Archive for April, 2011

30 Apr


There was a yesterday

When walking to the bodega

For a six-pack of Cobra

I helped a kid sporting blue and gray

Pack his mama’s trunk

With a large suitcase

That she’d need for her long trip down South

Homey said thanks

I walked off

To cop my malt

That I needed

To get to today.



Drunken Abstraction or Operatic Ignorance, or Spitting Blood

27 Apr

Cocaine is like frosted flakes –

A Freudian interpretation;

Theyy’ree Great!

Did you see the exclamation point?

Did you just laugh at your own joke?

Have you wanted to be Fitzgerald? Have you wanted to shower yourself in gin?

Has a German literary critic told you that you were too profane


While you talked about degrading fetishism and fascism;

The past is the past – but we all have a history.

Talking through it helps absolve the lighthearted banter.

I was in Stop & Shop today

To buy my Marlboro Red 100’s

and to clear the aisles of any and all tallboys.

The girl with the crooked face at the register told me that she didn’t drink like that –

I told her that that was a good thing otherwise you would look like me.

The cigarette I lit outside tasted better than nursing.

Writing in an era when people aren’t supposed to read

Is like making moonshine during prohibition –


Providence, baby, providence!

We are all

Either in love

Or slumming through it.


Bellowing Twerking Prose-Poetry…

21 Apr

You can die here just as easily as over there

As anywhere

Geography doesn’t change results

Wars continue as the hearts of men continue to hate

As the hearts of women continue beating

I went out with this girl the other day. We had our drinks. We had the customary laughs that strangers have. The flitting touches, the half smiles that are meant to seem shy. We went back to her place. We sat on the couch. We had a few more drinks. We bantered to pretend disinterest, hiding a mutually understood circumstantial arousal. The dangerous, dying poet in his leather jacket; the girl in a tank top unfit for the weather, artlessly displaying a beautifully tanned midriff. Then she got up from the couch to find a further intimacy to share in order to push her control of the situation. She came back with a photo album hidden in one of her shelves hiding pictures of a history she was now willing to share. I couldn’t tell you why. I didn’t want to ask her either. We went through the pages while she told me a synopsis of every experience that culminated in each flash of the camera. On the fourth page there was a page that held the photograph of her shooting a Remington rifle at a gun range. Just something I do when I visit my aunt upstate she said. I finished off my beer. Do you want another one? No. I remembered that I have to get somewhere. I didn’t want to tell her that I feared both women and guns. Taken one at a time produces an excited trepidation – but if they were present simultaneously I had to run. After all, I once had a woman throw a whole cello at me – the heavy fiberglass case an’ all. And the .44 she may have hidden in her sock drawer would be much lighter than a cello and a lot easier to aim, especially considering she’s had practice. Although I’m an asshole – I’m not ready to die yet.



Did she see herself in all of this? I wonder.

10 Apr

There was love somewhere here in this body before – now I’m just trying to restrain the shakes. I’m swathed in layers of material to kill this cold. But the cold is burning. I’m sweating. This heat is chilling to the point that… my body aches… by skin… pinpricks…

What do you do when you know you’re going crazy and you can’t figure out a way to stop this tide? An ocean of insanity has gripped you within its control and you feel yourself taking water into your lungs as you’re stuck underneath each eccentric wave.



Dear, Lilia

With a full glass of gin poured in from Fitzy’s personal stash – by which I mean that I’m drinking rotgut again – I try to give him every reason not to make that recording of Keats. I tell him that the nightingale will always be there but he doesn’t listen because he sees the night approaching… maybe in this place we’re both being chased by death, but he knows that I don’t want to turn the lights out in my room just yet. We drink but we’re breathing differently.

Time continues on in a funny way. Those we love disappear somewhere; leaving us to remember and to grieve, to love and long – to hope that their souls will find final solace of this world that they’ve relinquished unto us alone by seeing us mourn, by witnessing that they are being missed.

Sometimes we end up running circles around the world and other times we end up just running for sake of excursion; for the sake of finally feeling overcome and for the ability to face, worn and nearly broken, the inevitability that we must accept things as they are, and it is in this state that we can conjure the strength to hold our heads high, raise a dignified chin to an opposition (whether it may be time or fate or any other injustice) that will always be stronger, and that will remain longer on this earth than any of us, and say, ready to spit with triumphant vehemence into it’s  crude, leering façade: “I will not surrender”.

Even Keats said that pleasure visits while pain clings. So Francis and I drink gin. Because it helps. Because it works better than long sentences sometimes do. Because there are the wraiths that visit from time to time; they that sometimes smile and sometimes reprimand. But they love, and we love… and we also drink, but it doesn’t matter – beauty and poetry will exist because they do. Because memory forbids them to disappear, and because memory is stronger than even death.




Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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