we caught the next race. she bet hers, I bet mine. we both lost.

18 Sep


we caught the next race. she bet hers, I bet mine. we both lost.


her presence

crowned me with new life

along my skin, not touching

like the opening bassoon line

of a baroque concerto


despite the ink having dried

on its creation

so many centuries ago


and now

I’m getting drunk

on the airglow intimacy of her

despite the fact

that she knows full well

that I drink too much


a soft obsession held in a damping palm

the early race at the race track


it was always


but the payout was


worth it

and now her legs

compose a lemniscate

around my chest

barely humming its fragile music



it stalls the weight of time

the horses all hastily leave their gates

a wave of coarse black hair blanketing their past

they sputter out at different paces

we smile humbly

fondling tickets insecurely

and then I notice that her coat is off

a strap of slate-colored lingerie hangs off a shoulder

the left one like a new enslavement

or a sweet tooth realized

and then a shiver of the autumn wind

makes the small hairs of her arms


as the allegro molto of RV 497

quiets Vivaldi for a brief pause


by just a nose


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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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