8 x 8 (Resurrection Blues/ Brandy & Water)

29 Dec

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8 x 8 (Resurrection Blues/ Brandy & Water)

 

My life is a well-regulated insomnia:

a daydream always on the verge of breaking

as sunny and tragic as an egg.

Some time ago,

I found a vein

and tried to, finally, get some rest –

but this was troubled sleep

a fox wandering lost inside a henhouse

and it lasted longer than eight years

longer than a marriage

longer than an actor’s life or a martyr’s twilight

it stretched

and I with it

concealed in masochistic privacy.

Now, it’s been a few,

I’ve been awake and slightly boring

anchorless, born of crumbling stone

I learn to stand and walk again.

 

They tell me not to use the white lighter – because of the other twenty-seven year olds that wound up with one. A bet has been wagered on the remainder of my year. The interest pushed the pot to nearly $500. I’m still trying to find a way, a loophole maybe, to make them all lose. In a situation such as this, no winner is required.

 

Elliott disappeared with two to the chest and a post-it note. Jimi and Janis didn’t get to finish their pack of cigarettes. I sit on my porch and think of the aurora drowning inside the city like an easy love unable to handle her drinks, who needs your arm to guide her home, a lantern of amethyst light slowly blinded. A grade-school loyalty turned parochial in burnt apricot and newborn pink. We wash ourselves in hope approaching midnight. I smoke. The neighborhood turns its lights and televisions on. I think of an old lover, then of a new lover, what separates them, all the time in between, sad Spanish love songs, mornings full of bad breath and a hardwon breakfast, a book borrowed becomes a pulled tooth from a smiling bookshelf, I’m pleased and even a little proud, a few strands of brunette locks remain to keep a watch on my bedroom conquered. Now a nomad in my home.

 

I show her some old Woody Allen movies. I share my wine. I share my bed because I’m, as always, a good host. She hasn’t seen me writing yet. She doesn’t know yet how I create.

 

my little book

full of wishes and mistakes

was written

one week ago too late

a bloody moon

like moss is rising slow

mapping out my road

to caliginous quietus and Mexico…

 

The devil spoke to my father once, sharing the inside of a backseat of a St. Petersburg taxi cab. A slow night, the driver had to double up on fares. The devil asked him for a light and the fastest route to Park Pobeda, where the arcs are, and the cheap mechanized go-carts, and the girls in short pleated skirts that look faintly metallic sitting at picnic tables wrapped around some youthful fascination and a bottle of beer, imported German. He said that he loved late Summer, the syrup of the air, the smell of time’s renewing pyre; an empire of sun and soak and sex, and just a bated trace of loneliness.

 

The assurance of greed is different from the assurance of lust; I’m left, still on the porch, nearly naked for the morning, for the breeze to wake me up, run through my skin like new tattoos, just a little drunk, still thirsty, horny and broke.

 

A fresh pain when I think of them, of who I used to be, new veins. A tired resurrection. A twin set of systems, romantic and heavy-handed, spinning in mournful, melancholic music, made despite desperation and a missing D string, caught in a lulling gravity.

I now know. I assure you, I do, sitting on my porch; smoking, feeling something again, drifting, I know. This is how the light gets in.

A perfume you loved because she wore it every time she took your life. She wore it well and now you’re here. Enjoy it now while it’s still here. She’ll put lipstick on before she leaves.

 

(for the new siege in the room)

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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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