Archive for August, 2012


26 Aug





            The bus tumbles through Queens with the haste of a morning drink.

            The woman in front of me has a v-neck cut to her blouse, revealing a battlefield of skin to me, the geography between her neck and upper back covered in moles that seem as seismic as earthquakes swelling along a forgotten coast, they tremble at every speed bump.

            I watch them shaking, transfixed by their balletic chaos. They tap dance on her flesh as we’re crossing the bridge.

            I wonder where I find myself.

            I am tired as only a beast is tired.

            Soon I’ll be home like a diamond.

            Soon I’ll have a romantic notion in a sleep that seems to have been humming for decades. A lush, wondrous slumber, between a tallboy and the lazy high of a spliff rolled by crooked hands. A vagabond miracle and then syncope and I will fall like love stretching across a dreaming California.

            I watch the woman in front of me like a zealot with an explanation.

            The moles are mines, little mushrooms sprouting up.

            It’s a spectacular audition!

            But then there’s monotony, ambivalence, and agitation, and it’s like angels shot out of the sky like ducks, and the smell of bourbon mixes with the gunpowder in the air, letting the dogs have their moment.

            And I’m racing home.

            There’s a bump in the road. The commuters soar like a tremulous statistic, up, momentarily weightless, wayfaring honestly. Each face asking for clemency, down a hole, each tooth as warm as a penny.

            The road resembles the amphetamines that lead to public cunnilingus. The road is paved and unscrupulous, a heaven rusting.

            I request my stop, and soon I will pass on like nothing has arrived.


With Gratitude

24 Aug


I would like to take this time to thank the wonderful cast and crew that worked with this drunken fool on our second project. “Waking Up” will continue the romantic, abstract narrative begun in “I’m a Hard Man to Kill”. First day of shooting out of the way – more to come.


click to enlarge




A Brief Remark About All This Bullshit

24 Aug


Orphan OR “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” is the most nihilistic tune ever written for children…


When my life makes sense again

and I’m back on my feet like a hitchhiker

I’m going to fall in love with you

because I need someone to be warm to

because we are the disenchanted generation

that transitioned from crystal meth to bath salts

from being lotharios to suffering whiskey dick on futons 

and all I want to do is become an accomplished author

reach a global audience

see the blood rush to your face when you let me cum

move to Zimbabwe

win a Man Booker Prize

after claiming residency

then write a poem called “Jesus H. Faggot”

to offend everyone

and then disappear



            So, we finished our first shoot for the second short film (“Waking Up”) this past Tuesday night.

            The opening scene required some extras to sit around me while we listened to a street musician singing (played masterfully by Jonathan Murphy of Cave Days). But guess what we didn’t anticipate? That in the same corner of the park where we were set to shoot, that fucking 90’s college-hash-jammers Dispatch (I can’t imagine that someone remembers them aside from a light acid trip and “The General”) were set to be playing a surprise show! Unbelievable – fucking Dispatch?! You can’t make this shit up.

            But, fortunately, we got through it. We wrapped the first day successfully.

            Then we went to the bar.

            Then we drank a lot with college kids who were all entertaining in varied ways for a $1 a pint in an out-of-the-way NYU bar in Greenwich Village where the bartender knows that I know how to tip even when I’m as broke as artist cliché needs to be.

            I stumbled home when I realized that two of my friends were obnoxiously intoxicated and trying to hit on a 19-year old young girl outside who was shouting, as a an obviously-illiterate literature-major, about her stringent, unprovoked hatred of Hemingway (full of “he’s just a misogynist with short sentences” simplifications), making her sound like an Amish girl from Utah pontificating on the hip-hop merits of Watch the Throne (that shit cray).

            On the train home at 4:30am, I ran into a girl that works with unceasing optimism in the supermarket down the block from my apartment, always ready with a joke about the fact that I’m the only person to buy malt liquor from there at 9 in the morning before they’re even ready to restock.

            I usually remind her that some of us have unwavering principles and ambitions, I guess. The problem is that I never remember her name. But then, what’s in a name. No easy Willy Shakespeare puns to be inserted during lasting hangovers.

            She was with her boyfriend, whom she didn’t seem to enjoy too much, and another couple, as well as an older woman that seemed to be playing the role of an unnecessary chaperone.

            Eventually I drunkenly got into a discussion with them regarding my idea that the only accessible divinity that is available to us resides within the warm, engulfing nurturant of woman (“nurturant” as a word to rhyme with a pretentious line like “the religious god as hyperbolic cormorant”). A sensual argument no doubt – but I think it went over well. At least I didn’t start breaking down Ziggy Stardust track by track because it was stuck in my head like the onset of schizophrenia.

            After finally stumbling home, I listened to a friend’s reggae cover of Nirvana’s “Love Buzz” a few times while smoking a spliff with pineapple kush and L&M tobacco and wondered why I describe settings without any relevant information and why I write the same thing over and over and why I haven’t been embarrassed for my sincerity in such a long time.

            Then I fell asleep.

            Onto a new dreamless day. 



I Have No Idea

16 Aug


A few notes before we read my new “masterpiece”.

Paul Ryan seems awfully willing to suck the cock of a defense contractor – so how are the religious right going to get behind him? Eventually, under the Romney/Ryan administration, we might be spending 98% of our annual budget on defense and the military-industrial complex (see how many roads get paved that way). Homey, is that how you’re gonna protect us from China?! I can’t even get a few nerdy Chinese spammers from commenting 40 times a day on the same goddamn post.

Global Pussy Riot day on Friday. The Pussy Riot vs. Putin’s “Free-Democratic” Russia (quotes a satirical necessity) would be amusing in a surrealist fashion if it was fiction, but the fact that this is real should send a shudder through anyone opposed to large (and growing) totalitarian states.

Also, I will be on the West Coast, doing a reading and supporting the publication of my friend Zarina Zabrisky’s book sometime in November. More details forthcoming.

[Pre-Order at the link provided]



Mr. Quaalude

(for Anim)


Mr. Quaalude

say something to the audience

something new

you already paid for the new suit

got paid for the gig  

talk about me

about my conjugal visit with my old bitch, Depression

talk to me like a gabby shirk

talk to me about her

my chemical cartoon

my busy, dizzy moon

my funeral festoon

tell them all the details

about the way that I ripped her clothes apart with my teeth and claws

about how she had to walk out naked from our little room

shivering and wet

celestial and concupiscent

tell them about the dead libertines that were the rock stars of their days

that wrote verses about orgies and plays about boisterous erections

my friends don’t believe that they ever existed

don’t believe that Papa showed off his chest hair to reporters

was commissioned to look for SS subs by the US government in Cuban waters

that Mailer used to punch party guests in the face after too much whiskey

that Kerouac used to publish three criticisms for one bad book

mostly in anonymous pseudonyms

that Fedya looked prison death in the face

that Ames dated Apple

that our clothes are all smoky and rough

and that the unification of intellectual thought

like barbarism

isn’t elitist

but a sensual logic meant to breathe and grow outside of the constraints

of underfunded education.

Mr. Quaalude

to be honest

I don’t know how to end this poem

because it’s not really a poem

but a diet

I’ve been skipping meals to hasten my metabolism with caffeinated bourbon

and now I’m writing out of lack of exercise

my punctuation has gone to shit

and my guts feel golden

and rusted

and rusted

and rusted

and immensely lyrical

like yesterday morning  


You read Strindberg?! Fuckin’ Hell!

14 Aug



never enough time (outside)


I tried to please her

while she just wanted me to ask permission

and apologize

like a crucifix at the bottom of a donation plate

like the asshole that caused the pestilence

outside the BuyRite Liquors on 28th street

screaming as though either wanted or underneath a saintly hallow

taking his vow of poverty to heart

taking it all in

and I

as placid as I’m usually done in by early afternoons

after walking outside

as always

only kissed her

and that kind of sentiment was met like a needless abbreviation

an uncomely decoration in a letter longhand

but she did have a sprinkle of serendipity in her

just a dash

a little tangerine colored, kindled spirit twinkling whimsically

a jejune little pout

a child’s mournful lips left without dessert

an unready schism into a maudlin defiance

so she kissed me back like a firing squad at dawn

an order executed with impenitence

and, after this month’s check

and a few pills  

as pretty as Harlem fingernails in summertime

she cried for Vidal like I drank for Salinger

when I woke up that January

a few years back

from your phone call

cigarette first

“Buddy Glass has died”

I smiled, too weak to anguish

and then read it all online

and knew that it would be reduced to lawsuits

and other things that paradise has lost

if it ever existed outside an opportunity

for a new lover’s madness

a revelation or two in the smoke of a bar willing to bargain

between a comical murmuring of the dispossessed and a few dollars in the tip jar

a good book that meant something after each unraveling

a ravenous memory

and then again

I smiled because nothing is forever

and I’ve got my own deadlines to make

so now I only kiss you

when I walk out of liquor stores

no matter who’s preaching outside

I have suffered exigencies to consider

and never enough time


Lost My Pen on an August Moon

11 Aug



My birthday spent in a half-fortnight of celebration can be summarized by:

a bad acid trip, a lot of empty whiskey bottles, running into an Orthodox Jewish couple in Central Park that doubled as a jam-band with a fondness for Phish and arguing U.S. Drug Policy, forgetting to shave, waking up with less money but more love for the world, feeling the decay, feeling finite, feeling good in a bittersweet hue… 

So I wasn’t able to write anything all too worthwhile, so I can provide only with a quickie of second-tier verse.


Untitled (Sensualism)


The sun tonight

with you

looks like a haiku

5 – 7 – 5

the clouds spreading around like apricots in heat

a clement place for the star to sink  

your legs wrap around my torso

and your gown rises soft against my skin  

your knees clench my naked ribs

and I feel your warm tenderness  

and I know that nothing will last this long

this memory will be mine


an accreted aphorism of each lash, and your brows, your dark smile

your moans, your sweat, your carnal declarations

becoming the renewed inauguration of my romantic philosophy

you are my little secret knowledge

my orphaned blessing

no, darling, you are not divinity, don’t fear

but you are close enough

for me to know that truth exists

and to follow blindly in your path

like a lecherous pilgrim


Happy Birthday, Jack

08 Aug



A Few Things That I’ve Learned in Life

 –         Don’t escape this world a charlatan – live by your principles and when it’s time for the encore the crowd will surely applaud.


–         It’s hard for rich people to also be good people, so go easy on them, and try to take as much of their money as possible.


–         Don’t be a selfish lover. Make her cum. She’ll enjoy it. And if you’re with a woman you never want to feel like a bitter alternative to a good book and a vibrator.


–         Never fear death. It is the only way out, homeboy.


–         You don’t have to be political – you just shouldn’t be a Republican after 1933. Rush Limbaugh might taste like fried chicken and Oxycontin, but that doesn’t mean you should eat his shit.


–         Keep reading. You won’t know how much it meant to you until it’s gone. Buy your children a copy of The Little Prince and read it to them every night they request it, even if they’re Zooey’s age.


–         The spammers in the Peoples Republic of China are humorless assholes who for no reason obsess about pawning off bootleg Louis Vuitton.


–         Every time you think your life is changing, it’s not – it’s just unto another miserable peg in the cycle, a new rest area along the highway.


–         Never date someone who’s never experimented with drugs; odds out that they are bound to become the most humorless person that you know.


–         If your hands are covered in gasoline – it’s time to start a fire. Figuratively.


–         Don’t forget that business is business – it’s not personal, except when it becomes personal and all shit breaks loose.


–         Never buy heroin from a dude who calls himself Murder Junkie Mike despite never having played with GG Allin.


–         Forget to shave as often as possible.


–         If you’re a white kid who grew up in suburbia, don’t call anyone a “nigga” until you’ve tried out your power of report door to door at the Polo Grounds (2927 Frederick Douglass Boulevard). 


–         There are many fewer wise men out there than you think, but some of them really know their shit.


–         Don’t ache when you don’t have to – but sanity is overrated, just try to skip the EST.


–         If you feel like an existentialist stranger in the world, go watch Francis Ford Coppola’s Rumble Fish and Dennis Hopper will explain everything to you. Acute perception, motherfucker!


–         Fuck what people say: forget where you come from as soon as possible.


–         Live by your principles. Don’t worry if people call you an Idiot (a lá Dostoevsky) – just don’t be an asshole.



Question Mark Not Required

07 Aug



Q: How do you write?


A: Good writing comes on like a bad piss in a place inhospitable to that necessity. You have to get it out, but there’s no pen, no paper. You go over it in your head and it mutates and evolves, then it devolves, then it changes its eye color by putting in mismatched contacts to masquerade them as heterochromatic-enigmatic, it dyes its hair, it puts on a new hat, it purses its lips, it changes its style, so that by the time you get to your little room with the desk and the notepad and the typewriter and the fast internet connection which you can use to check your facts and the spelling of the word “boondoggle” (boon-dog-uhl) in an online dictionary, it is all a culminated futility like the last rites whispered  and you just have the words: “if you don’t love me then at least lie to me awhile and grant me the odd meretricious orgasm” and something as silly as “future doesn’t matter much when you’ve got bourbon”. And you’re so angry that you could spit, or start shooting smack again (because then it would all be blissfully inconsequential again), because no more words will come. So you put on some music, wash you face, roll a cigarette with some hash that you’ve first melted then crushed into the tobacco, and finally sit still; so still that you’ve caught completely unaware that the words come back again. And they are better. And they will make someone smile. And they will make someone think. And they will make someone know how to spell the word “boondoggle”.


I Feel as Weathered as the SDS in 1969

02 Aug



When was the last time that God came out and summoned a dude to sacrifice his son on top of a mountain? Why would he change his forte all of a sudden? I’m just saying – homeboy needs to get back on top of his game. Play some tricks on all these atheist motherfuckers walking around all pompous and logical and shit. Where is Yahweh to show his face in the burning bong, proselytize some additional commandments for a new millennia – after all, some shit has changed; we’re all globalized capitalists now and it’s all false idolatry – so where are the new rules and regulations that we need to all abide by? Like:


Thou Shalt Not register as a Republican now that Intellectual Conservatives have all gone the way of the dodo (that would have stuck around outside of the rapture timeline if only Bloomberg allowed us all to smoke again…)


Thou Shalt Not plead innocent because no one’s going to believe you anyway


Thou Shalt Not replace hard earned grammar for a vocabulary found in text-messaging


Thou Shalt Not stop a man from choosing between death and a life sentence of killing inside of a gray-painted penitentiary in order to abide by the savage politics of either being the rapist or the victim while having your animal-tested meals supplied for you like slow arsenic by tax payers who hate you blindly and watch Glee marathons that they’ve recorded on their DVRs


Thou Shalt Not stop me from smoking a joint on a stoop in a more and more pretentious Brooklyn (I don’t care how many galleries you can stuff into a warehouse): in the same neighborhood where I used to get stopped for being white in an yet-ungentrified Hispanic East New York; where I had a friend named Pinky who sold me bags of Off-E at cost (nearly for him, not his suppliers) at $8 a bag and sometimes offered me a couch to nod on for a nastily unimportant week spent in nihilistic self-aggrandizement (I had some grand thoughts on that couch, cheaper than a shrink, with no one accusing me of wanting to fuck my mother)


I don’t know.


Personally, I’m not an atheist – but what’s up with the goddamn Genesis God? That badass Old Testament mamajama full of vengeance and sulfuric rain. The one scared of words (a lá blasphemy), worried about his twitter followers and throwing down some plagues on sanded sadists (yet Ahmadinejad is still chilling without any frogs or locusts parting his barber-school discount coiffure)?


I’m just saying… we’re still a religiously divisive country – but, why? What the fuck?! I’m satirizing Goethe now (more Marlowe and Berlioz, but still), but I know that when I get to portraying God as a black homeless man with more wisdom than the canon, I’m going to get railroaded by the evangelists and the Orthodox wannabe contestants of IFC’s Beard Wars. I’m not even counting the undereducated, illiterate bastards that would picket Sesame Street if a hack like Dan Brown wrote an episode.


What I’m saying is that I’m really lonely, man.

Really. Help me out. Hook me up. Give me some of that good shit.

Show me something that would make feel as alive as I did before. Give me some simple gift that would make me capable to cathect anything besides the shadow of some ancient lover that they used to make music for, that used to flaunt her body in front of me dressed in nothing but smoke and her purple, cotton Fruit of the Loom underwear.


The reason that I still believe in God? In that omniscient, omnipresent, omnibenevolent (a continent on this planet has a third of its populace dying from an immunodeficiency virus, but that’s old news to the non-believers) being – rather, I believe in some sort of cumulating power, energy, conglomeration that put this fucking engine in motion billions of years ago so that we could evolve from single-celled organisms into sentient creatures that were able to fuck up on our own – I believe in It because I fucking have to. Because I want to believe that something wants me to go on a talk show somewhere (because that’s the way that information gets around nowadays) and explain why everyone is wrong: why Republicans are expendable, why homosexual marriage is not an encroachment on a dying middle class family idyll, why if you still believe the bible to be literal you would have to have some slaves (and, no, they ain’t gonna be black – so the Southern bigots can all stop preaching and wishing and look to which of their overall-wearing, toothy neighbors looks hefty enough to pull a buggy likely full of corn subsidies) that they’re willing to beat to an inch of their life and be willing to put their women out camping in the backyard every time aunt flow comes to town, why I don’t care if you’re worried about your values when people in this country are unemployed, hungry, but still sticking it out because they think that someone might have a solution (fuck no), why writing a decent script is more than putting good lines in pretty women’s mouths, why we might understand one another and allow each other time to grow instead of massacring those that believe in fabulist notions other than our own, why we might see that the system that we’ve progressed into is controlled by those that were as coincidentally rich as they were coincidentally Christian, why I think suicide is laughably illegal in this country, why no member of the Jersey Shore deserves a book deal, why there shouldn’t be a why anymore, why I have to drink in order to remain sane and tranquil enough to write, why I believe in a truly free press, in truly free speech, why I think that liberalism doesn’t mean fucking political correctness, why I think that we need to legalize heroin in order for people to stop snorting bath salts, why I think that Kanye is a Mozart-like genius of our generation, why I just want a girl who wants to bunker in with me to watch old Woody Allen films (especially the early funny ones) and laugh at serious paranoia and drink wine and fuck and not care that the world and the culture that built it is crumbling around us as though we were all just pompous Remuses in a Roman creation myth.


Deferential Scrambled Eggs

01 Aug



So, don’t get pissed at me – but I wrote this short little poem on a napkin while eating scrambled eggs this morning. It came out in rhyme. So fuck me, I guess. Blame the extra protein and choline.

Welcome to August.


vera incessu patuit dea


I want to swim your name

in a tender, nearly mute refrain

but across these different coasts

certain sentiments get lost


I love your smell

reminding me of pinot grapes

your fingers stroke my neck

wet from the bath, as rough as dates


But now, no more attempts to rhyme

I’ve always preferred my verses free

this sonnet to pass along your sine  

written on a dime to magnify your mystery



Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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