eight

20 Mar

—————

—————

eight

sitting around, getting fat like a clef note
an ego in the front room
crossing through the ante
i become the cloudy piss of my poetry
and there’s resentment
then resentments
a reenactment
a play made up of the same silent scene
the progression of the panhandler
that becomes the guy that sells celestial subscriptions door-to-door
twenty years too late
like changing the world
like fatherhood and all
potential, fictional, alive
like passing down
that true wisdom causes isolation
like naming him Augustus, nicknaming him August for short
smiling when the little girls tap his shoulder
call him “Auggie”
the result of an anxious calendar staying up
and then we thin it out
the dreaming that is
son, try not to do it
because there’s more of them than madhouses that room escape
trust me, i’ve worn the robes
but in the whispers sprouting up in the air like will-o’-the-wisps
you know
it’s clearer in the eventide
it has to be
the world is laying quiet
—————-

train-ing… get it?

10 Mar

———-

———-

train lines

new york bodies on their new york shit travelling to find their
new york fix
homeless john plays capitalist scarecrow in the corner
to the straphangers commuting to some sentence
seeming kinder
i want to smoke and i want to read
but all my books and smokes got wet
and now
i’m drying off in transit
finding comfort in that someone
who always watches me
while i yearn to arrive at my destination
every stop, every hop
a body stands apart from other bodies
a self-designation, cultish in performance
forcing the loss of membership from the species
stop after stop, after every hop
i read someone else’s newspaper headlines while their eyes
above
watch me
the words spell out a-s-s-a-s-s-i-n-a-t-i-o-n
a six-year-old near macon, around where my little brother lives
war all the time, they say
they always say and say and speak
and is this the warmth of the transit heating system
writhing my tic-tac-toe poetry into a stoned smile
of passing time
seeming kinder
seeming kinder
drying off with me
shaking like we’re new
at every hop
———-

sunken ships find the bigger pearls

23 Feb

————–

————–

content advertised content
 
smoking, king size bed
ocean view, no pets
some plants, but
alone, completely alone
though open to coupling
slightly unhinged
though other times mellow and micromanageable
obtuse when drinking
and if you find me asleep to the world –
place best wishes beside the crown
watch the orange animal semiluminousness at dusk
remember that there’ll be soup in the fridge
french onion, perhaps tomato bisque
transfer kettle contents to a bowl
make sure it’s one that won’t melt inside the microwave
microwave for two minutes
(smoking is optional, cigarettes by the dresser)
enjoy the soup with a piece of bread
preferably rye
after all, this meal has had a lot of practice being holy
just like a demotic daydream
that we were all children once
welcome to the earth
like freckles on a speck of light
————–

Shorty’s Back

12 Feb

————

————

cigarette burn 04

the sun fainted into sky
the moon painted, faded through the door
she never said goodbye
at least not anymore

never argue with a drunk or a fool
so, as I am one of both
you should not accept my invitation to debate
cede me the win
surely, you can tell that I can use it
especially after I spilled my drink like a dithyramb for you
the birth of another silly goddess
destined to be patronized
by all us, drunks and fools

the sun fainted into sky
the moon painted, faded through the door
she never said goodbye
at least not anymore
————

these are… what d’you call ’em…

06 Feb

—————

————–
Transitions
 
I can’t tell
whether this room is dying or being born again
I’m in here, nearly alone, reading Samuel Beckett
thinking elegant thoughts about stones and hubris
that march like elephants routed roughly across each temple
burning, rubbled
I am driven mad by the wrong smells
you wearing a clean body
specklessly washed
unable to find a fresh towel to wrap around those hips
and yet and yet and yet
I hear a fire inside each nostril
and am left to wonder why
maybe a cool swim inside you will clear this up
a revolution all its own
not a curtain-raiser, nor a bit of literature
simply a clarion whimper, aseptic warfare following
and an ascetic’s revolving anxiety bouncing between us
we scream for love and for renewal
and we’ll kill all those that have hidden the bones of those that came before
screamed like us before
we are the regeneration of the past vying for a future
you are clean, the elephants keep marching
and I must be roused again to fill this room
because, like us, it is going through transitions
————–

Street Poets NYC Tonight

29 Jan

—————-

Street Poets NYC - Aug ©Tamara B Hayes

1094 Broadway Brooklyn, New York 7pm-12am
 
$10 Admission
Kenuti Jam at 12:05am

—————-

So, what’s new about this year?

27 Jan

———-

———-

mystery
 
which mystery did you forget to solve
she asked me softly as she disrobed
atroceruleous smoke filled the room
the blue was deep, it beckoned
and she became a date in ’88
new warmth of winter alabaster
the sky connecting like an ocean
the colors blur, the blush slowly washing off
and here comes again the question from her lips
remaining in the breast like psychic scars and songs from dead ancestors
which mystery did you forget to solve
she kisses me
and lays her clothes atop my writing desk
– for safe keeping, she asserts
though I think it was simply to arrest my marrowy attention
to the stranger changes in the air
the black star, brightest once before
in the dino days of excess
fading with lazarus’s last verse     
the fume of heaven cloaking us
all from births in ’88 and ’47
some light and curiosity to bind them both
just like a puzzle  
affirming its need for an internecine resolution
 
[for db and a dance I should have taken]
———-

The Last of ’15 Poems: III

16 Jan

—————

—————

fifteen line jesus

 

few people manage to eat well on camera

it’s mostly a self-conscious nibbling

until someone makes an entrance

 

pity the weeping man

as he nestles his head into your lap

a sweat through his earth of hair

a sweat like victimhood; a swarming freedom

they keep the laundromats open all night long

for the drugs and the spare change

to keep the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling

lit

pretending that this isn’t all scripted

pretending that this isn’t the place

where the saints get stoned

where the puppets get their strings tangled

where the naked bodies throw themselves against the wall

as he tells you,

“stay here, brother. i’ll be right back.” 

 

few people manage to get eaten well on camera

it’s mostly a self-annulling feast

before a break for advertisement

—————

The Last of ’15 Poems: II

05 Jan

————–

————–

asleep in the sepulcher
 
asleep in the sepulcher
like teenage fantasy
I fancy myself a monolith
of obsolete quixotic or poetic notions
imagined up by romantic mercenaries
who smoked like alchemists
and dressed like they fucked for free
every climactic second a salvo in a virgin war
we’re killers now it seems
and we once used to be oh so inspiring
surrounded by beautiful things like empty pens
souls with long, pale or hairy faces
cut up into pages vocationally destined to become flyswatters
midnight stomach aches, hospital blood tests
cigarettes in adolescent hands, hallway whispers
park concerts like trips around the world from a burgundy afghan
stars like hickeys in the sky made by lecherous gods
big loveless eyes that command oceans and lose travelers
early morning phonecalls that screech with the bombast of backseat harlots
the voice that returns
touches
barely, but I can feel its fingers
it tugs at me like I was a naughty child, by ear tip
it tells me, like a handshake I respect
that all the strong men
are already waking up
because we’ve lost our time for dreaming

————–

The Last of ’15 Poems: I

01 Jan

————–

————–

in the trees

 

the caution tape caught the tree branches
taken off an apartment boarded up
upstairs, 6C, across from where the councilman grew up
and though the family who lived there was evicted
the apartment is currently occupied
a rent-free trap where they move the runners through
and when papa doc saw beige by baby’s nose
he wiped the whiskey off his lip
and slapped the boy across the face
he took a breath and cussed
baby hit the wall
where the credenza kept a yellow shadow
disappeared
like the figurines auntie thelma used to keep atop
each one bought on the day
each of her eight grandchildren
ate their first communion wafer and got themselves some jesus
and now papa doc stands here
tall, looking over another fallen boy
and he whispers like an eclipse
“buried for being loyal ain’t no crime
loyalty deserves a coffin
paid, and space enough to rest”
and the room changes
and the world changes
and it always seems like it happened
because someone else said it should
and the winds sing caution from the trees

————–

I’m Back

31 Dec

————

————

After a brief hiatus, I’m back with three new pieces for the New Year.

All of them will be published to the site at 00:12am on the following days:

in the trees1/1

asleep in the sepulcher1/5

fifteen line jesus1/10

Also the poem, the joe torre years,will be published to the literary blog Babbling of the Irrational on 3/14.

————

vigilance, i guess, one eye closes

12 Dec

————

————

divinities

even in their silences she had to nurture them
it was the way he thought a mother ought to be
the milk warmed for the babies
the sweet delay in life becoming alabaster hiss
she shushes, soft
the voice mellifluent, crafted in succor
the children dream
the mother lays awake
and even in these silences she has to nurture them
because she knows
that monsters truly do exist
and they surround you all the time

(twelve lines for TM)

————

Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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