Archive for January, 2016

Street Poets NYC Tonight

29 Jan


Street Poets NYC - Aug ©Tamara B Hayes

1094 Broadway Brooklyn, New York 7pm-12am
$10 Admission
Kenuti Jam at 12:05am


So, what’s new about this year?

27 Jan



which mystery did you forget to solve
she asked me softly as she disrobed
atroceruleous smoke filled the room
the blue was deep, it beckoned
and she became a date in ’88
new warmth of winter alabaster
the sky connecting like an ocean
the colors blur, the blush slowly washing off
and here comes again the question from her lips
remaining in the breast like psychic scars and songs from dead ancestors
which mystery did you forget to solve
she kisses me
and lays her clothes atop my writing desk
– for safe keeping, she asserts
though I think it was simply to arrest my marrowy attention
to the stranger changes in the air
the black star, brightest once before
in the dino days of excess
fading with lazarus’s last verse     
the fume of heaven cloaking us
all from births in ’88 and ’47
some light and curiosity to bind them both
just like a puzzle  
affirming its need for an internecine resolution
[for db and a dance I should have taken]

The Last of ’15 Poems: III

16 Jan



fifteen line jesus


few people manage to eat well on camera

it’s mostly a self-conscious nibbling

until someone makes an entrance


pity the weeping man

as he nestles his head into your lap

a sweat through his earth of hair

a sweat like victimhood; a swarming freedom

they keep the laundromats open all night long

for the drugs and the spare change

to keep the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling


pretending that this isn’t all scripted

pretending that this isn’t the place

where the saints get stoned

where the puppets get their strings tangled

where the naked bodies throw themselves against the wall

as he tells you,

“stay here, brother. i’ll be right back.” 


few people manage to get eaten well on camera

it’s mostly a self-annulling feast

before a break for advertisement


The Last of ’15 Poems: II

05 Jan



asleep in the sepulcher
asleep in the sepulcher
like teenage fantasy
I fancy myself a monolith
of obsolete quixotic or poetic notions
imagined up by romantic mercenaries
who smoked like alchemists
and dressed like they fucked for free
every climactic second a salvo in a virgin war
we’re killers now it seems
and we once used to be oh so inspiring
surrounded by beautiful things like empty pens
souls with long, pale or hairy faces
cut up into pages vocationally destined to become flyswatters
midnight stomach aches, hospital blood tests
cigarettes in adolescent hands, hallway whispers
park concerts like trips around the world from a burgundy afghan
stars like hickeys in the sky made by lecherous gods
big loveless eyes that command oceans and lose travelers
early morning phonecalls that screech with the bombast of backseat harlots
the voice that returns
barely, but I can feel its fingers
it tugs at me like I was a naughty child, by ear tip
it tells me, like a handshake I respect
that all the strong men
are already waking up
because we’ve lost our time for dreaming


The Last of ’15 Poems: I

01 Jan



in the trees


the caution tape caught the tree branches
taken off an apartment boarded up
upstairs, 6C, across from where the councilman grew up
and though the family who lived there was evicted
the apartment is currently occupied
a rent-free trap where they move the runners through
and when papa doc saw beige by baby’s nose
he wiped the whiskey off his lip
and slapped the boy across the face
he took a breath and cussed
baby hit the wall
where the credenza kept a yellow shadow
like the figurines auntie thelma used to keep atop
each one bought on the day
each of her eight grandchildren
ate their first communion wafer and got themselves some jesus
and now papa doc stands here
tall, looking over another fallen boy
and he whispers like an eclipse
“buried for being loyal ain’t no crime
loyalty deserves a coffin
paid, and space enough to rest”
and the room changes
and the world changes
and it always seems like it happened
because someone else said it should
and the winds sing caution from the trees


Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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