once, maybe

11 Jan

————

————

unplugged 1/9/2015

 

right now
i am watching a wild
madly brilliant
young songstress dancing
on a stage
on a page
on a minimized screen
i’m smoking a cigarette with my tea
it’s early, must be just a quarter after three
her performance is unplugged
she’s singing jimi’s angel now
and it’s snowing outside
but here, it’s warm
i’m thinking chinese food
an egg roll, some fantail shrimp, maybe pork with broccoli too
it might have been a rough week, i don’t remember
in fact, it’s all forgotten now
the smoking gun, she’s getting into her indictable offenses
four fingers clutching a bombinating belly
the inosculating litterateur gazes at her navel and yawns a new dimension
splitting words and therefore sounds
(because aren’t worlds but mere sounds, after all
wingless, apteral)
oh, as she dances
hair as a whiplash with a smile underneath
i pick up the phone and dial the szechuan garden down the block
run by miss diaz
we, both, here, feel at home
because we both know
that there’s nothing underneath
but ground, heavy travel bags and bone
and other kinds of being left alone

———-

update

06 Jan

—————

————–

The Official Material Section (Crack & Vinegar) has been updated…

————–

First reading of 2015 has been scheduled – back at Eva’s (11 W8th st.) this Saturday, January 10th, 8pm…

————–

 

going warmly into what seems like ’36

30 Dec

————

———–

blink

 

mood, the color of the sea welcoming you in, sapphires pealing

the lights creating a carillon along your neck

all my investments, down

the shoes, old

dirty bathtub querying how old your rubber ducky is

the one between your legs

and who’s going to sell this scene to you

now that it’s almost through

and her eyes, brilliant, brown the orbit

a blink

she asks, how long do I have left to inspire you

before I do my own thing

but I’m dogged as a beheading date, claiming

genius is both possessor and possessed

you are always free and always captive

———–

lovesong

26 Dec

—————-

—————-

lovesong # 3

 

ever find yourself

inside an embittering novel-size cruet

simply wanting

a good woman

to be proud of you

the brilliance through her supine time culet

 

* * *

 

a children’s game

is pleasant for a lifetime

but sometimes pen turns to whiskey turns to window-shutters waiting on a wind to be discovered

regimes change

madness becomes progress, and what others call refinements hover

and what I call minor renovations are achieved

 

* * *

 

and then there’s better steps and idols

and sentiments you want exchanged

interlinking, simplifying

but a day becomes the night as true

as eager fingers find excuses

 

* * *

 

there’s nothing in it

nothing

but pleasant memories, eventually

and that’s enough really

all you have to do is love her and to love it all

—————-

the sound from the next room

21 Dec

————–

————–

mel

 

he
walks like a deceased king
slumping into the paranoia of gray
doomed like all things
and unlike all things
nothing gets created or destroyed
except affection and influence
the sound from the next room
he
walks away
the swollen leg swings pendulously upon each step
he thinks about prosecco
this dime and a half he made through this new centenary
he thinks of cocoa butter on her belly
when he was young
when they were movie-stars
he
walks like damage
slow, and slower every year
the veins, more prominent, creep in
like light from underneath a door
you’re meant to walk through
because of
the second sound from the next room

————-

hold on to it, if it’s true

15 Dec

——————

——————

nostomania

 

I never believed myself worthy much

but I don’t concede, I won’t give up this stubborn pushing

despite that in the past with you

as always I wanted more than I could get

more than I could sweat through

and if we’re really being honest, no anniversary flowers bought, I probably didn’t try hard enough

and yet, as I write this

you know the remaining truth

which is

that I am still the unsurrendered and as much morning as this weed will let me see, I’ve been right all along

making the 2-hour trip (from Queens to Harlem),

buzzing from downstairs, an interminable mounting of your stairs

trying to impress you with some softness in my words

or something cooked to remind you of the beginning of the movie

maybe a joke would be better suited

I thought of us and you

and your newest year and you

and I thought that there is something to

that we’ve both grown up a little

and some history has passed

that it’s a good day

because back then, that time before,

the only way a woman could cum

is by getting hysterical and seeing her local physician

 

when I was younger, I always recoiled at the word ‘lover’ – I found it antiquated, overtly-baroque – but, once my life caught up to the true materialization of that word’s intent, then I realized that, though a more neoteric synonym could be conceived to task as an appropriate colloquial replacement, no other word would really do – like from the root, then to the stem, then to the bloom and crown above; the beauty lies in the honesty and the simplicity of the qualification denoted

 

like, my skin: her skin –

the narcissism of the shadow

the crooked picture is the one that gets the second look

and I can’t offer you the stability of money

or that I won’t ever be cruel, or condescending, jealous, obstinate, bad breath in the morning, a drunken fool once a fortnight or two, minor post-adolescent acne, a beard that won’t grow in right, obsessiveness with the details, every birthmark on your skin

and I do tend to treat the hoi polloi as either children or long lost friends

and I’m a big proponent of morning sex – especially in my apartment – and if you’re here, I wake up early; my cock, your smell, like an alarm (I hope that you won’t be late to work)

and I know you hate it

when I’m spitting on the sidewalk

potential evaporation and bio-degradability be damned

and it’s icky that I still have my third cup despite the fact

that the coffee makes my palms irriguous and dewy

I’m not good on paper

and

I can’t promise you to change any of it fully,

never been released on good behavior yet –

what I can do is to keep on trying

always

and maintain a sense of humor getting it accomplished

step by step

 

(rhythm is reaction and repetition

and so, here’s another one

darling, welcome to my heart

… let’s dance,

like you were sick and I was scared and healing)

 

—————–

back, ugly as eva

12 Dec

—————

March for Justice, Saturday, December 13th – begins at 1pm in front of the NYSYLC offices (339 Lafayette st.)

Nitty Gritty Open Mic, Saturday, December 13th – begins at 8pm at Eva’s Restaurant (11 W8th st.)

—————

—————

hemingway, bitch

 

human beings are easily broken creatures

and the breaking is gradual

and once you’re broken it’s done

you might as well join the Republican party and spit on a homeless man

become a warhawk from the Midwest like a used tampon eager with brown blood

a clergyman full of contradictions and hands darkened by intentions and the lighting of false sanctuary

a leopard print covered in ejaculant, Bowery, 2 am

an oppressor, or a puritan, or a pundit, or a corporatist, or a sadist, or a boy scout

PETA, ISIS, KKK

Ferguson police department or DA

a Grape street crip on a bloody day

anyone funding the lucrative provocations of Alex Jones

anyone who changes seats on the train when uncle Charlie from Southside sits next to them

even my immigrant nan whose afraid of my varicolored friends

someone that judges, eats day cruel, and doesn’t call her back at night when she’s been crying

one of my favorite Aussies rightly said,

“just don’t be an asshole” and that’ll be that

and, it’s true, because

human beings are easily broken creatures

and the breaking is gradual and it will come

and once you’re broken

I promise you, it’s done

————–

reasons to exist in empty spaces and question marks

26 Nov

—————–

—————–

crescent 11

 

more horses than saddles

more pews than people

more hope than things to hope for

more heroes than acts of heroism

a mass of contradictions

I delight, and reflect

retreat a little

a prisoner of introspection

a proletariat of the information age

my brain got hacked so easy

DDos attacks, spam-botted

but my dick still hangs to the left

more hope than need for it

and there is much

because the next sleepers have grown teeth

and tits, and balls, and hair, and nails

no skin to speak of, they are wet

they send the cheerleaders to the army barracks

to pom-pom us off to the next war

against a new blank enemy

ambiguous, homogenized, but obviously deathly serious

they know we’re hopers

and doesn’t it look that things are turning out so well

for all involved

in thirty-five years I’ll be sixty-two

in the same place standing nude, dreaming as

the casketed man raises from the dead

father to the air below the Penthouse spread

proselytizing

watched like a teleprompter

by five sets of eyes

making sure that no mistake is made

————-

http://www.chelseamanning.org/pardonpetition

————

 

proof

20 Nov

————–

————–

proof

 

The Millenium Prize problems have been augmented to include a new affix:

the brain between Providence and Oxford has asked us to prove love through mathematic algorithm; explain its salience:

Christopher Langam stepped up to the plate with supercilious swagger, then realized that it makes more sense to breed horses in Missouri

Grigori Perelmen declined immediately; his rosewood colored bristles hiding a knowing grin

Jerry Salinger resurrected with Mara by his side holding a lightning bolt gave it a fair shot, but became a contented ascetic by living breathless in footnotes, asides and apocopes

William Rankine back in the nineteenth put it into verse but got caught up in the bondages of marriage

there were others too

but now it is up to you, my friend

I need five bucks and there’s a million on the line

me though, I have coffee yet to make for her

morning will be here soon

as will a new sky

a chiaroscuro like a raincoat of molting color;

this is the asymmetry of my dancer’s heels

somewhere in the proof

 

* * *

 

The only true victory we may be able to have over our physical life – whether one decides to synthesize that term into ‘somatic reality’ or some form of Descartesian existence is relatively immaterial – is the renunciation of earned glory: it is the conquering of the world and a subsequent absconding of it, because after a new peak is reached, the altitude gives way to greater vision to the squabbling, antagonistic irrationality below. This is a sad illumination that will cause ruin of great men, and unequivocal corruption of those nearly so.

So, stay hidden. Stay in love.

Don’t climb to places where you can’t breathe.

And if you do, breathe through me.

Stay in love. Morning will be here soon.

A chink to crack the proof: the asymmetry of my dancer’s heels.

I leave the rest, every postliminary perch, to you, the meritable lovers and better mathematicians.

————-

jitterbuggin’ through a restless mind…

17 Nov

—————-

—————-

melt into it, baby (paper airplane)

 

need a brother to borrow money from

mama, get it done

while behind Roky a gentleman in denim

plays a golden zither inside a plastic jug

 

                        * * *

 

need a lover that could lick this soul off me

stick around, I’ll eat you out

buy your dad a pretty, lacy dress

covered in a NYT crossword puzzle mess where the words don’t fit

 

                        * * *

 

I think it was 1972 and I said I wanted soup

you laughed and said, “what?!”

“soup”, I said

“I haven’t sat across from someone and ate soup in quite a while”

 

(for all former and current patients of psychiatric institutions)

—————

Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings