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


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


Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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