Archive for June, 2012


28 Jun


Congratulations to rationality – the Supreme Court’s 5 – 4 logical decision to uphold the constitutionality of the Obama Health Care bill. Cheers!



Nietzsche Sees a Horse


I’m smoking hash from a paperclip

in the dry heat of Arizona

with my friend Jose

singing that Ben Quayle can suck our merry dick

until the paranoia gets to us

and we drive to grab a twelve pack of Modelo

in his agriculture covered Ford pick-up

with the Pixies playing on the tape deck  

and the sun is fine and red like socialism in a warped mind

and the heat is a contagion spreading

and each conjunction becomes a Hemingwayan syndication

and we yell along with the music playing:


Estaba pensando sobre viviendo con mi sister en New Jersey,

 Ella mi dijo que es una vida buena alla,

 Bien rica bien chevere, Y voy! Puñeta!


And we are all going a little crazy as we should

because the mind is as fragile as we know

and nothing really means a thing

because we’ll roast a pig tonight

and tomorrow, tomorrow

I’ll take my flight roughly after waking up next to Maria in the morning

and her brother will drive me to the airport

and I’ll see New York again in a different way


and the French statue that tourists line for like food stamps

will mean something new

a radical freedom that our capital lethargy forgot


We’ll keep well bred,

 We’ll stay well fed,

 We’ll have our sons,

 They will be all well hung…



Pop Filth

26 Jun



The Official Material section has been updated, lads and ladies. Cheers.


Someone asked me why I make so many references in my work. Well, it’s because I find the things I reference interesting (and I think that the people that appreciate my work will also find them equally intriguing) – and because in the age of Google, I think that these various references are easy to search out and look up if one wants to find out more about them. That isn’t to say that my work is inaccessible without a reader knowing exactly every reference that I make – hopefully, I’ve accomplished this undertaking and you find that even if you do not know exactly what I’m talking about you still get something from the work. Hopefully you have been able to make out the underlying intention behind every tragic, satirical, self-mocking bit of verse or prose that I’ve published here. If not you might be the cultural or intellectual equivalent of a prig or Bristol Palin.


Remember that when you read me – you are reading a formidable curmudgeon, a loving drunk, a dejected cynic, a man who’s lost himself in verse and has forgotten the world that has him cornered. I am but a contemporary Tom Sawyer with no fence to paint.


For a Languid Muse


Like a well bought derivative

you’re meaningless but profitable

like whores for plays, sickly and over-powdered

I’ve found you a role

dressed in white like a hopeful symbol

that inspires

but does nothing much besides

my creature, pure, of artifice

I wish to be moved most of all

by you

even if through liberal derision

by your lovely, limber form

this is just a disgraceful continuance of my lecherous adornment of you:

an adoring verb here (I apotheosize my love)

a gentling adjective for dressing

just a familiar orgy now

all of it

every line

a misery newly blind and bound by expectation

a cathouse in a loveless dusk

an atelier of rooted thieves with empty pockets and empty skill

a royal court without a queen

it’s growing dull, then duller still

you must let me feel less for you

as the inevitable conclusion forms merit

as a muzzle upon the hand with which I hold my pen

leave me be

finally a finality

a lament gutted by a smile

you’ve served a while

and now your time is done 


Sven with a Tray

24 Jun



Playing the Dutch Waiter in Last Position


I fold,

No more good writers

No more good writing

No more solace in waking up in a stranger

No more shame in not enough money for a drink

No more liver left to seek splendor from regardless

No more form:

no style

no tricks

no body

no muses

no great American novel (Franzen is doing just fine)

No more scanning the obituaries for Cohen or Kundera

No more gratitude

No more live shows

No more looking for her in the audience

No more autodidacts or clairaudients or daft aesthets of the blogosphere

No more critics

No more advances

No more binding contracts

No more grievances

No more heritage at all:

no history

no roots

no instauration (surely)

no old

no new

I fold,

My head is like a chimney and my stomach churns with a jagged hatred mixed with acid-reflux in recent mornings (feeling like John Kennedy Toole making roguish cocktail banter in the limbo cabaret about Snooki’s book contract with Simon & Schuster)

and then I get a phone call

about a new bit of verse overdue

and out of spite, like an overdose

I’ll sit around like Christian chastity

and manage to write a new epic poem

sagely titled “Fistfucking a Republican”



21 Jun



No One Needs a Dedication

(Viktor Robertovich Tsoy would have been 50 years old today)


Waking up in the drunk tank

and it’s not even Christmas

and despite that this circumstance allows for an easy Pogues reference

it’s a fucking hassle to be roused sloppily by homeless drunks when morning comes  

waiting to get a desk appearance

waiting to get out of the precinct

waiting to get a fucking cup of coffee from the man caged in his cart across the street

and it feels like you’re Tsoy at the end of Needle

stabbed in the belly, smoking a cigarette, walking off the screen with snow and presolar grains in your boots

jaded but contumacious

just like rock n’ roll itself  

vodka in a grungy co-op apartment

a ravelment in pointless revelry

a face that smells like kerosene

a yellow fog that fills a dying city

a constellation of stars that no longer exist

a legend that will burn our children whole

and if this heartbreaking burden becomes my new day

so be it

it’s always been savage here

no familiar alternatives

so, say goodbye to your mothers, sons and travel on

let this new myth become our truth like a maniacal woman might


Every Single Night

20 Jun


Welcome back to my favorite vegan! Fiona released her first new record (The Idler Wheel Is Wiser than the Driver of the Screw and Whipping Cords Will Serve You More than Ropes Will Ever Do)  in seven years yesterday. Cheers.


“Lovely one,
With delicate hands and slender feet
Like a silver pony,
Walking, flower of the world,
Thus I see you,
Lovely one.”


                                    – Pablo Neruda



The Wake


I feel you like an animal

that robs the rain of its surprise

that knows of no fire in the sky

that says I love you after climax

like cement

like ferroconcrete

and the beasts that called your name before

only feasted


never savoring their volant kill

an androcentric fantasy

and it becomes a mess

just blood that don’t discern

and we leave each other

like the first shock of opium or gray hair in the sink

and I’ll miss talking to you

in our kitchen

with the warmth of a nursery rhyme

most of all

(whether on Neruda’s Lovely One or Basquiat’s last collection after Warhol’s death at the Baghoomian or androgyny or how a dancer can dance without feet or cancer or hesitation at Aphrodisian curves or how to drink like Tennessee or aging or the little ghost, just the end of publishing)

my unsuccessful bluff, a SoHo snuff box

in a pile of other merchandise

I, at times, feel so bereaved and misplaced

but I know that there’s nothing that you need find  

and there’s no consolation necessary

just a sweet violation wrought

all you’ve ever needed was your delight and the misery of always being right

and the ability to walk away without apology


BOOM for real

19 Jun



Untitled (Bastardize Your God)


If you sacrifice

your queen

for a wanton pawn

you’ll die

a wanted man


How does

your horn sound

this daylight

in abyss

if you had ever loved me


(Can I convince you?)


Sing me a song, boys

in your junkie patois

in your own history

like Cooning drawn in chalk

to resurrect this ghetto


Imagine if Shakespeare Actually Lived in the Park Feasting on Literary Scraps and Discarded Half-Macs

18 Jun


Check out one of my favorite West Coast writers, Zarina Zabrisky, at her site (, and maybe if we’re ever in the same time zone for a night, you might see us doing a reading in some tipsy, bombed out, poetic room.



For Sunny Days  


             The tense, melancholic dips of clinical depression have become more or less expected, like a constant morning when you know you have to wake up to walk the dog otherwise it will piss all over the carpet. You can feel these dips approaching, slowly coming on, like a begrimed blonde in a lousy bar who’s sloppily playing with the zipper of your jeans after you’ve bought her a half dozen drinks upon request. You begin seeing your beard spreading onto your neck, lower and lower like an inverted turtleneck; like a coldblooded, vulgar army employing a scorched earth policy. No quarter will be shown to those captured.

            The distress you’ve felt in the surrounding world becomes a mutiny, an enemy, a tempest, an idea with a drill head, an entire armada of emotions that has outmanned and outflanked your sanity – bombarding the synapses of your psyche until there’s nothing and no one left but hatred wearing the bloodied captain’s robes.

            You hate the teenagers buying teal packs of American Spirits at overpriced Manhattan delis for $15 dollars.

            You hate the late MTA buses and the commuters that wait patiently and sigh like fishermen.

            You hate the smell of the decrepit Hispanic men on the subway, coated like ablution and shame in garlic and the rancid sweat of yesterday’s drink.

            You hate the military recruiters handing out pamphlets outside the entrances into our universities (30,000 sexual abuse cases annually as something to look forward to, hidden in the small print).  

            You hate the J.P. Morgan Chase employees that stand around like panhandlers in suits stalking gullible prey with business cards and promises of a low APR if you fill out an application for a new credit card today.

            You hate the girls that look too innocent for this city, except for an Upper West Side trust fund; coddled into psychoanalysis at the age of twelve as a rite of passage, walking barelegged and high, unaware that they’re destined to make a vocation out of dating assholes throughout their jejune years of pale beauty, while constantly waiting for the reincarnation of an approbating father to arrive and embrace them.

            You hate the rising real estate prices: to buy or to rent or just a quiet place to die in like a suitcase; you hate the beggars that sleep in the only shade left in the street; you hate the lionized manner in which everyone tries to wear a unique hue while finding nothing interesting to say at half-time; you hate the honest liars, the WASPs with their over-groomed children and the good pew on Sunday morning, the guy that hands you a coupon for a titty-bar at 10 am on a busy weekday every time you walk past Church Street, the awkward smiles, the dying light, the mounting work, the constant bills in the mail, the lovers you can’t seem to forget, the dinner date forced upon, the familiarity of it all…

            And most of all, you hate the inevitability. The goddamn inevitability. It never seems to change. 



Another Short One for Sunday

17 Jun



Untitled XIV





a woman












Bathetic in Disguise

15 Jun



Residual Revelations

(for Sevy Verna)


Insanity is not an art project

it is too many pigeons in the coop


Forgive me my ideas as you

and never read my words again


It’s 4 am and feeling cryptic

and the dead are drinking gaseous life on Jupiter


And it’s quiet here on Earth and the loneliness is decadent and near

such a lovely night that it tends to become quixotic

but never tender

never quite


And then the rain comes on

like a charging dog with rabid teeth, drooling

rancorous and ready to engulf, enjoy

wipe the world away biblically and all the frenetic pained with it

so that maybe we can start anew

without ever learning from our mistakes


[The script for the second film has finally been finished. Cheers.]




14 Jun


If you can’t make a life with someone

at least broker an understanding:

I couldn’t let you sleep with other men

not out of spite or jealousy or wounded pride

but simply because I didn’t feel the need to share

and because

even your sweetness can’t last amongst so many tongues


Pickles, Brandy and Other Notes

09 Jun


I’m a Hard Man to Kill is going to be screened (on the big screen) at the Tribeca Grand Hotel this Saturday, June 16th. Come one, come all. Details at the link below.



Sex Machine got bitten by a vampire and tried to hide it from the group.


To do: start writing a memoir called Morphine and Ice Cream.  


If someone asks you to pen them a poem about a sunrise, punch them right in the fucking mouth and watch them bleed like it was a Pink Floyd laser show at the planetarium.


New York used to be sanctuary for the dispossessed. But the junk and drink and crime and waste and youthful ideology either killed them off or humbled them into venture capitalism. The remainder is a tenement across from a high rise. The remainder is all and null. The remainder is us caught in between, hoping for a classic city blackout.


a guy, a girl, a hat, and some cigarettes


Your bed was a ledger of mediocrity conquered and thus I became obsolete relatively quickly, but we still fit together well.


With all the miscellaneously sped up experiences that I’ve amassed (more drugs and unemployment than Charlie Sheen has ever seen) in my 25 years, what is left to look forward to: heart attacks, overdoses, lonely nights and further subterranean adventures in books and clinical depression?


Winona Ryder is in her early 40’s now and still seems like the most interesting, gorgeous woman in the world. Also, Jennifer Connelly – plagued to be an old school Brooklyn girl in her soul – is a former English Lit major who digs Nick Cave and Polly Jean Harvey (what’s weird is that I think my future ex-wife was the one that told me that particular tidbit).


If you ever find yourself literally running to a bar, I suggest you start collecting open container tickets instead.


If she asks you to “build a home” with her, build a sepulcher instead.


Love is simple. Simpler than we make it out to be. It is the only thing remotely holy or defiant in this entire deranged, fucking waltz.




A New Poem Like the Old Poems

08 Jun



A friend of mine has been going through a rough time with his girl, so I wrote this to cheer him up a bit. It came out similar to some older pieces, but still good enough to warrant sharing.


Another Honest Imitation of Paradise


He said it like he was the first to say it honestly

I no longer love

I drink

and the audience applauded

and they bought him more drinks after the show, both brown and clear ones

and a few girls came home with him for a disappointing story

and they woke up next to a pallid heap of flesh that smelled of stale tobacco

and other poetry

and he gallantly made them cheap coffee that was undercover as an import

and then he hid another drink underneath his breath

and then he walked them to the door like a general surrendering  

and then he sat in front of his typewriter as though a praying casualty, like death in neon  

and he thought about his words

I no longer love

I drink

He wrote like a man too used to hiding behind the shadows of his women



Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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