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





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



homicide, then off the chalk (another love poem)

18 Mar





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


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





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



6 and we far from the rockaways…

24 Feb



homey future under hush


the future is a paranoid

aging neophyte

wondering aloud how it could be

walking through your neighborhood

foreign to him

in a manner

somewhere between

a stumble and a strut

he looks perpetually frazzled

wide-eyed, looking for nothing in particular

hairs hoary

the whores dead

the past wiped away like cum off a gravestoned belly

soft tissue

the granite scratches

the future goes on

despite the fact that it doesn’t exist

the last hope on childless jaws extending their crowning breath

knowing that, really, the rub never was

                                    all alone, left alone, stayed alone

it was that some fateful motherfucker kept sprinkling sawdust underneath your nose

and saying happy birthday every time you sneezed


check underneath the seat

20 Feb



vile and vulgar wonderings under 46


wondering how I got here

wondering when I’m going to die

wondering what almost thirty means

wondering whether we’ll ever elect a gay socialist president to sit on POTUS’s sedes stercoraria

wondering whether I’ll ever smile at nature’s caprice again

snow boots rarely lead to good work, but we all have to tip the Chinese food delivery man at least 15 % somehow (try the Singapore Chow Mei Fun, I guarantee it)

wondering whether if I told you I can get god to lick your tits (she said it, not me!) but you might get into a bit of trouble for it – how many of you would really refuse, and say ‘I’ll pass’?

wondering when I’ll get to fuck Mnemosyne again – she’s a squirter and she helps me remember

she’s been passed around a lot of us, it’s true, that’s just how it works – for example, Nabokov took her as she slept, but that’s just the type of guy he was – acts loveless and full of purpose

another bit of meaninglessness to throw into the fire, the eventual fire, when the fire comes

it’s like you’re behind this wall, but I can’t see an opening

I read a few days ago, running out of cigarettes as always because of a nervous system that took a hit four years ago, that time will cease to exist in approximately three and half billion years

and we’ll all be frozen, like them folks at Pompeii, but still whole, corium over ash, each of us contained in our own unwavering look of predespondency

when I get there, if I do, almost thirty after all, I want either your legs or your arms around my neck, because in my opinion, timelessness deserves a worthy prize

the cosmos becoming like the scratched and scuffed polaroid of a lost lover she keeps hidden in that lacunar always under her pale hand

but it’s fine

it’s fine

it will be fine

we deserve to stop wondering, we deserve what’s coming


The Title is a Process

17 Feb



via dolorosa


color and pain are only separated by a single letter

the body drags, skips over the larger stones

the matron at the front of the procession sings something mournful

premature, sure, but

the body cannot hear it anymore

a young man hands over an energy drink

the bloodied hand barely clings

his movement produces no distance anymore

a con-job in the eye of it

the reporters will be calling soon

asking for a quote

but the offices are empty

the hindsight-augury hanging off the doorframe reading,

“the rapture was undertaken through quid pro quo as always…”

the body tries to drag itself along

several of the larger stones in front of it

glistening like pebbled candy adjoining the shallow of the sorrel, muddy sluice

there will be silence there

the water shows you there was a home here prior

and room to grow

morning too

succor granted to deserved and undeserved alike

diamonds designating property

and a lot of blood and history and the eventual lack of recollection

it was a con-job in the eye of it, for sure

but as color and pain are only separated by a single letter

no distance really is achieved

especially when you look at it directly

but we do not, we are the body

and we drag our flesh and antiquity behind us

like the worthless fortunes that they are

because even though our legs no longer carry

we just know that we are getting somewhere

and we’ll be arriving there so very soon


Back in Brooklyn

13 Feb



Back in BK with two shows coming up:

2/14/15 – 1370 Rockaway Parkway (Doors open at 8pm/ Show starts at 9pm)

Might be a cover, ya’ll, but the show is dope and the venue is smoker-friendly (cough, cough, you know where Jack’s gonna be)

2/22/15 – 459 Myrtle Avenue (“I AM KING” Showcase at The Five Spot, 8pm)



dashing off a question

12 Feb



new watch


my eyes


past the passerby,

the train conductors scurrying their dogies

into the locomotive

almost as though it was a custodial matter;

they want all of us inside,

but I’m seeking out

the hanging clock

so I can


my time


like conversation wasted

on my kot Esenin

who claims through purring

that time is inconsiderate anyway

the only thing worthwhile buying, free

time is and has always been of no account

only light is eternal

– can’t you see it moving

the practice having just begun

when your eyes first turned into a calendar


Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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