Archive for June, 2015

Hard Body

27 Jun



Woody in the New Yorker


the man was torpid, bowlegged
with a port wine stain, porcine-shaped
across the left side of his face
my right testicle seemed like it’s been sagging
so I was feeling particularly frustrated
on that particular Sunday
that man was sitting by a music shop
close to Sheridan
where they sold broken ukuleles
reading something by Dickens
heavy, Bleak House I believe it was
my right jean leg felt tight
and I stumbled slightly
he noticed and he coughed
I caught a chuckle in that cough
and the way he sat there
like the wrong flag in the wrong ground
it sagged my testicle even further to the pavement
I worried that it might scrape along the concrete
so I killed him
the man, I mean
and with the testicle, now, feeling better
I strode off like I produced the play
off to my favorite diner
right there on Sixth
to order some chicken fingers, onion rings
maybe call my wife
cause she gets jealous
just like a cactus


short # 42

23 Jun





never run from a man with a knife

even if you don’t care for the manner in which the homey’s jibbing

back and forth, then straight ahead

(eventually there’s a lack of where to go)

but do no frighten, just remember

he takes steps just like you

head on is the best method

go for the knees

and don’t cut yourself shaving



gonna ramble soon…

16 Jun



montage (penance locked in 8 x 8)


and almost-everyone’s uncle al yells out from across the room,

“mary, quit pirouetting through the place before

one of these rotten motherfuckers steals your


he gets the party rolling

talks back in the day

like the dermatologist of a muse of greek antiquity

he fills the holes of his memory with wine:

fischer came to ny to learn chess and hustling

an ersatz madness

as always, he notices me

i’m playing my game with a ghost

and as always, i’m losing

a knight on the side i will not abide;

he says,

the only job you’ve got in this life is to keep all your teeth

and i’m already a few behind

shortchanged by a bit of too much experience too soon,

and when asking about the saints

he invariably informs you that

gangsters like Harpo best

because he knew how to keep his mouth shut;

when talking ardor or exaltation

he mumbles something about birds

then says that love is nothing but

a clap-trap cunt

turning you blind as soon as you get inside.

and as always i’m playing my game with a ghost

trying to describe the one across the room

for al’s sake

for mine as well


soon they’ll notice too

her eyes are dark



amour fou

her eyes glimmer

i see where soul ends

deep in that dark

like metal turned to vine

creating carnivorous arcs

clawing, clasping on

then going in

until finding a turbid home there dressed as a catacomb

in its bareness                in its bareness

i tremble and concede


Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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