back with it…

07 Apr



8 x 8 (lower case)

“… a government with a god complex…”
“shit, we just reconfigured monkeys, man!”
deep thoughts like,
“is society just meat over flame?”
and reaching for brevity somewhere he falls short, but at times, between a slur and a slug, it has occurred, profound utterances and more beer money,
“sadly, women will always be primarily relied
for loving on rather than for loving up…”

the body is a fragile and unreliable burden
one must prepare
to lose its subtlety
eventually it will reach enough;
but the soul
if that can be considered in the simplest term
rather than going into any religious division-of-divinity reading
i’d prefer to tie it
very much like a noose
and just as easily instead
to the reason a being can be
at all

“my algorithmic reason for ‘no regrets’ is: don’t even regret the thing that dies you – cause regret is the only thing that you can take with you, and it’s a weight – you shouldn’t even take the love with you either, leave it to the world, not enough of it around as it is… but, regret, fuck, you don’t need that baggage, brother…”

a response for his monk-like dilettantism
like henry cotton is all about them smiles
like he knew him back in the day
we remind ourselves to fall short sometimes
because sometimes this world is hard to swallow
and the curbs are a motherfucker when you’re drunk


20 Mar




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
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


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



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


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
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
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.


Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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