9-

-9-

the pyramids have eyes

 
i had a dream
in it
the anger rose as mountains
the inept climbed
the mindless rose one atop another
and at the peak
the cretin dyed himself
put his best hair on
and took the oath

 

i had a dream
we lived
huddled, defensive, an anger rising
extremities pinioned by time so magnified it wears
through corporeal weight self-manifested
nails dirty, climbing back
we choose for leaders those of merit
by way of piousness to new religions
they used to call them repulsion and schadenfreude

 

i had a dream

we lived

in it

and i simply couldn’t wake  

 

-9-

 

authenticity just screwed ya: underground reality

18 Jan

–8–

–8–

riff 11

 
when they say the bronx is burning
they’re talking about the yankees
but the bronx is always burning
and sometimes a baby dies
sometimes a secret becomes further hidden
he liked fiddling with the knobs
she was tired she was sleeping
into the cold night
a dozen    
–8–

authenticity just screwed ya: a return of sorts

17 Jan

-8-

-8-

“Here’s the thing about inauthentic people,” he says on the train, speaking in the abstract. “Inauthentic people are obsessed with authenticity.”

                                             – Jonathan Franzen, in conversation with Chuck Klosterman, 2010

-8-

the jury ponders

 
age is control
a limitation on outside conditioning
the gift of finity
age is that which we overcome
we must –
particularly upon the most fragile
markers:
youth submits to adolescence
an elder face becomes opaque then
unbecomes, submits
to coffin sheen
i write again
to reconcile this overcoming
and as i age
i matter less and less
just ask the muse

-8-

The Pressure of Patience (Part III)

03 Sep

-8-

-8-

pine coat blues

 

a pint of bourbon and the pine coat blues
a singing, persistent, rises from the park cement
dead body on other dead bodies under rock
as though a loop
as though meaningful, ancient
not just another mess, a waste
some thirty-four, a boston breath
unshaven, friendly, coarse
ready to share now for a future drink
a home, a standing lamp to piss on
fuck outta here, it shouldn’abeen marking out that corner
now nothing
solemnity, a fuddled liturgy
for a night
booze and candles along the spot where he was found
the broken revelry again the next one out
again
until a coterminous iteration of the pine coat blues
is sung anew through a fresh pint of bourbon
whose glass will break to the shouts of bis
and further empty time

 

(for Tucker)
-8-

The Pressure of Patience (Part II)

16 May

-8-

-8-

riff 04

 
standing by the tree
he said,
this is the only thing here
that has any roots,
then he left the hideout
he had a movie to catch
at the biograph
manhattan melodrama with a moll
notoriety, blood, a cheap orange dress
could be worse, he thought
at least one time
i walked out of jail with a wooden gun
-8-

The Pressure of Patience

26 Apr

-8-

-8-

jokes with a mirror (exercises of the demiurge)

 
most decent writers
in their artistic nascency
attempt a stab at a
love story
striving to make it fatal
striving to make it metal
then they live a little
and a few stabs have been attempted at them
a few slabs of being have been excised  
they might become better writers
they might get hoarse, creatively,
spiritually, whathaveyou
but they never
take a stab at a
love story
again
-8-

uncle frank returns

05 Apr

-8-

-8-

untitled (elvis jesus medgar uncle frank)

 
he said
people
are just messin’ bags of reaction
some wear pearls
some beat their wives
some hurt, some pain
some sleep, some stay and some just barely remain
some steal, some cheat, some are full
some are generous, some are brutal
some become presidents others convicts
all react
as they keep on movin’
retreat, submit, conquer, continue, on and on
rubble to rubble
reactionaries, all of ‘em, reactionaries
people, barely people  
-8-

Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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