The End of Zen

06 Aug

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Tonight, at 11pm EST, I will be turning off the FOX News GOP Primary Debate, changing my expression that for the past two hours had been oscillating between horror and some sort of demented watching-a-car-crash-in-slow-motion hypnosis to one of wistful mourning and surrender at the loss of seeing Jon Stewart, whom I’ve watching for the past 17 years since the time I was a sensitive pre-radical preteen four nights a week (most weeks), leave my late-night television screen. So long, Jon. Hope you get to leave New Jersey for long enough in the future to interview me when my book comes out.

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shorties for the shorties

31 Jul

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L-shaped seasonal allergies caused me to spend $56 at the bar last night

 

I’ve been so
perpetually unimpressed for so
long
that now it’s stuck
and I’ve been
apathetic about it
all
as the time becomes
I grow a little crazy
lazy like a spoon
cradling something smiling
in the sky

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law & order

28 Jul

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jury nullification

 

I hear it constantly

obstreperously, all the time

usually from prolix nudniks

free country

this is a free country

well, you show me what you see here free

and I, for my part, will find you a bill

 

now, on to the next

 

don’t take the blonde girl out

she’ll be obsolete in a few centuries I hear

the New York Times told me that

and all the rest of you

stop buying empty rooms

paradise is a studio apartment

with the dark-haired girl

chestnut eyes with space inside to fit your madness

 

now, the only lie between us

the one that I just testified about

is our refusal to acknowledge how lonely we both are

just like the rest of the members of the court

the time it takes to unabstract the motion (or lack thereof)

a kiss, as evidenced eventually,

in the middle of a street losing its own name

outside the safety of our respective neighborhoods

which will allow us to recognize how we accord inside each other

admit how to abate this loyal loneliness previously mentioned

run past it, running to this block

which will become our shared alibi forever

 

now, on to another freedom

before you hear the gavel banging

before they try to save us

like the rest of the fools condemned

to love

and other such crimes against society

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SUNDAY

24 Jul

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familyday————–

The Five Spot Open Mic

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just let me know

22 Jul

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just let me know

 

just let me know

when you think it’s coming

the time when

everyone says

we’re supposed to turn mean

to one another

instead of simply working

with a delightful ardency, if I might add

on turning each other on

and I’ll start practicing

now though let’s just dig this, as it is

some cruelties, I’m sure, are coming

they’ve always found a way to scowl unto the scene before

jocosely causing their pointless chaos

just let me know

when you see them coming, hear them

they stomp real loud when on approach

each boot rude and minatory bombast

each

as rueful

as calculating and contrite

as a bomb blanketing a child’s bed

yes, they will be our enemies

just let me know when to expect them

ask your girlfriends, if you must

even the plutocratic and plutonian ones, the ones that hate the art in you

or ask your dead daughters when you dream

they serenade you, I’ve seen you listen as you sleep

I’ll take the help of anyone willing to offer it

because you know I am afraid

even nameless things

they need to speak

that’s all I can do, accept them at their word

as for you, when you see those malignities with open ears converging

baby, then, just let me know

I’ll take them all on, fuck it

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adversaries

19 Jul

————

————

adversaries

 

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

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UPDATE

17 Jul

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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.

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For the Russophiles… COTD 02

12 Jul

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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

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TOMMOROW: Washington Sq. Park Poetry Project

10 Jul

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Washington Sq. Park PP07

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

09 Jul

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lynard skynyrd on a mechanical piano

 

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

 

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

07 Jul

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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

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cheap incense

05 Jul

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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

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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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