gonna ramble soon…

16 Jun

————

————

montage (penance locked in 8 x 8)

 

and almost-everyone’s uncle al yells out from across the room,

“mary, quit pirouetting through the place before

one of these rotten motherfuckers steals your

tupperware!”

he gets the party rolling

talks back in the day

like the dermatologist of a muse of greek antiquity

he fills the holes of his memory with wine:

fischer came to ny to learn chess and hustling

an ersatz madness

as always, he notices me

i’m playing my game with a ghost

and as always, i’m losing

a knight on the side i will not abide;

he says,

the only job you’ve got in this life is to keep all your teeth

and i’m already a few behind

shortchanged by a bit of too much experience too soon,

and when asking about the saints

he invariably informs you that

gangsters like Harpo best

because he knows how to keep his mouth shut;

when talking ardor or exaltation

he mumbles something about birds

then says that love is nothing but

a clap-trap cunt

turning you blind as soon as you get inside.

and as always i’m playing my game with a ghost

trying to describe the one across the room

for al’s sake

for mine as well

auto-da-fé

soon they’ll notice too

her eyes are dark

obsidian

ancient

amour fou

her eyes glimmer

i see where soul ends

deep in that dark

like metal turned to vine

creating carnivorous arcs

clawing, clasping on

then going in

until finding a turbid home there dressed as a catacomb

in its bareness                in its bareness

i tremble and concede

————

fuckin’ around

30 May

—————-

——-

joke from the smallest room I rent

 

nah homey,

I got a pimple on my ass

thus

too self-conscious

to perform

at your fucking open mic

but once you plunk down for that

shit

I see

failed popstars pimping on tv

then I might just dig out

some poetry for you

until then though

it’s like,

nah homey

—————

syzygy

25 May

————

———–

just lying about breakfast

 

I like scrabble

I like sex

I like scotch (although when I can’t afford it I go Kentucky)

the latter discussed benefits from being a necessity

I drink

because I want to believe in something fated

that money is illusory

an irrational concept only worthwhile as a brief intermediary of heat

yet cardboard still works better in an empty drum

the timber my bouncy Brooklyn gentrifiers gather works better yet

anyway,

I’m drinking bourbon now, it’s true

not written as some delusory device

this isn’t ‘hard man’-tragipoeticism

just ponderance on paper, the attempted penetrance of a literary amoeba

I’m drinking bourbon

watching some Philip Seymour Hoffman pictures I’ve had on an illegal streaming queue

that I’ve been meaning to catch up on

since he died

and I’m thinking

that I need this drink

to keep believing

something fateful blah blah blah

art will save the world

the banks will crumble

like the ancient temple

and I’ll break the glass for it

and just because

and I’ll stare into her eyes

and she’ll know that she’s with a man

that treated his work like a landscape

a supposed hill in Calvary

fiction, fiction, it exists, and let it save the world

the only sin is empty hands

and I drink

and watch this movie

the acting is superb

and I pretend that I’m not just a damaged alcoholic

with some depressive leanings

and various psychological derangements, pretty in asymmetry

who is a tad too prideful

and far too averse of giving up his stubbornness

we play in the realm of immortality

strive to; checkers, backgammon, childish things

they bought the boards though and that’s the problem

but I drink and I pretend

and I need

you more so now, but also my distractions

this bourbon strokes out a few more weeks

I’m getting tired and unsure, a glass needs filling

I need the renewed feeling of being right

all this is true

a grapefruit for the morning

myself, the missing

I walk into the ashtray looking for something, someone there to smoke

and I see her eyes

their feral burning

and the glass breaking

and I get a hint of fatefulness

it smells like booze and empty sheets

the glass is breaking in my head

a grapefruit for the morning

get it ready

and another drink

the pause button doesn’t work

there is no death

and I am smiling

———-

Washington Sq. Park Poetry Project

21 May

—————

Washington Sq. Park PP06

—————

the madness of men

18 May

————–

REST IN PEACE, CHINX

————–

ripcord

 

me and D.B. Cooper used to be close friends

I was the one that always told him

‘Dan, you just got to be polite’

told him that

just like the rest of us

he’ll never get to Mexico

if he romanticizes it too much

it’s the same with everything

take last week for instance

I slept with a young lady

who looked exactly like the one I loved the most

back when we first met

she had just turned a mean nineteen

my alcoholism had just turned legal

this was years ago, of course

we fell in love as these stories often go

but it wasn’t the same this time around

history cannot be mended

refitted or reimagined

the new one opened her mouth

took off her dress

and nothing seemed familiar

just a distasteful attempt at connecting

to something that time corroded long ago

you can no longer find the past inside the present

we’ve stepped out of fiction and are now forced to live in this

so just like I told Dan

simply be polite

keep your shades on when her eyes attempt to keep you

and parachute out any time you see a storm approaching

————–

climb. keep climbing

16 May

———————–

———————–

let it go. no hurry

 

my
life
is
like
a
wife
I didn’t want to marry

 

I met Dali in the library last week
———————————————-and
————————————–tweaked
————————————————his
———————————-moustache
———————————————-just
————————————————-a
———————————————–bit

 

we all have to
————————-laugh
————————————it
—————————————-off
the spider’s already on the wall
—————————————————leave
————————————————————-him
——————————————————————–be

———————–

Tomorrow Evening (Brooklyn)

14 May

—————

Borough Hall Poetry Open Mic——————–

a curving thought

09 May

————-

 

—————

monotony

 

they say that men are meant to ossify

while women are meant to melt

I’m just waiting for my invitation for coffee in the Andromeda galaxy

curious to see what it feels like to be sucked into the center

 

smile

you’re already dreaming

this is a dream (pearls tap-dancing across the wooden floor)

you are asleep

soon your peers will discuss it

 

there’s maybe another ten years, tense

in taking a break from drinking

a few days

lift a few weights, stare at the sun

delight when you think how they say

you can’t see stars from this balcony

 

polluted, I take a sip of water from my bedside glass

new training (sweat turns charcoal on the sheet)

pair a couple of words together

sleep, smile

you’re already dreaming

————

short verse like medical treatment

29 Apr

————–

————–

layaway

 

i like legs
because i know
where they lead

i measure time
through music
like, i know how long this section of the symphony
lasts

whether arms or legs though
i want you around my neck
next time we see each other

i need you to
reset me
find my button
this version is hardly working out
too many bugs to fix

the frangible parts
can be replaced
i can be stronger
if i can pay

just layaway
with me

————

Some Shows Coming Up

21 Apr

——

——

Only ONE Night left of Eva’s Nitty Gritty Open Mic

(11 W8th st.) 8:30 – 10:30

4/25

Washington Sq. Park PP05

and also…

The Green Earth Poets Café presents

Spoken Word Poetry Open Mic at Brooklyn Borough Hall

209 Joralemon Street

May 15th          6 – 9pm           (open mic list closes at 6:30pm)

special guest: Brooklyn Borough President Eric L. Adams

————

resting on my shoulder

17 Apr

————

————

biography

 

vita brevis,

ars longa,

occasio praeceps,

experimentum periculosum,

ludicium difficile

 

a beer sipped through a straw

will get you just as drunk

but won’t taste nearly as pleasant

let’s get off this train before we keep going

and baby, Babylon may have the better beds and loftier coverlets,

but let’s just stay here – the glistens are more memorable in the ghetto regardless – if you’re willing,

and I’ll spread out my afghan

made by Brooklyn hands creased by small rivulets of weary blood

for us to lie comfortably upon,

envisaging the wonders of hanging gardens above us

both of us knowing because of the past and because your temple is

resting on my shoulder now

that the most miserable sound in the history of human sentiency

is other people making love to your woman inside your head

 

it’s been agreed upon by all those with a vote on the matter

I am my own inept biographer

creating historical accounts from falsehoods and fantasies

a hoodwinker who never forgets anything because there was never anything to remember

a face that simply says ‘keep blinking’

an emotionally-unavailable drunkard

the man who sleeps inside the sky

you are yourself

but I am myriad

a plethora of shadows nurtured by broad steps

stumbling, palm across the alley brick

rambling loudly like a tyrant something like,

——–“it is only those that have claimed to love you

——–that have the capacity to fuck you over

——–everyone else is just acting accordingly…”

I am some witty parts, some salty, one autodidactic,

all much too prideful, most unbearably stubborn

bellies full of cheap, mongrelly ingredients churning

gin and citrus keep me clean and regular

merry as a butterfly who knows how long this lasts

knows it all to be a cycle, rebirth unnecessary after the one go-round

we, each of us, spin, then become what we were

a scattering of sleepy, cracking stars chasing after Eos

the cylinder creates the illusion of moving chroma

though born poor, though die poor – the quicksand of my living was made of gold

it was, over time, put into small, leather pouches

given unto lacquered fingers of the ones that kept me sane

breathing

the ones that didn’t so easily believe me

– did you?

————

 

nothing to ignore, the world complains

12 Apr

————-

————-

dream sequence after she touched my arm

 

this is my dream of a floating world

where everything is correct

currency is open-warfare lust

you have a touch that pours the bourbon sweet

it takes time

it always has

we’re sailing through it

the acid makes me lazy (like Lazarus’s hypocoristic)

so rest with me, the world can sway all on its own

around us for a while

just learn to let the colors play, little darling, soak inside each iris

do you enjoy creating these new cosmoses with me

without ever leaving this bed

and hey, watch where you wave that thing

there’s already too many burn scars on this blanket

too much ash seeped into the threading of the sheets

don’t give me that look, baby, I won’t be cross

(won’t wear one either, if you ask)

don’t let it concern you though, de trop

we’ll wash each other clean eventually

let me just finish my drink

(you poured it sweet again)

and sleep with you another little while

————-

Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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