Washington Sq. Park Poetry Project

21 May


Washington Sq. Park PP06


the madness of men

18 May






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


I didn’t want to marry


I met Dali in the library last week


we all have to
the spider’s already on the wall


Tomorrow Evening (Brooklyn)

14 May


Borough Hall Poetry Open Mic——————–

a curving thought

09 May






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



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





i like legs
because i know
where they lead

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

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


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





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


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


Three Nights Left

10 Apr



Only three nights left to catch The Nitty Gritty at Eva’s (11 W8th st./8:30 – 10:30)… it was announced that after these three Saturdays coming up we will be losing the stage, so come and patronize while still granted the chance.

Jack will surely be there (or smoking outside). New piece will be here by Sunday.


all about coming back…

03 Apr


pastiche, like numbering smoke


we wuz who we wuz

it is what it is

we know what we know

it goes where it goes


it might be only due

to my location and my pea coat

but I’m feeling like a Leonard Cohen looking for his Janis Joplin

as she in turn was looking for Kris Kristofferson

on her elevator ride

yet I’m still lost in the spectral eyes of someone else’s ancestry

a fabular darkness I destroyed so I can live again

as diamond


it must be tough knowing that you’ll always be loved


hearts are hearts

the mind roams then dissipates

the smart people are never in the room

the cheap lighter has been adjusted for pyromaniacal debauchery

and for the one-hitter I’ll smoke through outside tomorrow’s venue


we are stronger than our history

we are more than the arbitrary collection of

                               events that preceded us

we can change, we can become new in seconds

but most of us stay the same

either way, don’t get lost



Come out to Eva’s (11 W8th st.) tomorrow night for a dope Nitty Gritty Open Mic night (8:30pm – 10:30)

Also, I would like to happily announce the return of the Washington Sq. Park Poetry Project, hosted by yours truly, coming back later this month (date tba – will be providing more info soon)…


do you miss the fever?

26 Mar





this is the one that I wrote
before the narcissists went to bed
before my own humble sun dared to take a peek
there is so much that I can’t see anymore
maybe I’m not drinking enough
maybe it’s because all the women I want I tend to miss
and all the ones I don’t tend to spend the night
this is a small island
that’ll spend the next decade going underneath the shore


this is the one that I wrote
that’s not about heartbreak
this is the one that got away from me
more musicians than the room can fit
not enough music
my friends run this joint
soaking in it until nothing can be heard
nothing can be felt
I’ll twist my ankle careening down the stairs
and wake up slightly bruised with the pills still in my system


this is the one that I wrote
because I didn’t aim to please
no poetic cunnilingus, this is no song of songs
tongue wakes at the inner thigh
no, this is merely the expectoration of some spirit, glowing
the hue of an honest sickness
no money and no work ever again
I’ve been called to wait it out
for the narcissists to go to bed
for new cognizance to bring me something to dream about
a cogged suitcase full of suicidal gambles, unopened
a little face that says ‘I do, I will’ somewhere down the line
this is how goodnight spreads across our earth


Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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