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)

————

lifted, not far off the ground

01 Dec

—————-

—————-

purple drapery
 
as much as i want to be surrounded by nothing but your underwear
like the rob gordon line
evening blouses, lacey garments, indie fashionista smocks, demonstration commemoration tops
anything and everything disrobed
keeping the apartment messy to stay in bed as long as possible like a lazy bohemian motif
as titillating as all of this might be
colors molted new by each attaching memory
new skin to smell and to remember
new ways to feel your nudity
based on what you’ve left behind along our floor
as proud as i would be to hold such honor
to play footsoldier guarding your place of pardons and reprieve
where you sleep as though the world did not require your full attention
i would drift inside this duty granted
favoring the responsibility to guide any errant follicle of hair
fastidiously grazing over the pathway to your gaze
away from where your dreams may be prevented their foolhardy rushing in
as much as all of this is my ambition, truthfully
i fear i don’t have strength more today than to get stoned
step out onto my balcony
or maybe even to my building’s steps
(no further though, oblomov kush keeping the man grounded to the courtyard)
to whimper just a bit
you were the winter baby to my fever
and it’s too cold outside for me…
… for me to be melting quite this much
i don’t have strength enough right now to get all back together
and they don’t like giving credit out to humpty dumptys anymore
no matter how sweet they deign to sound
like trumpets undistinguished from other metal squalls of night
—————-

dust

25 Nov

————

————

pick up
 
if we were to meet today as strangers
and I tried to pick you up with a line conjured on the spot,
“if life is but a lonely dream for those like us
we might as well just go to bed together”,
do you think you would come home with me?
————

mermaid with messy penmanship

23 Nov

————–

————–

mermaid with messy penmanship

 

in your last letter
you told me how you undressed for other men
now that I’m here
standing in your doorway
i want you to undress for me
touch yourself
so i can see
what it is that turns you on
drink it in
like solomon
wine dripping off your thighs
past the branding ink
i’ll drink it up, all of it, baby
just like a dirty old testament scholar
waiting on his life to finally begin

————–

any day

20 Nov

————–

————-

ode to the lost, lost

 

there’s a place on a man’s back
a thin strip between the shoulder blades
where if the knife goes in
the arms have no longer a way to reach it
pull it out
the muscles and nerves contract
tense then sting, tense then sting, with each attempt
to ease the pain
save oneself from the heart flooding through its own backdoor
at least that’s the way I was explained it
by my people out in Oakland
when I asked ‘em whatever came of J

 

I ain’t seen him in four years
inquired about him since he left to check DC
like some junkie Mr. Smith in some morbid parody
apparently the scene didn’t work out the way he hoped
and he made a couple bus connections to the West
traded up powder for the tar
and six months ago, apparently, homey tried a grab
heard he made it out the crib with three grand and half a key
tried to barter some off for some action, then some affection
took the blonde and she took him
put the name out to the street
while I couldn’t even remember whether J was James or Jeremiah anymore

 

they say his mama buried him herself
while I assume she used a service
after all, only rumor you can trust
has to be verified in blood
when I found out, six months too late
I asked about the funeral
they told me an odd number of bereaved is thought to be bad luck
maybe that’s why the coffin cracked as it was lowered
but I don’t think so
no bad luck befalls the dead
it’s a ticket that pays out true each time
each time
again
until the next time I make a phone call
inquiring about a ghost, the past
all those things that become meaningless
within a single moment
resting

————-

Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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