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

————-

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

————–

————–

defervescence

 

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

————–

Weekend Show

20 Mar

——————–

IMG_20150308_201352————–

homicide, then off the chalk (another love poem)

18 Mar

—————–

—————–

chalk

 

I saw son under the streetlight
then lights, then chalk…

 

just because I lost you
doesn’t mean that I want you back
no need to feed the process of the abattoir
I’ll be minced as it is
whether by weary machinery or by its tizzied proxy

 

as long as you love me more
when I’m gone
then this tired, timid, underwhelming living works
bourbon and ambition will get me by
even though you’ll be the last woman that I got to kiss
unlike every next one
which will be just tongues and lips gyrating til’ the little death
(or until another easy Barthes reference)
vibration, hearts beating just because
unsputtered by anything resembling destiny
perceived or bona fide
more akin to a deal with the DA where we all get fucked

 

never liked these small rooms
the hands hurt
from tapping at the table
keeping the beat inside my head to pass the time
the trumpet part from SpottieOttieDopaliscious
but as long as you love me more
I’ll wait it out here for now somehow
there’s enough music in my head to drown them out
as long as I don’t find you when I egress out the postern
not this one that you’ve pretended, at the very least
I want a new one, the one that got shined off
but that’s just futile speculation
too much imagination, too many hypotheticals to keep straight
might as well wait for son to reappear
lift off the chalk
to walk away

—————-

this is how we almost feed ourselves

15 Mar

————

———–

Less Tense Than I Was The Last Time I Confessed

 

it’s not your fault that you don’t love me

don’t want me

I, of course, am an acquired taste

a factory of fantasies and fingers

a taste of liquor and sincere, black rabbit sweat

and I just bought a beer

and I’m too tired to either be complacent or considerate

more so than this

in other words, I’ll be fine

elusive in the ether, we only find illusions

it was my homey, not me, that ripped his hand apart

I’m no romance-stigmatic

and besides, your brand of bullshit no longer stings as much

as it did before

now I just write it out in a night

quick poem, reflexive now almost; no six hundred page tomes begun

the other one (the one that was for you,

                         your hand, your button, our little button, a tiny face

                         that looks like mum – because she’s the prettiest star,

                         like the dance I should have accepted when you were sick –

                         for your ebon curls down your back, bared,

                         I massage you, oil, a stoner comedy on the screen,

                         something with rogen probably, but that shit

                         was long ago, and now the one that was for you

                         is a relic of warning, mourning, desperation,

                         sex as sacrament, bad vibes, nervous hands,

                         sangria at some west village Spanish spot,

                         some dress you wore and then took off…)

yes, that other one, motherfucker’s still going, you’d be surprised

and maybe when it’s done… ah, fuck it, princess

no more crowning the authors no more

casually, you know why my hands are eventually coming off

not like my friend, but sort of

the reasons, now, seem strikingly similar

but none of this is your fault

I get that

I guess I’m older now

and priorities have been forced on me

because of mistakes (the miserable sort)

because of madness and pride

my big head

my feeling of entitlement to affection

my lack of time

anyway,

if you change your mind

and you want your man to cook your eggs for you

I’m two hours away by train

come see me

you know where I am, keep shining

 

———–

for the new piece, smoking

10 Mar

———-

———-

layla

 

the paint of the sherlock sheds

with every chamber consumed

soon the cerise will slink off

like a bad impression

leave the party

layla, (though aside from cream I never liked clapton much)

the bowl will soon turn black

decisions, decisions

girl scout cookies, og kush, jack herer

the paint of the sherlock

layla lets her shawl get carried by the wind

produced by rumbling, dusty lungs made of some obsolete alloy

a chamber is consumed

smoke is everywhere

clouding the glass of prying eyes

soon she will be nude

I will be stoned

and spring will begin again somewhere

underneath new feet

———-

end of the month 7 under the weather

28 Feb

—————–

——————

after work

 

there is something candid about this particular exhaustion
like the fucking viking funeral was last week
and i caught a splinter in the eye
while the flame took him slow then whole
but this was not that
i’m just tired, both eyes are fine, but i’m still bothered that some dickhead offered me a hash-tag when i asked for some moroccan hash a few hours ago
(all this au-dada-city these days! gotta get outta babylon!)
i got high regardless though, but that’s a boring story
now my train ride on the other hand had a preacher-singer
with a boom box attached to a wooden crate he wheeled around
he couldn’t really hold a note
but his hands were guileless and quite adroit at selling his cds
it wasn’t much, but it got me sleeping
enough to make it back to my door again

 

* * *

 

there’s something sweet about this beer
even though it was bought cheap
but sympathy, true sympathy, usually is
and i miss her, fuck
i shouldn’t
but some kid at work keeps harping on a two-month heartbreak
— i miss that youthful overestimation, i used to have it too —
the realities grow conscious only later:
the understanding of separate ego, variables beyond control, the inability to change her mind, to make anyone love if they’re unwilling
– but it’s alright, it will be, just as right now it is what it is and all of that and blah blah blah and it’ll get better, it might, it will, it won’t, but that’ll be that
then, fuck it for now
get living done
that’s what i told him
but i still missed her
(still thought how highbrow it might be of me to use my tongue to measure the circumference of her thighs)
i bought the kid a beer
drank one with him
went home
beaten, candid
and exhausted

——————-

 

Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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