A Triumvirate of Shows

26 Mar

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3/26 Wed: The last Suvoz Salon (122 1st Avenue, btwn 7th st. & Astor)

8PM – 11PM (FREE)

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3/27 Thurs: PORNOETRY Showcase (459 Myrtle Ave.)

7PM – Whenever ($10 Cover)

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3/28 Fri: Street Poets NYC “Forward March” Thee Open Mic

(email RSVP@StreetPoetsNYC.com for location and password)

7PM – 2AM ($10 Cover – includes FREE Poets’ Punch)

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finite, you know it, and he told me…

24 Mar

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————–

the last kiss

 

the last kiss

becomes an egoistic memory

because it is one

that she will have no means

to remember

I,

on the other hand,

rushed to her hospital bed

out of lack of things to do

and

because I wanted to imprint myself

into her next step

be in the darkness with her

become a part of it

a continuation that I could join her in

I was already getting tired here, as it was…

the last kiss

made sense

because my company

strove for a post-modern immortality

one that  remained nostalgic for what it used to mean

briefly

yet this existed beyond the realm of the hypothetic

and hyperbolic

and I just wanted to taste her lips again

always a guilty man

on the run from her conclusion

leaving my soul broken like a doorbell

a lute that will never sing again

I want a home, her home

I want her home again

but fantasies kiss only children well

and now there’s no more bliss to seek

only ego left and a woman dying

and

I just wanted to be the one to taste her lips last

as definitively and delicately as a new crown placed on a virgin head

make myself a part of her escape

play a role inside her ghost

feed her chocolates and raisins inside that heavy mist

hide there with her

with just a couple of pens

a few carbons of my work

a pack of Camels inside her baby blanket

because like her

I was tired of this

and now I rushed

to taste her lips this final time

like a musical note stretching

drowning inside an eternal silence

the last kiss

the only one to matter

—————-

sherm scream

23 Mar

———

——–

angry pony

 

while the cuckold is sleeping on the couch

his woman is fucking her new daddy with her painted mouth

I’m hanging up next door

in my own four walls

ready to make my day a drought

a bit of whiskey figuring out

how to find a kingdom in a Brooklyn half-way house

a friend of mine’s been trying to find a place

but when you lack a pleasant face

and your former landlord ran you out with a can of mace

to erase your space

completely,

like last week’s freedom

like a paycheck forged bouncing along a dope shake

like a grapefruit gutted by a metal spoon

well then,

what the fuck can you do, my little angry pony?!

————–

Killing the Day

09 Mar

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—————

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pink-slip

 

tonight,

I resign all my former muses

they were conceived in haste

they were mistakes that I believed in far too greatly

I’ve become distracted by them

like by little girls who recite Pasternak

unprompted

like little faith

I rescind their obligations

and hope they leave with no remorse

no empty feeling

no regrets

I’ve tried to fill them out

as best I could

with myriad harmonies and every different sun

I could conjure

just so I could see a different light

playing off their sleeping cheeks like aubades

in my bed

in my head

I need to quit this deleterious drinking

and make this hood ideopolis my motif

instead of how beautiful they looked

and how falsely uncapturable it all seemed

at the time

never lasting longer

than a pretty-fingered vocation from a temp agency

————–

 

the issue of memory

03 Mar

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the man without qualities (robert musil lifting weights)

 

there was a small, leftover

piece of chalk

on the concrete

from budding fingers that drew

and abandoned

 

there was a softness

a summer six months and six years

ago, that rustled and wrestled itself playfully

to a flocculent bed

clouded

with a manuscript full of medicine

the pages loose as

soldiers strayed in a madness

oceans by each window

water and so much sand

that I lose time counting it all

and remembering

 

there was a lot, there

never again

coming back

more and less each time

always leaving

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There (Part II of Poetry Written During Long Journeys and Bad Transportation)

25 Feb

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————

location, location

 

she no longer meets me at the door

because she knows that I’m going to come inside

this is the place where dreaming stirs

and we resurrect the same tired society

again and again and then once more

for good measure and a lower tax rate

the same society

that killed a mid-eighties storytelling Seattle frog

who bled out somewhere in a small Washington town

a few miles south of the big city

from self-inflicted wounds to the neck

this place

for which she swears a welcome

that smells of bleach and daytrips too:

hallucinogenics by way of Reaganomics

trickling down

to stupefy the poor

yet simultaneously inspire them as well

like some century-long broadcast of a fireworks display

this is the place

where your secretary flirts and gets paid less for it

where the birches slow under the sky in preparation for a revolution

where the witless and the windless die arrogant and alone

disassembled, gaunt, with slightly yellowed teeth

this is the place

that hides my shame and my ambition

this is the place

where I wait at a lost bus stop

while pushing a blue broom handle

lost in peeling snow

both of us

last, and lost again in sempiternity, swaying aimlessly

along concrete

this is the place

that spits and nurtures no one new

at least no one without any cash on hand

or a well-balanced checkbook

this is a place where I fell in love

with her and with reality

somehow damned to know and thirst for both

but that’s my character, as you well know

Moran, Molloy, not him, not me

we are a different shade of one another

he lacks dimension, breadth and sympathy

but I lack his self-assurance

we were both here before, him and I

this is the place where we had met

he left me by myself to write the story

I haven’t finished yet because it was too hard

one day I will

I have time here

in this place

this strung out, struggling

sleepless place

where she no longer meets me at the door

———

There

24 Feb

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bread and circus

 

when I come home

I want to find her

a culprit sitting at my desk

eyes conspiratorial and searching

I’ll be direct

in silence and desire

in gratifying respect

the fingers become instruments

specific to unravel her

the pantyhose go first

I’ll rip them slowly

by way of a resolute symmetry

until I can move her panties

to the right

and leave my tongue to skulk along her clit

then just rest a minute there

make camp  

then proceed slowly upward

a pulsing tongue along the belly

marking landmarks and places to vacation

a kiss

between the breasts, across the neck, then to her lips

along making my way

in this manner skyward and vastly delicate

I will remove any adversarial items of clothing

athwart my route

leaving her in nothing

but ripped pantyhose

and tiny socks

because her feet get cold

so easy

————–

Hidden Miracles and a Lonely Dusk

09 Feb

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———–

The Writer Grows Frustrated and Decides to Have a Cigarette on the Balcony Despite the Cold February Night

 

released by the past

before it was my time

before I was quite ready

careful not to

drop ashes in your whiskey glass,

she said

each step must be a cautious one

because, like Jean, you are much too sweet to live;

you break far too easily

to not be deemed obsolete

The cigarette helps, the writer thinks

and the soft, remaining magic

of the oncoming morn over a poor neighborhood:

all of it unseen by the pulpy softcover on her bureau

because my magic is something different

because she walks naked for no one there right now

at least no one that I know

she,

the missing audience I write for,

Her –

the one with the capital ‘H’

and many, many masks

that she does not seem fit to hide from any

———-

Dea

07 Feb

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Reading tonight at the Brooklyn LaunchPad (Doors Open at 8PM)

721 Franklin Ave, Brooklyn, NY 11238

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connexion: dea

 

wandering through dreams

like Sylvia Welter in a vault

I found her

my dea

hopeless

for her a hapless, limbed and lithe idea

a shade of the liliaceae through the window of my writing space

a drink, dark skin, a fit of frenzy

unprinted pages

she calmed me after years of mourning

a novella stolen by a drunken uptown 6 train

coming home to someone separate and new

it was my second draft

maybe even my third

if you consider our time in Spain

my dea

how do I begin again?

 

wandering through dreams

like trauma in red lipstick

she found me

my dea

a well-informed voice

from the lungs then to the neck

and it strains

and then there’s music

clicking along the sound

it lifts the room like tenderness

soft fingers as extensions of wet eyes

she touched my arm

and I too became diapason

and rested on her lips

this trip becomes a journey through the night

so rough, so callous, full of sonnets as streetcorners

a trip that no one should take alone

although two lives lived synchronously

in concert

can stoke the dead man’s heart

with enough ritornelle to burn the air and cause a waking

 

my dea, oh my dea

always

wandering through dreams

 

dedicated with gratitude to the beautiful women who’ve stimulated my creativity simply by stumbling through my daily hallucination: one recently blonde, one stately mad and missing, one a lovely host of words and music

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Faces

03 Feb

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Check out the Upcoming Events section for two scheduled readings this week…

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“This was no season for lilacs, but rather one for a sleepless inanity, something like a lost record out of radio play; there was both finality and infinity in it. There was life in it, but it never kept me, at least never fully.”

-          One Face

 

I

 

a terrycloth bathrobe with a skittering mind

who’ll ask you whether you believe in God

what you thought of Heathcliff in the Heights

then take you on a long stroll along a short beach

a humor and a horror with thick dark brows

still melancholy over a proofread comma

from three years past

 

II

 

my writing,

my writing,

all my writing

for a woman

a truly exceptional one

I’d give it up

all of it

every word

just like any other addiction

for a different one

that’d keep me alive

(because a life

simply through words

is as thin and ageless as a page)

————

Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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