Archive for February, 2015

end of the month 7 under the weather

28 Feb



after work


there is something candid about this particular exhaustion
like the fucking viking funeral was last week
and i caught a splinter in the eye
while the flame took him slow then whole
but this was not that
i’m just tired, both eyes are fine, but i’m still bothered that some dickhead offered me a hash-tag when i asked for some moroccan hash a few hours ago
(all this au-dada-city these days! gotta get outta babylon!)
i got high regardless though, but that’s a boring story
now my train ride on the other hand had a preacher-singer
with a boom box attached to a wooden crate he wheeled around
he couldn’t really hold a note
but his hands were guileless and quite adroit at selling his cds
it wasn’t much, but it got me sleeping
enough to make it back to my door again


* * *


there’s something sweet about this beer
even though it was bought cheap
but sympathy, true sympathy, usually is
and i miss her, fuck
i shouldn’t
but some kid at work keeps harping on a two-month heartbreak
— i miss that youthful overestimation, i used to have it too —
the realities grow conscious only later:
the understanding of separate ego, variables beyond control, the inability to change her mind, to make anyone love if they’re unwilling
– but it’s alright, it will be, just as right now it is what it is and all of that and blah blah blah and it’ll get better, it might, it will, it won’t, but that’ll be that
then, fuck it for now
get living done
that’s what i told him
but i still missed her
(still thought how highbrow it might be of me to use my tongue to measure the circumference of her thighs)
i bought the kid a beer
drank one with him
went home
beaten, candid
and exhausted



6 and we far from the rockaways…

24 Feb



homey future under hush


the future is a paranoid

aging neophyte

wondering aloud how it could be

walking through your neighborhood

foreign to him

in a manner

somewhere between

a stumble and a strut

he looks perpetually frazzled

wide-eyed, looking for nothing in particular

hairs hoary

the whores dead

the past wiped away like cum off a gravestoned belly

soft tissue

the granite scratches

the future goes on

despite the fact that it doesn’t exist

the last hope on childless jaws extending their crowning breath

knowing that, really, the rub never was

                                    all alone, left alone, stayed alone

it was that some fateful motherfucker kept sprinkling sawdust underneath your nose

and saying happy birthday every time you sneezed


check underneath the seat

20 Feb



vile and vulgar wonderings under 46


wondering how I got here

wondering when I’m going to die

wondering what almost thirty means

wondering whether we’ll ever elect a gay socialist president to sit on POTUS’s sedes stercoraria

wondering whether I’ll ever smile at nature’s caprice again

snow boots rarely lead to good work, but we all have to tip the Chinese food delivery man at least 15 % somehow (try the Singapore Chow Mei Fun, I guarantee it)

wondering whether if I told you I can get god to lick your tits (she said it, not me!) but you might get into a bit of trouble for it – how many of you would really refuse, and say ‘I’ll pass’?

wondering when I’ll get to fuck Mnemosyne again – she’s a squirter and she helps me remember

she’s been passed around a lot of us, it’s true, that’s just how it works – for example, Nabokov took her as she slept, but that’s just the type of guy he was – acts loveless and full of purpose

another bit of meaninglessness to throw into the fire, the eventual fire, when the fire comes

it’s like you’re behind this wall, but I can’t see an opening

I read a few days ago, running out of cigarettes as always because of a nervous system that took a hit four years ago, that time will cease to exist in approximately three and half billion years

and we’ll all be frozen, like them folks at Pompeii, but still whole, corium over ash, each of us contained in our own unwavering look of predespondency

when I get there, if I do, almost thirty after all, I want either your legs or your arms around my neck, because in my opinion, timelessness deserves a worthy prize

the cosmos becoming like the scratched and scuffed polaroid of a lost lover she keeps hidden in that lacunar always under her pale hand

but it’s fine

it’s fine

it will be fine

we deserve to stop wondering, we deserve what’s coming


The Title is a Process

17 Feb



via dolorosa


color and pain are only separated by a single letter

the body drags, skips over the larger stones

the matron at the front of the procession sings something mournful

premature, sure, but

the body cannot hear it anymore

a young man hands over an energy drink

the bloodied hand barely clings

his movement produces no distance anymore

a con-job in the eye of it

the reporters will be calling soon

asking for a quote

but the offices are empty

the hindsight-augury hanging off the doorframe reading,

“the rapture was undertaken through quid pro quo as always…”

the body tries to drag itself along

several of the larger stones in front of it

glistening like pebbled candy adjoining the shallow of the sorrel, muddy sluice

there will be silence there

the water shows you there was a home here prior

and room to grow

morning too

succor granted to deserved and undeserved alike

diamonds designating property

and a lot of blood and history and the eventual lack of recollection

it was a con-job in the eye of it, for sure

but as color and pain are only separated by a single letter

no distance really is achieved

especially when you look at it directly

but we do not, we are the body

and we drag our flesh and antiquity behind us

like the worthless fortunes that they are

because even though our legs no longer carry

we just know that we are getting somewhere

and we’ll be arriving there so very soon


Back in Brooklyn

13 Feb



Back in BK with two shows coming up:

2/14/15 – 1370 Rockaway Parkway (Doors open at 8pm/ Show starts at 9pm)

Might be a cover, ya’ll, but the show is dope and the venue is smoker-friendly (cough, cough, you know where Jack’s gonna be)

2/22/15 – 459 Myrtle Avenue (“I AM KING” Showcase at The Five Spot, 8pm)



dashing off a question

12 Feb



new watch


my eyes


past the passerby,

the train conductors scurrying their dogies

into the locomotive

almost as though it was a custodial matter;

they want all of us inside,

but I’m seeking out

the hanging clock

so I can


my time


like conversation wasted

on my kot Esenin

who claims through purring

that time is inconsiderate anyway

the only thing worthwhile buying, free

time is and has always been of no account

only light is eternal

– can’t you see it moving

the practice having just begun

when your eyes first turned into a calendar



08 Feb



advise to my children, born and unborn


I’ve always heard the maxim

as you will undoubtedly one day

to love yourself,

but I say, no,


try to love others first

all others

it will be difficult, no doubt

because people are DIFFICULT

but keep at it, little snowflake

because as you melt


love others first

and learn to let them love you back


Upcoming Readings

06 Feb



Two Shows coming up:

Eva’s this Saturday, 2/7/15, 8pm – 11pm, 11 W 8th st. (Manhattan)

Club 20/20, Thursday, 2/12/15, 8pm – 2am, 1332 Blondell Avenue (Boogie Down Bronx)


February 7: I

03 Feb





newspapers full of fading people

cities delicately reimagined as thieves

blemished, blurred by oily fingers

we all end up alone

unable to see the eyes in front of us

but if you leave, it’ll be even worse than alone

and I’ll have no one to follow during my midnight constitutionals in the park

slowly realizing that we’re all ultimately strangers to each other

strange, strongheaded

whispers that open windows

another scar appears on my arm

the one I use to write

from where I helped you move your couch

the one we need in order to continue fucking

the only worthwhile way to spend the day

too long, too much

I read, the

newspapers full of fading people

I worry that this article will last another thirty years

and I’ll be sitting here, a

faux intellectual pretending middle class

dilettantish but insured

reading what to make of another morning

waiting for my dinner drink

thinking of ways, for hushful wagging decades now,

of how to kill the man that smudged us



Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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