10 Jan




it’s been years since I’ve been intrigued

writing a poem about a meta dream weeping into waking

but this morning is like a greenhouse in the days of wine and roses

and a girl with her ruffled hair in tawny locks is rushing to me on an early F train

like a coke rush coming along a Brooklyn route

an otiose spark in an uninterrupting nocturne

with a flask paunchy from malted barley and an epicurean spontaneity

that cools me like a lost fur in those last years

where every day is Tuesday


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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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