back, ugly as eva

12 Dec

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March for Justice, Saturday, December 13th – begins at 1pm in front of the NYSYLC offices (339 Lafayette st.)

Nitty Gritty Open Mic, Saturday, December 13th – begins at 8pm at Eva’s Restaurant (11 W8th st.)

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hemingway, bitch

 

human beings are easily broken creatures

and the breaking is gradual

and once you’re broken it’s done

you might as well join the Republican party and spit on a homeless man

become a warhawk from the Midwest like a used tampon eager with brown blood

a clergyman full of contradictions and hands darkened by intentions and the lighting of false sanctuary

a leopard print covered in ejaculant, Bowery, 2 am

an oppressor, or a puritan, or a pundit, or a corporatist, or a sadist, or a boy scout

PETA, ISIS, KKK

Ferguson police department or DA

a Grape street crip on a bloody day

anyone funding the lucrative provocations of Alex Jones

anyone who changes seats on the train when uncle Charlie from Southside sits next to them

even my immigrant nan whose afraid of my varicolored friends

someone that judges, eats day cruel, and doesn’t call her back at night when she’s been crying

one of my favorite Aussies rightly said,

“just don’t be an asshole” and that’ll be that

and, it’s true, because

human beings are easily broken creatures

and the breaking is gradual and it will come

and once you’re broken

I promise you, it’s done

————–

reasons to exist in empty spaces and question marks

26 Nov

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—————–

crescent 11

 

more horses than saddles

more pews than people

more hope than things to hope for

more heroes than acts of heroism

a mass of contradictions

I delight, and reflect

retreat a little

a prisoner of introspection

a proletariat of the information age

my brain got hacked so easy

DDos attacks, spam-botted

but my dick still hangs to the left

more hope than need for it

and there is much

because the next sleepers have grown teeth

and tits, and balls, and hair, and nails

no skin to speak of, they are wet

they send the cheerleaders to the army barracks

to pom-pom us off to the next war

against a new blank enemy

ambiguous, homogenized, but obviously deathly serious

they know we’re hopers

and doesn’t it look that things are turning out so well

for all involved

in thirty-five years I’ll be sixty-two

in the same place standing nude, dreaming as

the casketed man raises from the dead

father to the air below the Penthouse spread

proselytizing

watched like a teleprompter

by five sets of eyes

making sure that no mistake is made

————-

http://www.chelseamanning.org/pardonpetition

————

 

proof

20 Nov

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————–

proof

 

The Millenium Prize problems have been augmented to include a new affix:

the brain between Providence and Oxford has asked us to prove love through mathematic algorithm; explain its salience:

Christopher Langam stepped up to the plate with supercilious swagger, then realized that it makes more sense to breed horses in Missouri

Grigori Perelmen declined immediately; his rosewood colored bristles hiding a knowing grin

Jerry Salinger resurrected with Mara by his side holding a lightning bolt gave it a fair shot, but became a contented ascetic by living breathless in footnotes, asides and apocopes

William Rankine back in the nineteenth put it into verse but got caught up in the bondages of marriage

there were others too

but now it is up to you, my friend

I need five bucks and there’s a million on the line

me though, I have coffee yet to make for her

morning will be here soon

as will a new sky

a chiaroscuro like a raincoat of molting color;

this is the asymmetry of my dancer’s heels

somewhere in the proof

 

* * *

 

The only true victory we may be able to have over our physical life – whether one decides to synthesize that term into ‘somatic reality’ or some form of Descartesian existence is relatively immaterial – is the renunciation of earned glory: it is the conquering of the world and a subsequent absconding of it, because after a new peak is reached, the altitude gives way to greater vision to the squabbling, antagonistic irrationality below. This is a sad illumination that will cause ruin of great men, and unequivocal corruption of those nearly so.

So, stay hidden. Stay in love.

Don’t climb to places where you can’t breathe.

And if you do, breathe through me.

Stay in love. Morning will be here soon.

A chink to crack the proof: the asymmetry of my dancer’s heels.

I leave the rest, every postliminary perch, to you, the meritable lovers and better mathematicians.

————-

jitterbuggin’ through a restless mind…

17 Nov

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—————-

melt into it, baby (paper airplane)

 

need a brother to borrow money from

mama, get it done

while behind Roky a gentleman in denim

plays a golden zither inside a plastic jug

 

                        * * *

 

need a lover that could lick this soul off me

stick around, I’ll eat you out

buy your dad a pretty, lacy dress

covered in a NYT crossword puzzle mess where the words don’t fit

 

                        * * *

 

I think it was 1972 and I said I wanted soup

you laughed and said, “what?!”

“soup”, I said

“I haven’t sat across from someone and ate soup in quite a while”

 

(for all former and current patients of psychiatric institutions)

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getting through it…

15 Nov

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—————–

all minor chords (Dm)

 

i really want to tell her that i love her

but i don’t want to lie

how could i put it

i got marooned on a different island long ago

or

the smell is different – the fire of rose for the cold of syringa, i don’t know

and now, the latter

i’m number to it (three or four, i’m not too sure anymore)

and

i mostly want a bed to share

to feel affection and affected

and

some promise at some time

whether brief, or…

what’s the use

spinning these

excuses, comfortable rejections, half-truths , placating explanations

they turn one into sleep

or worn out sneakers

taken out only when the dirt is apropos

lubricious pitfalls translated to lubricated pratfalls

and i’m the king of falling

and so

we are back to it

a quietly shifting mushroom cloud in my bed

linen everywhere

unsatisfied for different reasons

liminal, but on different sides

with no door to find

no keys to open it even if we do

———–

Live at Enzo’s

13 Nov

————–

————–

live at enzo’s

 

we had lost touch about a year back

but I always assumed we’d get a chance to reconnect

the bullshit that went down

was buried off last Saturday when I found out

playing poker with a mutual friend for small stakes

he said it could’ve been last week, six months ago

your body giving out or something else

not to be discussed, but we both know

we were both there, curing, sick

I on the couch, you in your chair

playing that Andrea Bocelli joint you got stuck on from that Will Ferrell flick

(it’s the fucking Catalina Wine mixer!)

I would pace around jittering

both, witty scarabs or busted soldiers reminiscing on some trauma

we bonded over different heartbreak:

            mine a curly chestnut Marlborough, yours a blonde Newport

similar in attitude, we burned the same, but at graded rates, varied speeds

tattoos, tattooed mistakes

the past, reworked, reworded, remissed , hidden away at a chance or two

a quick miscalculation

a couple of strikes – you had better lawyers

but now, homey, it is as it is

as we might have expected

but couldn’t have been prepared for

yeah, man, we had lost touch about a year ago

but this is truce, for real

sorry it took so long for this parlay

I’ll go see your mother soon

pay my respect

when I get my nerves in line

and figure out what I could possible say to her

but, fuck it, brother, give me a call when you get a chance

I should say that now

wherever you end up

and we’ll meet up on a rooftop

and pass a joint around that you’ll ask me to roll for us

and talk shit a little like we used to

————

(Dedicated to the memory of Josh “Enzo” Enzer – Rest in Peace, big heart homey)

————

 

 

who bought the muzzle?

11 Nov

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————

muzzled refection

 

standing on our cranium-shaped golgotha,

they’ve figured out the price and processes of gods in the New York Review of Books

I read, I wince

cursing aggressively

with Lowell notifying me to pity the monsters

found nearly forgotten in my picture books and photo albums

it all felt like I was over-firing a cigarette, but it still smoked

and while I still had this nostalgic and pointless pause,

I told her

that I want us to be as intimate

as animals

that know each other’s bodies by their tongues;

by sharing the splendor of touch through taste;

crossing sensual borders,

I discover myself, us,

as an émigré in this new land that is you,

offering me a freshly unfamiliar refuge

which makes me nervous

until I wake up and see how you are

in skin that feels like an improvised, but welcome homecoming

each morning vamping

like a hounded jazz rhythm

that’s different live than when engraved into the wax,

familiar and strange

————–

sleep

21 Oct

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—————–

somniloquy

 

stolen kings

golden rage

frisked in the hallway

caged

yet, somewhere in America a cross is still burning

but we’re just drinking coffee here, talking important issues

exporting them from updates found on smart phones

growing gravestones

as vital to the deck as a five of diamonds

too many guarded mines to bleed through

and now come the missionaries

and I try to hide inside your lips

that’s what I want, what I need

just find me in another state

just find me in another state

I’ll make a new country out of it, just for us

I dreamt of you naked in front of me last night

even though it’s been three years since I’ve seen your body like this

but I kept forcing sleep until it came

and missing you has become like trying to pause a dream

in the sleep of a parasomniac

trying to rewind you to the beginning

or another sweet spot along the glimmer

and since I can no longer speak to you like this while I’m awake

pretend that this is my somniloquy

———-

Washington Sq. Park Poetry Project (Last Night of the Year)

17 Oct

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Washington Sq. Park PP 04———

settled

15 Oct

————-

————

rice

 

passing by

there was

a vaudeville-sort of kiosk

stocked with memories

slanging, wobbled next to some granite

over-top the concrete

where the bodies are buried

your picnics are all full of ghosts

my memoirs are afraid of a drunken night, so we’re neither are blameless

but I was searching for something yellow and shining that was almost like light

and I remember at some point we stood together and former together

stoned or still or maybe a mixture of both slightly exaggerated

and something was remembered and stored

and is now being sold

in cheap paperback

like all profitable commemoration

————-

Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings