from a fan shining for the fat lady

30 May


from a fan shining for the fat lady




across 74 pages

nearly the span of the magazine entirely  

save for advertisements

June 19th, 1965 becomes a cadaverous footnote

(and yet there was a summer camp and a quarter hour’s fascination with touching,

dirty fingernails that bloomed

from a Czech woman enamored with the symbolist poetry of Otakar Březina)

but the critics won’t call it regicide

because that takes the climax out of masturbation  

and yet, again,

reading is the only company for the dispossessed

this is our nourishment

and our army marches on its stomach too

stems dangling in the air

it is an agency (not of the travelling, transitory kind)

or a dejected providence:

a recitation amongst friends or those that drink enough to be

at a salon in Rhode Island or Connecticut or New Hampshire, wearily…  

no, no bullshit – as long as the lights are lit and the beer is cold

that’s all we care about

truth be told

just keep on going

little sparrow feet

in shiny golden slippers (smiling like the sun

on an aeolian Hyperborean, like a fucking classic, honestly)


wings in romantic twitchy tweed

gowned by every varicolored trick imagined

by a marriage to the sea

                       or to the flight of time  

an incantatory improvisation with lovely, lonely legs  

which transitions

into verse

unto reflection

and yet there will still be a gravedigger singing as he works

a descant about a January date

whether perfumed premature or much too late

sometime in early twenty ten

when Buddy Glass put down his pen

and I used some ornamental and intimate language

to describe what I felt if I’d have no characters to relate to

oscillating between Myshkin and the youngest brother Z (more like Rogozhin, arguably;  

with an impotent anger, a holy pedigree)

a Jake Barnes who can still get hard  

especially in eulogy, divided up in cant and cantos

(to be sure, for BIOGRAPHICAL PURPOSES ONLY – or a new print of Harland Miller’s)  

in a song to pass the time

somewhere coming lo-fi from the Husker state

like a sullen Hüsker Dü intake

or a convict waiting on parole

there used to be something that I was waiting for (I know)  

that I was watching slowly disappear

like Buddy, himself, did year by year

or day by day

or when a suicide needed to be explained away

he linked brother Seymour with Gordon Sterrett

and it all became of quite a merit

when he choose himself to be a worthwhile successor

to some masters that time would soon make foolish minstrels out of

waiting on a mocking joke or new commentary to explain their fate  

too late, again, too late

(the biographical again, enough to make you want to put down a pen)

there seems to be no resolution coming

like a letter from one writer to another during war or famine

abandoned or unknown

or a meeting at the Paris Ritz in ’44

or at the Dingo Bar in ’25 (as it was Spring as well back then,

apparently moving)

only an epistle left to yellow like a folkish curse

a fabrication to drive the drunken hearse

and I don’t know how or for who to end this verse

there were some rhymes

for which I take the entirety of blame

I am ashamed to say

I do not rhyme too well

but all of these men who I remember fondly are all dead

they aren’t expecting much

but me, a sigh, I am still here

just bargaining on a final encomiastic compromise

asking the remaining few

through tears and memories and bookmarks:

who do I have to look forward to



                       a drink?  



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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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