19 Jul





am I correct then, in assuming

that you don’t believe in miracles, good sir?!

I disagree, somewhat,

and counter then,

does not a beast deserve his wail?


one onion

one little onion

to get you out of hell

but two dollars and a few more cents

to buy a drink

to drown out this lack of dinner


the sun never mattered much

unless it was just the two of you

sedulous and alarmed

sweating out your shared lineage into that divine mortar

to break open those other stars that borne her


and now again, with vigor, I ask you,

am I correct in assuming, sir

that you still do not believe in miracles?

why then not follow me along

not too far at all

to that window over there by which money never lay

so I can show you love carrying the firmament

although simply for a lark



17 Jul



The Official Material (Crack & Vinegar) section of the site has been updated with all pieces chosen for inclusion up to this point.

Two Shows (back to back) coming up on Sunday, July 26th – further details forthcoming next week, although the Family Day flier can be accessed in the Upcoming Events (News) section of the site. 

New piece, “adversaries”, will be here at 12:12 am on Sunday. Cheers.


For the Russophiles… COTD 02

12 Jul



resin hit for kot matroskin (c.o.t.d. 02)


Why do I see soldiers marching with their heads tilted to the right on TV tonight
shouldn’t you be facing ahead if you’re holding an automatic weapon
perhaps be slightly concerned with poking someone in the back with your barrel
seems terribly uncouth
but it should be as of no surprise
people hardly make sense anymore
and I’m drowning in their stygian inanity
My former nation, the one of dancing bears
struggles with a populace that loves to suffer
especially with empty, silentious words
hovering in the atmosphere around their lips
(the bottom ones always swelling from the samagon
until they resemble saucers, like my homey Fedya
once described his cold Samsonov)
“it can always be worse” as it quite honestly has been in the past
and they use their history of being mutts
as excuse to despotize over any other Slavs within throwing distance
My new nation, the one of idealism and comic books
struggles with a populace that refuses suffering
and instead decides ignobly to ignore
that their oligarchs dressed as legislators
have decided around twenty-five years ago or so
that the profit-over-people stratagem
is the right one for a republic ambiguously screeching freedom
they’ve been waiting to give up on us a while
trust me, I’ve been around
none of it, nobody makes sense
So I sit here, jotting
thoughts, fragmentary but densely thrown unto the white
and pack my bowl for a resin hit
because I ran out of weed
and I’m trying not to drink as much
but still I can’t manage to lilt in full sobriety
things tend to spuriously reintroduce themselves as serious
and exceedingly more somber than they are
they keep me concerned more than they should
because in all, it doesn’t really matter
the ending was written long ago
(as was that cliché)
but for me to keep from raging against it all
I get high
put on a record by this Jersey City underground MC named Viro
who died a couple of months after they thought the world would end in 2012
and I’ll be fine, though slightly dumb
imagining beautiful, compassionate and of course naked women
who touch themselves after reading sonnets
then cry themselves to sleep
and eventually I’ll finish the book I always claim to be working on
and it’ll be good and briefly well-regarded
and in forty years, a young man resembling me
both in perspective and whiskey breath
will buy a copy of it for a dollar seventy-five
from a street vendor of secondhand paperbacks
plying his mothy wares in front of some privately funded university
run by a spectacled, stocky grumbler resembling a tweed-skinned Escobar
that everyone secretly resents
and this kid will read my book
and maybe he’ll be inspired
and he’ll begin with a few confessing verses of his own
and eventually the craft will become his own cherry-picked damnation
while the air grows thin
and people continue getting stranger
and less and less worthwhile
and more and more pointlessly provocative
and the kid will remain jotting, so very alone
like I once was
but I’ll be in my kitchen by this time
hoary as Silenus
eating my final sandwich
making sure to remember how good it tasted
when I flipped it upside down


TOMMOROW: Washington Sq. Park Poetry Project

10 Jul


Washington Sq. Park PP07


short, like perfunctory, white wine on a day when we try not to drink

09 Jul



lynard skynyrd on a mechanical piano


reading the newspaper aloud
vodka on the veranda
turn the page
a crow is born with blue eyes
like tattooing life
spoken for
on the skin of a world alight



I hope you’ve figured out how succulently stoned I’ve been during the composition of the past few pieces…

07 Jul



asshole # 7


despite my general indigence,

I do have some more so bourgey friends

(they though still are of the hedonistic mold)

but here we all are, so there we go

I order first since I know that I won’t have to pay the bill

a ‘bourbon-club’ in Midtown which bourbon aficionados can’t afford

kale salad at $12 a plate, (can’t approximate how it might taste along with the American brown)

anyway, our recent maundering revolved around

the fates of the operatic craft

they all prognosticated doom

the eventual death, or else the aesthetic-retirement of dotting audiences drawn

the ones culturally auditioned or conditioned

(or whatever other bullshit it takes one to wear the pearls)

being no longer capable of keeping up with the seasons

anyway, the concern presented was that this particular parrot

is quite close to that eternal squawkless resignation

the worry thus was that this fardel of prestige was all but lost to the AARP crowd

who’ll soon forget the magic and the repression of the flute (dementia)

but I said, no,

not really, man

I enjoy the opera too

I like Mozart and Gounod

Puccini, Verdi, Berlioz, and the like

so to appease scruffy ruffians like me

first lower them ticket prices

(student discounts don’t mean shit when you consider the cost of a college education)

kill the Kochs off your committee, withdraw their names off any permanent inscriptions

(Met balcony, I’m looking at ya’ll, you surely can find better patrons)

then install small metal cuspidors next to the seats

waste baskets acting as spittoons

for the shells of my sunflower seeds I’m due to spit

in between the arias

while everyone around me

as always

is far too polite to actually applaud


cheap incense

05 Jul



untitled (the last time)


last time i saw her
god seemed troubled
i brought her spicy chicken soup
a cotton hit worth of ghost pepper extract
in the bowl
the heat to help the spirit dance
she claimed to be a vegetarian
tired of propagating what she saw
i questioned it
how come, i asked,
i’ve seen you bloody
like when you performed that appendectomy on Joe
with twigs stolen from the acacia tree
last time we were all hiking in the desert
she shrugged it off
said, it was what it was
like the last time we slept together
commitments keep only those unsure
but those that know what it is they’re looking for
have the selfless right to change their mind
i told her that i liked surety just as much as demagoguery
and offered her the soup again
god said that, no, not now
it’s not yet time to wake up different
even the teeth are still asleep
she said – hey Tumult, just roll a joint
lay here and hold me
i might be better
when we’re both alive


Hard Body

27 Jun



Woody in the New Yorker


the man was torpid, bowlegged
with a port wine stain, porcine-shaped
across the left side of his face
my right testicle seemed like it’s been sagging
so I was feeling particularly frustrated
on that particular Sunday
that man was sitting by a music shop
close to Sheridan
where they sold broken ukuleles
reading something by Dickens
heavy, Bleak House I believe it was
my right jean leg felt tight
and I stumbled slightly
he noticed and he coughed
I caught a chuckle in that cough
and the way he sat there
like the wrong flag in the wrong ground
it sagged my testicle even further to the pavement
I worried that it might scrape along the concrete
so I killed him
the man, I mean
and with the testicle, now, feeling better
I strode off like I produced the play
off to my favorite diner
right there on Sixth
to order some chicken fingers, onion rings
maybe call my wife
cause she gets jealous
just like a cactus


short # 42

23 Jun





never run from a man with a knife

even if you don’t care for the manner in which the homey’s jibbing

back and forth, then straight ahead

(eventually there’s a lack of where to go)

but do no frighten, just remember

he takes steps just like you

head on is the best method

go for the knees

and don’t cut yourself shaving



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


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 knew 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


soon they’ll notice too

her eyes are dark



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


too self-conscious

to perform

at your fucking open mic

but once you plunk down for that


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



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


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


Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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