31 Mar




This is why I write

(hopefully why most men get into that lamentable incontinency masquerading as vocation)

so that long after I’ve succumbed

to my last piece:

my last demarcation, my last trip

my last quip, some self-eulogizing words

funny, dry, finite, all vowel sounds and heavy breath

so that long after

a woman like her

can passionately pick apart my catalog

banging her delicate palm on her desk

for attention, for understanding

that I might mean something –

in my most obscure I am most obvious –  

she’ll opine, with ancillary generosity

about how handsome I had used to look

licked onto a dust jacket in a black and white finish;

she’ll lean against the blackboard

upon which she drew out the metered dactyls

of single silver sentences lyrically smuggled into prose

“tonkost, tonkost” – gently, gently

(like my carbons covered in coffee)

the back of her black blouse covered in chalk

my subopaque, fugitive imprint

soon to be caressed away

by that same delicate palm

(lily and sublime, of heavy lifting)

that was its emperor and its midwife

bringing forth kingdoms and children to fill them

all through my words

all through her hands

all for some perspicacity

that still nurtures its own stargazing vagary  

this is why I write

to die

having written

something worthy


(for M.)


Leave a Reply

Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

Copyright © 2010 - 2018 All Rights Reserved.