Washington Sq. Park Poetry Project (Night 03)

25 Sep

Washington Sq. Park PP 03

The Black Out (Reading Tomorrow in the County of Kings)

23 Sep


B-Sides 02

18 Sep





if god is dead

all is allowed

pish posh

don’t believe the puffery

and the flim flam and what-such

we are innately gifted

with a divinity

that others


though quite happily

            quite pointlessly           


sleeping texts about



in the lunchroom

and complain at the water cooler

about how all the physicists you know are charmed by the quarks of the omega baryon

and don’t let you get a word in edge-wise

between each crescent


B-Sides 01

17 Sep



The Rant on Ayn Rand


love the doing, not the people

sounds like something Dahmer would endorse

I choose to be the person to make up for Ayn Rand

on behalf of all the literary St. Petersburgians who’ve emigrated here:

fuck objectivism – this isn’t philosophy, dearie

it’s a faux-dogmatic manner of compartmentalizing being a solipsistic cunt

fuck the Wall Street Journal subscribers

and their libertarian scribes who vaunt this consumerist evangel

fuck Random House for publishing a 100,000 copies on first printing

written for people who don’t read books without pictures or spies

fuck Atlas, homey dropped the ball, I’d rather be his brother Prometheus, a thief bringing ya’ll illumination

but most of all,

fuck Ayn Rand

even a nutter like L. Ron Hubbard was a better sci-fi writer

not that the critics particularly liked either one of you megalomaniacal hacks  

(give me Dick and Asimov and even Vonnegut, who’s overrated as hell but shot coke with a friend of mine once and therefore gets a pass, any day of the week) 

my cult created leaders of men because they were capable of sacrificing of themselves,           

true heroes

your cult created the greedy, the virulent black card carrying trust fund kids that own this day, as progressive as the day before yesterday – Paul Ryan or John Galt or Bernie Madoff or Jamie Dimon – only a slight difference in the bracelets: this asshole was responsible for turning thousands of fraternity date-rapists into young republicans since 1957

she of no subtlety, no heart

deregulation is a sick joke akin to that one about the genie that gives you half of what he gives your neighbor:

just remember to ask him to scare you half to death, because in this realm someone has to lose in order for a winner to be crowned, free market

this is really what you chose to make as your argument against altruism? fuck outta here…

and, by the way, no one’s asking to martyr the bankers – all I’m saying is, hang ‘em high – criminals, no martyrs among them… all I seek is a little blood and circus for my collective and a broker with broken legs seems like a bit of fun… baseball bat, aliteration, blah blah blah…

and I know, I know, this sounds unneccesarily hateful (a baleful confrontation with an unlikely audience) – but it’s mere frustration, stoned, that this angry vile, and in point of fact in terms of occupying space, quite diminutive woman who died more than thirty years ago and still has these fervent maniacs adorned with flag pins (some actually like rotten pranks named after her) espousing her bitter and estranging beliefs… so, fuck it… college class room self-avowed post-anarchists get at it – show me a fucking revolution, or whatever… I don’t know… I give up… phew, I’m pooped… which moocher’s got a beer?


[rant over]



15 Sep





I want to be the noise that you accept, that you accomplish and omit, the one that drapes over you like a diary page, lighter than a silk; the hiss of air from your air-conditioner, planes flying overhead in Queens, light snoring from too much vodka in your seltzer, kit kat wrappers on my floor with the windows open. This is the tuning of the harp.


the lorn light washes over you
for the first time in weeks
and you don’t smile
you grin
it seems passive
but it’s savage breathing
life, go for the throat
the eyes see, vigilant and wild, awake
the first cup of tea
sea at the lips again
then you bathe
I wash your legs
and feel around your curvature
you’re getting clean, but I’m feeling dirty
not whiskey this time
just a good book and too much time alone
so I’m glad that you are here
delighted in ablution
like a wren lost in the pleasure of a birdbath
but every day is a different lighting…


This is the tuning of the harp.


back in the day,
when we were kids
we used to call it “truth”
no ya’ll say “facts”
aggressively, proud, as though demanding them
like when Jack says:
this moon spills blood when you walk down the wrong blocks
and this woman could be enough luminous madness to set it free
help me eat these spasmodic, worried nights with good reggies and soft blankets
and she’ll write over my words
and they’ll only get better
and it will grow and we will wander and this will mean something in the twinkle
twinkle, something small
that glimmers for a while and explains it all as it softly passes on
but guys, this is only the tuning
of the harp.
And every day is a different lighting.


Washington Sq. Park Poetry Project (Night 02)

12 Sep

Washington Sq. Park PP 02

gone, found soon (eo)

08 Sep













I just want to sit on the horizontal plank



















28 Aug


Washington Sq. Park—————-

Jack T. Tumult Presents:



All are welcome to attend and perform (poetry, hip-hop, spoken word, acoustic balladeers will all be welcomed with open arms).
All love, all creation.

No cover, no time limits, no motherfucking censorship.

THIS FRIDAY (AUG. 29th) 8PM – until the last performed leaves the stage

East side of the park is where we’ll be. You’ll easily find us huddled in a corner of the park reciting, playing music, spitting truth…


hmmmm… what’s he scribbling over there?

20 Aug





one should stay away from small and fragile things

they break far too simply

this holds true

for cellphones

matchstick houses

the willpower of sparrows in Eastern European apocrypha

gameshow contestants who just quit their 9 – 5

and especially, capricious Jewish-American princesses from the Upper West Side of Manhattan

who all look like a seventies Mia Farrow

with flowers in their hands, stuck as a lovely intruder in a Dory Previn song,

standing taut at troubled doors

a twilit, dark-haired contrast

to the endless highways of country songs

an internal explosion seen by the manner of their lips and brows

supernova blood I noticed in them, in her

the basis of all comparison like the self-fancying original she is

a bistered soul for every eye, shining, numinous

like keys forever out of reach

each a casuistic promise of heart and hearth

embrace like the opening hanging note

sweeping, escaping stunned from the orchestra

but, you know, it’s like what John Prine wrote in ’71:

sweet songs

never last too long

on broken radios


plight (it’s getting dusty in this bitch)

05 Aug



confessions of the damned (no answers)

pt. 1


you know,

I got lost some five years ago

when you still had devotion in your eyes for me

when I could still see the terrestrial souled refulgency as eventuality

believing in it like a restless, loyal pup

I would growl and act possessive

and you could still be fooled by the sharpness of my teeth

now, over the time that’s passed

you’ve figured out that I was just a guard dog

with no bite

you could beat me all you want

and you did

and I took it

and I licked your hand

and you got bored

feeling sold on a false promise

and now I rarely really write

and still I look for you to either put me down or tether me again

pet me on the head

keep me motivated, well fed on fantastical ambition

like a good woman should

had she still had devotion in her eyes

now I roam, howling, looking for a home


like all the rest of my poetry invited into orthodoxy

but currently it’s gotten worse

and I’ve forgotten how to sleep without a drink

or without you

and now I get to fuck but barely fuck

it’s burdensome enough when it’s not you

but with the drink there’s whiskey dick to contend with too

and I can only find a vestige of intimacy in the morning

before the first addition to my coffee

which used to be for fun

then it was for sanity

then it was just merely maintenance

(like the dope habit I once had)

now it’s just to feel the rot inside

to feel some goddamn something

to feel… like I’m working on the screaming in my head

and these aren’t turgid demons, trust me

if they were – we’d get along much better

you know, I’ve befriended many in my past

no, these are just judgments

detached, pronounced

the odds are much too futile now to postulate the same credulous parlay

for all of this to work

for all of this to live

my hope, and no, it’s not for love –

it’s dwindling

it’s so much easier to fade

to lie around, to smoke alone

to keep on drinking without anymore taste left to vanquish

to miss you

and hate it whenever you ask me why I do


Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings