all the way somewhereinthemiddle

25 May



murky in existential terms


some accent when you’re drinking
my homey’s got a crush
and then there’s that brendan behan reference
from three years ago
back when i though it was witty
and now i just like the play
the words
how they seem to swim
with the days
and the messaging decided
the meaning minified
the truth becomes like that jury duty notice ignored inside your mailbox 
the colors, though, the light, as always
remain, i used to write about it
how that can be
a lot more
but it’s there
even without my own interaction to it
and it’s always almost enough
like familiarity with the presence
and knowing
you’re always almost there

there was

19 May



apex learns


“It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so. I admire you, beloved, for the trap

you’ve set. It’s like a final chapter no one reads because the plot is over.”

– Frank O’Hara


lovesong # 4

11 May


lovesong #4


are your eyes still brown
or have they changed with the years I haven’t seen them
your skin, I know, I can see
has scars like new gods
peccable upon it
as though creating myths on empty planets
waiting on some unifying abyss
to blithely bring it all together
the granite box on your nightstand like a bird wing
that keeps pages and my soul
dreams in tangible forms,
self-manipulating, improvising until climax
a short time until the holiday
until rest
I’ll see you reading
from across the room, still near
your eyes still brown
my appetite to know you

Enter title here (all goes into Oblivion)

27 Apr



inside the stardust stew
coffee on the leader’s face
the newspaper spills the story
the police are on their way

we’ve had a time of it for sure
this flying territory,
an incorporeal place of abject subjugation, landing only
to dispense cruelty, made romantic
by the distance at which we see it
after taking off again
(the earth is always fine when one is in the air)

this is history
if only we could forget it
start over
realize that regardless of how
infinite in truth and truly beautiful
inside the cavity of false hindsight
the past may be
– we no longer need it, not anymore

(for ch)

back with it…

07 Apr



8 x 8 (lower case)

“… a government with a god complex…”
“shit, we just reconfigured monkeys, man!”
deep thoughts like,
“is society just meat over flame?”
and reaching for brevity somewhere he falls short, but at times, between a slur and a slug, it has occurred, profound utterances and more beer money,
“sadly, women will always be primarily relied
for loving on rather than for loving up…”

the body is a fragile and unreliable burden
one must prepare
to lose its subtlety
eventually it will reach enough;
but the soul
if that can be considered in the simplest term
rather than going into any religious division-of-divinity reading
i’d prefer to tie it
very much like a noose
and just as easily instead
to the reason a being can be
at all

“my algorithmic reason for ‘no regrets’ is: don’t even regret the thing that dies you – cause regret is the only thing that you can take with you, and it’s a weight – you shouldn’t even take the love with you either, leave it to the world, not enough of it around as it is… but, regret, fuck, you don’t need that baggage, brother…”

a response for his monk-like dilettantism
like henry cotton is all about them smiles
like he knew him back in the day
we remind ourselves to fall short sometimes
because sometimes this world is hard to swallow
and the curbs are a motherfucker when you’re drunk


20 Mar




sitting around, getting fat like a clef note
an ego in the front room
crossing through the ante
i become the cloudy piss of my poetry
and there’s resentment
then resentments
a reenactment
a play made up of the same silent scene
the progression of the panhandler
that becomes the guy that sells celestial subscriptions door-to-door
twenty years too late
like changing the world
like fatherhood and all
potential, fictional, alive
like passing down
that true wisdom causes isolation
like naming him Augustus, nicknaming him August for short
smiling when the little girls tap his shoulder
call him “Auggie”
the result of an anxious calendar staying up
and then we thin it out
the dreaming that is
son, try not to do it
because there’s more of them than madhouses that room escape
trust me, i’ve worn the robes
but in the whispers sprouting up in the air like will-o’-the-wisps
you know
it’s clearer in the eventide
it has to be
the world is laying quiet

train-ing… get it?

10 Mar



train lines

new york bodies on their new york shit travelling to find their
new york fix
homeless john plays capitalist scarecrow in the corner
to the straphangers commuting to some sentence
seeming kinder
i want to smoke and i want to read
but all my books and smokes got wet
and now
i’m drying off in transit
finding comfort in that someone
who always watches me
while i yearn to arrive at my destination
every stop, every hop
a body stands apart from other bodies
a self-designation, cultish in performance
forcing the loss of membership from the species
stop after stop, after every hop
i read someone else’s newspaper headlines while their eyes
watch me
the words spell out a-s-s-a-s-s-i-n-a-t-i-o-n
a six-year-old near macon, around where my little brother lives
war all the time, they say
they always say and say and speak
and is this the warmth of the transit heating system
writhing my tic-tac-toe poetry into a stoned smile
of passing time
seeming kinder
seeming kinder
drying off with me
shaking like we’re new
at every hop

sunken ships find the bigger pearls

23 Feb



content advertised content
smoking, king size bed
ocean view, no pets
some plants, but
alone, completely alone
though open to coupling
slightly unhinged
though other times mellow and micromanageable
obtuse when drinking
and if you find me asleep to the world –
place best wishes beside the crown
watch the orange animal semiluminousness at dusk
remember that there’ll be soup in the fridge
french onion, perhaps tomato bisque
transfer kettle contents to a bowl
make sure it’s one that won’t melt inside the microwave
microwave for two minutes
(smoking is optional, cigarettes by the dresser)
enjoy the soup with a piece of bread
preferably rye
after all, this meal has had a lot of practice being holy
just like a demotic daydream
that we were all children once
welcome to the earth
like freckles on a speck of light

Shorty’s Back

12 Feb



cigarette burn 04

the sun fainted into sky
the moon painted, faded through the door
she never said goodbye
at least not anymore

never argue with a drunk or a fool
so, as I am one of both
you should not accept my invitation to debate
cede me the win
surely, you can tell that I can use it
especially after I spilled my drink like a dithyramb for you
the birth of another silly goddess
destined to be patronized
by all us, drunks and fools

the sun fainted into sky
the moon painted, faded through the door
she never said goodbye
at least not anymore

these are… what d’you call ’em…

06 Feb


I can’t tell
whether this room is dying or being born again
I’m in here, nearly alone, reading Samuel Beckett
thinking elegant thoughts about stones and hubris
that march like elephants routed roughly across each temple
burning, rubbled
I am driven mad by the wrong smells
you wearing a clean body
specklessly washed
unable to find a fresh towel to wrap around those hips
and yet and yet and yet
I hear a fire inside each nostril
and am left to wonder why
maybe a cool swim inside you will clear this up
a revolution all its own
not a curtain-raiser, nor a bit of literature
simply a clarion whimper, aseptic warfare following
and an ascetic’s revolving anxiety bouncing between us
we scream for love and for renewal
and we’ll kill all those that have hidden the bones of those that came before
screamed like us before
we are the regeneration of the past vying for a future
you are clean, the elephants keep marching
and I must be roused again to fill this room
because, like us, it is going through transitions

Street Poets NYC Tonight

29 Jan


Street Poets NYC - Aug ©Tamara B Hayes

1094 Broadway Brooklyn, New York 7pm-12am
$10 Admission
Kenuti Jam at 12:05am


So, what’s new about this year?

27 Jan



which mystery did you forget to solve
she asked me softly as she disrobed
atroceruleous smoke filled the room
the blue was deep, it beckoned
and she became a date in ’88
new warmth of winter alabaster
the sky connecting like an ocean
the colors blur, the blush slowly washing off
and here comes again the question from her lips
remaining in the breast like psychic scars and songs from dead ancestors
which mystery did you forget to solve
she kisses me
and lays her clothes atop my writing desk
– for safe keeping, she asserts
though I think it was simply to arrest my marrowy attention
to the stranger changes in the air
the black star, brightest once before
in the dino days of excess
fading with lazarus’s last verse     
the fume of heaven cloaking us
all from births in ’88 and ’47
some light and curiosity to bind them both
just like a puzzle  
affirming its need for an internecine resolution
[for db and a dance I should have taken]

Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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