Archive for February, 2014

There (Part II of Poetry Written During Long Journeys and Bad Transportation)

25 Feb



location, location


she no longer meets me at the door

because she knows that I’m going to come inside

this is the place where dreaming stirs

and we resurrect the same tired society

again and again and then once more

for good measure and a lower tax rate

the same society

that killed a mid-eighties storytelling Seattle frog

who bled out somewhere in a small Washington town

a few miles south of the big city

from self-inflicted wounds to the neck

this place

for which she swears a welcome

that smells of bleach and daytrips too:

hallucinogenics by way of Reaganomics

trickling down

to stupefy the poor

yet simultaneously inspire them as well

like some century-long broadcast of a fireworks display

this is the place

where your secretary flirts and gets paid less for it

where the birches slow under the sky in preparation for a revolution

where the witless and the windless die arrogant and alone

disassembled, gaunt, with slightly yellowed teeth

this is the place

that hides my shame and my ambition

this is the place

where I wait at a lost bus stop

while pushing a blue broom handle

lost in peeling snow

both of us

last, and lost again in sempiternity, swaying aimlessly

along concrete

this is the place

that spits and nurtures no one new

at least no one without any cash on hand

or a well-balanced checkbook

this is a place where I fell in love

with her and with reality

somehow damned to know and thirst for both

but that’s my character, as you well know

Moran, Molloy, not him, not me

we are a different shade of one another

he lacks dimension, breadth and sympathy

but I lack his self-assurance

we were both here before, him and I

this is the place where we had met

he left me by myself to write the story

I haven’t finished yet because it was too hard

one day I will

I have time here

in this place

this strung out, struggling

sleepless place

where she no longer meets me at the door



24 Feb



bread and circus


when I come home

I want to find her

a culprit sitting at my desk

eyes conspiratorial and searching

I’ll be direct

in silence and desire

in gratifying respect

the fingers become instruments

specific to unravel her

the pantyhose go first

I’ll rip them slowly

by way of a resolute symmetry

until I can move her panties

to the right

and leave my tongue to skulk along her clit

then just rest a minute there

make camp  

then proceed slowly upward

a pulsing tongue along the belly

marking landmarks and places to vacation

a kiss

between the breasts, across the neck, then to her lips

along making my way

in this manner skyward and vastly delicate

I will remove any adversarial items of clothing

athwart my route

leaving her in nothing

but ripped pantyhose

and tiny socks

because her feet get cold

so easy


Hidden Miracles and a Lonely Dusk

09 Feb



The Writer Grows Frustrated and Decides to Have a Cigarette on the Balcony Despite the Cold February Night


released by the past

before it was my time

before I was quite ready

careful not to

drop ashes in your whiskey glass,

she said

each step must be a cautious one

because, like Jean, you are much too sweet to live;

you break far too easily

to not be deemed obsolete

The cigarette helps, the writer thinks

and the soft, remaining magic

of the oncoming morn over a poor neighborhood:

all of it unseen by the pulpy softcover on her bureau

because my magic is something different

because she walks naked for no one there right now

at least no one that I know


the missing audience I write for,

Her –

the one with the capital ‘H’

and many, many masks

that she does not seem fit to hide from any



07 Feb


Reading tonight at the Brooklyn LaunchPad (Doors Open at 8PM)

721 Franklin Ave, Brooklyn, NY 11238



connexion: dea


wandering through dreams

like Sylvia Welter in a vault

I found her

my dea


for her a hapless, limbed and lithe idea

a shade of the liliaceae through the window of my writing space

a drink, dark skin, a fit of frenzy

unprinted pages

she calmed me after years of mourning

a novella stolen by a drunken uptown 6 train

coming home to someone separate and new

it was my second draft

maybe even my third

if you consider our time in Spain

my dea

how do I begin again?


wandering through dreams

like trauma in red lipstick

she found me

my dea

a well-informed voice

from the lungs then to the neck

and it strains

and then there’s music

clicking along the sound

it lifts the room like tenderness

soft fingers as extensions of wet eyes

she touched my arm

and I too became diapason

and rested on her lips

this trip becomes a journey through the night

so rough, so callous, full of sonnets as streetcorners

a trip that no one should take alone

although two lives lived synchronously

in concert

can stoke the dead man’s heart

with enough ritornelle to burn the air and cause a waking


my dea, oh my dea


wandering through dreams


dedicated with gratitude to the beautiful women who’ve stimulated my creativity simply by stumbling through my daily hallucination: one recently blonde, one stately mad and missing, one a lovely host of words and music



03 Feb


Check out the Upcoming Events section for two scheduled readings this week…



“This was no season for lilacs, but rather one for a sleepless inanity, something like a lost record out of radio play; there was both finality and infinity in it. There was life in it, but it never kept me, at least never fully.”

          One Face




a terrycloth bathrobe with a skittering mind

who’ll ask you whether you believe in God

what you thought of Heathcliff in the Heights

then take you on a long stroll along a short beach

a humor and a horror with thick dark brows

still melancholy over a proofread comma

from three years past




my writing,

my writing,

all my writing

for a woman

a truly exceptional one

I’d give it up

all of it

every word

just like any other addiction

for a different one

that’d keep me alive

(because a life

simply through words

is as thin and ageless as a page)


For Phil

02 Feb





take it off

this dress doesn’t suit you



I get stuck on you

like a needle in shaking fingers

we lost a great character actor today

and I turn to sex

because I don’t like the idea of sleeping alone

straying into a void

where three children lost their father

desperation, dope, a night, another night

we all get what we want

the escape that never feared us

the footsteps a tintinnabulation of manacles

no cries of liberty, no privilege in it all   

just metal against metal like blood against blood and then silence  

because how can we scream if we’re eating our own tails

in the cyclicality that buys us our self-destruction

from the first mistake we made

whether bundle, whether bottle, whether boredom, it’s all done

so take the dress off

just one strap at a time

I don’t want to think

he didn’t have the good grace

to take the rig out of his arm

shedding skin

we try to find a new snake underneath

instead alone



and you’re still in that dress

hasn’t anything I said sank in

I need your skin against me now

because the soul I’ve nearly wasted

is just so goddamn cold tonight


[For Phil]


Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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