location, location

21 Jul


location, location


she no longer meets me at the door

because she knows that I’m going to come inside

this is the place where dreaming stirs

and we resurrect the same tired society

again and again and then once more

for good measure and a lower tax rate

the same society

that killed a mid-eighties storytelling Seattle frog

who bled out somewhere in a small Washington town

a few miles south of the big city

from self-inflicted wounds to the neck

this place

for which she swears a welcome

that smells of bleach and daytrips too:

hallucinogenics by way of Reaganomics

trickling down

to stupefy the poor

yet simultaneously inspire them as well

like some century-long broadcast of a fireworks display

this is the place

where your secretary flirts and gets paid less for it

where the birches slow under the sky in preparation for a revolution

where the witless and the windless die arrogant and alone

disassembled, gaunt, with slightly yellowed teeth

this is the place

that hides my shame and my ambition

this is the place

where I wait at a lost bus stop

while pushing a blue broom handle

lost in peeling snow

both of us

last, and lost again in sempiternity, swaying aimlessly

along concrete

this is the place

that spits and nurtures no one new

at least no one without any cash on hand

or a well-balanced checkbook

this is a place where I fell in love

with her and with reality

somehow damned to know and thirst for both

but that’s my character, as you well know

Moran, Molloy, not him, not me

we are a different shade of one another

he lacks dimension, breadth and sympathy

but I lack his self-assurance

we were both here before, him and I

this is the place where we had met

he left me by myself to write the story

I haven’t finished yet because it was too hard

one day I will

I have time here

in this place

this strung out, struggling

sleepless place

where she no longer meets me at the door


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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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