03 Dec




“Can I be as I believe myself or as others believe me to be? Here is where these lines become a confession in the presence of my unknown and unknowable me, unknown and unknowable for myself. Here is where I create the legend wherein I must bury myself.” 

Miguel de Unamuno


In our hotel room

she stood  


adjacent to the body

reborn from the corpse of literary endeavor.

The writer

not the one you thought

lay dying in the bed.

I picked up his pen

from the bloodied floor;

the crimson sweat

covered the ambition,

while he struggled to speak.

“Just write the lines,

“Those are the only memorable artifacts we leave.  

“Have a great ending to all your work,

“And make sure the heroine has gusto.”

Some sweetness, maybe, is unnecessary.

“But above all –

“Make sure you don’t end up in this room.”

In our hotel room

she stood barefoot

as a brief seduction

while I remained silent

until the last words of the writer were delivered

like a new childhood.

When she walked over to me

across the unsentimental vastness

to see if I understood with a gesture of the lips,

I resisted because she wasn’t the one I wrote;

I wrote about empty rooms,

and dying writers that I wanted to remain alive in them.

Suddenly I felt mercurial,

lively under Aries;

I walked away that night,

to a bar to write,

where music played

and people danced.   

I was worried there that it would all come free,



held by the last

the only lines

that I would write

that would matter

in this interminable con

that makes art out of deception.

I took a breath

and resolved to let it be

as it must,

because choice was surrendered

long ago

by those better than I.


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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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