starved

28 Jan

———————–

———————-

hunger

 

there’s just not enough of her

they all stare hungrily

as though she was other than invisible

objects that are not objects

animals of reexamination, improvising

things that aren’t there, never alone

those which have been let go, on their own, for long

are those that are sought the most

struggled for and languished on the most

and I’m amongst them

staring hungrily, unfed

like when she says, as I’m about to leave

‘I’ll stay at the bar for just a little while longer…’

and I see the way they look

they don’t want to open up community centers in the hood

they don’t want to write novels to keep the turtle’s back firm

they don’t want to stick around just to see what her kids will look like

whose reflection they will take

… but it’s a pointless urging

I’ll leave the bar and pretend to trust her

as their laggard fingers take her dress off leisurely

we all pretend there’s theatre here, and destiny,

and now

but our days grow meager, thinned

about as dense as headlines

and we’ve all been so esurient and keen for such a while

we stare at her as though she were a feast

as though there was anything to eat there

and our disappointment becomes the continued rumbling of the belly

and our ambition becomes to quench that need

and we create shiny pretty things to fatten up the next meal

hoping we’ll finally have our fill

hoping to sink our teeth into some satisfaction unabstracted
———————-

Unsaved Changes Will Be Lost

24 Jan

—————

—————

the joe torre years

 

my city is a yankee fitted

the Sea & Sea Fish Market that doesn’t sweat its name’s redundancy because of the line out the door for the fried whiting and chips at three dollars a plate

my homey Pinky died twelve years ago next week, unbothered by the irony that he used to scream out fifteen-for-life when I walked down DeKalb to meet him towards Knickerbocker

years before, of course, the Nebraska gentry decided to send all their kids to become artists on this block

my favorite mug’s got the fiesta of New Orleans on it

I ain’t ‘ever been, but I’ve got a few silver dollars for the piggy-bank to snort, should be coming to by the time the bus arrives to pick me up

my liver’s spotted

marked by heavy years, heavy underpaid years where I pretended stoicism, pained pretended stoicism, a cocktail helps to get the time across, you see how the sunlight moves across the doorway, when you’re guarding the bookcase home alone

my smoke is golden

grown in honey humboldt, even though it decays the roots, I won’t have it any other way, when it burns it distinguishes itself, when it burns I understand it

my mind is an inn or an urn but something keeping

some part sleeping, like some encroaching warring lightning you can see from down the shore

my desire has become a vacuum

has learned to nullify itself, to inhale deeply in some method, some measured manner to expose, expunge then reenlist the world

my millennial wait, like mercury in the vein, waiting to perish

moonlit in her

I spin and see nothing but darkness for my second lifetime

and this waiting is vaguely spiritual and kind of dull

auroral in her

I breathe in the smell of her hair, but I’m afraid to hear it because I fear that it has gone all antiseptic, or not, what if the smell retains a memory

then the question becomes – can I handle a memory

and that’s why I don’t like questions

which is a shame, because there’s nothing much else to do, run them around, underneath the yankee fitted

my prayer is never heard and never uttered

but has existed long ago, and will exist until there’s nothing human left, until they clean the clutter, until there’s nothing left to mutter but

            alive, awake

                                    alive, awake

                                                            but even then, only to remember

there’s nothing really left to do but to surrender, to her, to the world, to a schedule, to a nook where silence is magnificent, to matches shaking in a matchbox, delighted for the chance, it doesn’t matter, just surrender

take a deep breath and let it go

————-

smoking in the living room

21 Jan

—————-

—————-

gradual departures

 

she came along the alley

walking away from what buckled like her sea

cotton candy hair, torn sandals

she told me she was turning thirty-three

 

I grabbed a beer and sat to listen

suddenly self conscious of the fact that I haven’t shaved in the last two months

she asked whether she could stay

I said, always, but you never do

 

she gave me a ultracrepidarian crown to lose before

eight years ago in summertime and analgesic blues

she liked what she found inside my jeans

and how I melted for her over time

 

tom waits and bowie on the mixtape

the prettiest star hiding in bolan’s guitar

I called her a cunt

the first time she asked me for a shot

 

she swings on the outstretched arms of fate

like a playful child readying their nap

I tell her that I could say her name out loud right now

but I already know that she won’t stop

 

all in my mind

she came along the alley

slipping away from the paternal sea

just to let me know

that this is the type of show you’ll only understand upon multiple viewings

and I, after kissing every spot of hers she let me, wished her a happy birthday and took her to my sky

————

twelve past midnight 01

18 Jan

————–

————–

poor

 

this road has

            been

            so slow

            dripping

your little boots like kidney beans

the colors wet

mud and rain water, the broken tooth

from Spanky, the Redfern larker,

who hollered at the wrong chick,

floating like the first carrot, just for flavor, in the soup

 

each boot

            drops in

            the cinereous mood clinging, viscid

            until

you finally reach the building

where I used to live

selfish in the duds of unpaid bills

you didn’t bring daisies or a sundress

just yourself in a heavy overcoat you got from some other man used as proxy

who no longer lives for you, many leases signed ago

 

the wait is

            retaliatory, combative

            a relationship to immolation

            but always a preparation for the next

you ring the doorbell, percussing lightly with a gloved paw

marked pink in the western orbit like a late winter afternoon

from where your college roommate spilled her tea kettle

around the time when we first met

I kissed your hand then

but tonight, darling, there’s no one home

————-

going through the library, like, ‘what a motherfucker, right?’

15 Jan

—————-

—————-

Judging the Wet Dream Film Festival, Copenhagen, ‘70

 

does it surprise you if a pornstar

retweets

a well placed quote by william carlos williams

as if, this is just to say

she wanted plums

does it surprise you if she has

her bachelor’s degree in biology

hidden behind the closeted red leather pumps

she wore the first time she performed anal sex on camera

does it surprise you if your professor

only

got into the profession

because she couldn’t write, but in a bout of self-containment and restructuring

found a way to publish anyway

by making you hate hemingway

miller, mailer (whose writing is far more overrated than his personality),

bukowski, lawrence (whose critics tend to produce a frothing, cultivated logorrhea which when uttered can only be described as an experience akin to watching a boorish toddler, each leg a log of heavy redwood timber felled before a logger’s feet, stomping through the playground to taunt the sallow, asthmatic child, building letter blocks into idyllic words in the corner, for being a mama’s boy),

also roth, and irving, bellow and updike get their shade as well

by ensuring that it gets regurgitated by gullible undergrads

(years later in some earnest write up for an online forum)

with no ambition for thinking independently but rather gnawing for a place that can qualify themselves regarded and well learned

choosing side between the war-hymn committees of their druthers

does it surprise you that the best hip-hop

records

of last year

didn’t come from new york or from l.a.

but from ohio, connecticut and penny

or that nas got confused with an ukrainian kid from some slum in coney

does it surprise you that i’ve chosen newly, ascetically, to live through

get it accomplished: something, soon

and although i’ve said all of it before and have been livid, living in the same applause and lack thereof and over and over and here again and i’m getting tired but no less hopeful and of course, i’d rather give it up, but trust me there’s a point to be made with this writing racket

and

does it surprise you that i still know two women that can conquer the world yet

if it ever glittered the right way, that is – if it meant more than just a place to dress

does it surprise you that i continue loving this ceremony, this play that damns scribe and audience alike

the gist is a delineation of my most bestial thoughts

and the chorus sings so well

until i see nothing but music and hear nothing but their sound

and it blends together well

and i never find myself surprised

—————-

once, maybe

11 Jan

————

————

unplugged 1/9/2015

 

right now
i am watching a wild
madly brilliant
young songstress dancing
on a stage
on a page
on a minimized screen
i’m smoking a cigarette with my tea
it’s early, must be just a quarter after three
her performance is unplugged
she’s singing jimi’s angel now
and it’s snowing outside
but here, it’s warm
i’m thinking chinese food
an egg roll, some fantail shrimp, maybe pork with broccoli too
it might have been a rough week, i don’t remember
in fact, it’s all forgotten now
the smoking gun, she’s getting into her indictable offenses
four fingers clutching a bombinating belly
the inosculating litterateur gazes at her navel and yawns a new dimension
splitting words and therefore sounds
(because aren’t worlds but mere sounds, after all
wingless, apteral)
oh, as she dances
hair as a whiplash with a smile underneath
i pick up the phone and dial the szechuan garden down the block
run by miss diaz
we, both, here, feel at home
because we both know
that there’s nothing underneath
but ground, heavy travel bags and bone
and other kinds of being left alone

———-

update

06 Jan

—————

————–

The Official Material Section (Crack & Vinegar) has been updated…

————–

First reading of 2015 has been scheduled – back at Eva’s (11 W8th st.) this Saturday, January 10th, 8pm…

————–

 

going warmly into what seems like ’36

30 Dec

————

———–

blink

 

mood, the color of the sea welcoming you in, sapphires pealing

the lights creating a carillon along your neck

all my investments, down

the shoes, old

dirty bathtub querying how old your rubber ducky is

the one between your legs

and who’s going to sell this scene to you

now that it’s almost through

and her eyes, brilliant, brown the orbit

a blink

she asks, how long do I have left to inspire you

before I do my own thing

but I’m dogged as a beheading date, claiming

genius is both possessor and possessed

you are always free and always captive

———–

lovesong

26 Dec

—————-

—————-

lovesong # 3

 

ever find yourself

inside an embittering novel-size cruet

simply wanting

a good woman

to be proud of you

the brilliance through her supine time culet

 

* * *

 

a children’s game

is pleasant for a lifetime

but sometimes pen turns to whiskey turns to window-shutters waiting on a wind to be discovered

regimes change

madness becomes progress, and what others call refinements hover

and what I call minor renovations are achieved

 

* * *

 

and then there’s better steps and idols

and sentiments you want exchanged

interlinking, simplifying

but a day becomes the night as true

as eager fingers find excuses

 

* * *

 

there’s nothing in it

nothing

but pleasant memories, eventually

and that’s enough really

all you have to do is love her and to love it all

—————-

the sound from the next room

21 Dec

————–

————–

mel

 

he
walks like a deceased king
slumping into the paranoia of gray
doomed like all things
and unlike all things
nothing gets created or destroyed
except affection and influence
the sound from the next room
he
walks away
the swollen leg swings pendulously upon each step
he thinks about prosecco
this dime and a half he made through this new centenary
he thinks of cocoa butter on her belly
when he was young
when they were movie-stars
he
walks like damage
slow, and slower every year
the veins, more prominent, creep in
like light from underneath a door
you’re meant to walk through
because of
the second sound from the next room

————-

Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings