Posts Tagged ‘dedication’

The Pressure of Patience (Part III)

03 Sep



pine coat blues


a pint of bourbon and the pine coat blues
a singing, persistent, rises from the park cement
dead body on other dead bodies under rock
as though a loop
as though meaningful, ancient
not just another mess, a waste
some thirty-four, a boston breath
unshaven, friendly, coarse
ready to share now for a future drink
a home, a standing lamp to piss on
fuck outta here, it shouldn’abeen marking out that corner
now nothing
solemnity, a fuddled liturgy
for a night
booze and candles along the spot where he was found
the broken revelry again the next one out
until a coterminous iteration of the pine coat blues
is sung anew through a fresh pint of bourbon
whose glass will break to the shouts of bis
and further empty time


(for Tucker)

The Pressure of Patience (Part II)

16 May



riff 04

standing by the tree
he said,
this is the only thing here
that has any roots,
then he left the hideout
he had a movie to catch
at the biograph
manhattan melodrama with a moll
notoriety, blood, a cheap orange dress
could be worse, he thought
at least one time
i walked out of jail with a wooden gun

the cover version

31 Aug



the cover version


i know that it’s backwards
but i feel like
joe cocker who thinks he looks like morrison
chuckling at belushi
nodding along
– it is a long way down, man
but, jimmy, we probably won’t end up
at the bottom
maybe an empty room
somewhere in a cover of st. james infirmary
drooling spit, bile and whatever bleeds from cigarettes
repeating “baby, baby, baby…”
wishing cab calloway was still around
arranging things uptown
where you know some thing dead just ain’t dead
not always at least
but… let it go, let her go, let her go
god bless her, wherever she may be
i’ll play the live record from ‘72
i think i played los angeles that year
no dizzie on the trumpet
but that was a different time, i had different hair
falling out now
getting old with the rest of time
the rest of it
i know
because they’re already shinnin’ the twenty dollar gold piece
for my watch chain
let it go


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]

vigilance, i guess, one eye closes

12 Dec




even in their silences she had to nurture them
it was the way he thought a mother ought to be
the milk warmed for the babies
the sweet delay in life becoming alabaster hiss
she shushes, soft
the voice mellifluent, crafted in succor
the children dream
the mother lays awake
and even in these silences she has to nurture them
because she knows
that monsters truly do exist
and they surround you all the time

(twelve lines for TM)


2d (an existential cheese sandwich and a reference getting less obscure)

26 Oct




it’d be nice if I could rest
inside your head for just a while
volatility immaterial, I just need a change of quarter
it’s like the need one might find
walking down the street
and somewhere right before the dead end strip churns the promenade
and you feel still and stuck inside the humid vagaries of choicelessness
you see the dilapidated vacation cave you need
rain damaged gruff exterior to match your shave
and you buy it on the spot
bearish merchant of real estate, scratch under the chin, money quickly in escrow
you’ve got to buy it on the spot
because no one else will
because no one else will appreciate the elbowroom
space for at least three dozen book stacks
to be alphabetized on our own time
space where we both discovered as we were meant to
exactly then, when it needed to happen
that neither of us want to be me
and one of us
only want the dead writer we admired
to send us a package in the mail
a left leather shoe we left on their floor
a crawl of empty sound
moving, it never aged, the floor; the dead do though
you see them all the time, I hear
at least that’s what you told me
asleep, eyes closed, we could both peer in something new
you, my envy – me, your soonest disappointment
brilliant, so brilliant, both of us
running backwards from accomplishment

or, was that the point to make?


ticketed for parking in the twilight zone

23 Sep



broken lenses


henry bemis’s wife could go get fucked
by a rampaging aarmory of rabid aardvarks
if she’d hadn’t already expired
within the impact of that h-bomb
all the man wanted to do was read, helen
was that so hard to understand
instead you posture, snout pricked up
talking about how no husband of yours should dare rob you of conversation
but, henry, all he wanted was a little time
a good book is all
whether on the bank vault floor or inside his comfy chair at home
shakespeare, shelley, shaw
this year next year on and on
until they build society back up to keep one occupied
counting money instead of pages
but for now, henry, just pick up the first one that you see
you shouldn’t be stacking tomes like that nohow
ruins the binding, you know that
pick one up and read instead
just mind you don’t break your glasses on the pavement
(and all that’s left is for seth mcfarlane to make a witty brain cell joke of you)
so don’t be positioning your head
at any downward sloping angles
instead look straight ahead
at the letters on the paper, black on yellowed white
at this beautiful, angry world, alone
there must have been a reason after all
that the guy that wrote ya in the first place
wouldn’t let any other scribe put god inside a script

(dedicated to rob serling)


Gary Marinoff

29 Aug



I had known you for a few years in our activist/political circles prior to seeing you perform, and boy, I couldn’t predict your set. As someone who’s rarely surprised, I was immensely impressed by how you – this sweet, endlessly optimistic man – could be so goddamn dirty and politically incorrect in your performance. I loved it immediately.


You were gone too soon, but I bet you’re getting a kick out of all of us who are going to screen old episodes of 30 Rock just to catch a glimpse of you, all of us who spent the last few days reminiscing on our favorite “Gawwy” stories. I know you and I never shared a drink (we had different ways of dealing with the world, and you were probably right in your approach), but my next one is going to be for you. Hope you’re kicking it with RFK somewhere in the ether, waiting to talk to Carter…


Hope you knew how much you were loved.

Rest well, Gary. We’ll meet again.



a little love in it…

16 Aug





Donald Trumbo used to write in the bath
full texts, screenplays, addendum notes, letters
oh, nobody writes letters anymore
I wish we did though
I wish a lot of things
I conjure lines, battle bars, fleeting ideas, in the shower
I forget them before I dry off
in fact, forget them immediately following
thoughts of you, and my hand creeps southward
I miss you
and I miss letters
and true rebellion
principles over prices
poets have become paupers
the playwrights have pawned off their typewriters and passions
to a quickly self-forgetting history
I miss you
and I think that I’ll write you a letter soon
composed in wet rhapsody
on a water-damaged moveable table of thin oak
attached to the sides of my bathtub


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


watched like a teleprompter

by five sets of eyes

making sure that no mistake is made




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)


Live at Enzo’s

13 Nov



live at enzo’s


we had lost touch about a year back

but I always assumed we’d get a chance to reconnect

the bullshit that went down

was buried off last Saturday when I found out

playing poker with a mutual friend for small stakes

he said it could’ve been last week, six months ago

your body giving out or something else

not to be discussed, but we both know

we were both there, curing, sick

I on the couch, you in your chair

playing that Andrea Bocelli joint you got stuck on from that Will Ferrell flick

(it’s the fucking Catalina Wine mixer!)

I would pace around jittering

both, witty scarabs or busted soldiers reminiscing on some trauma

we bonded over different heartbreak:

            mine a curly chestnut Marlborough, yours a blonde Newport

similar in attitude, we burned the same, but at graded rates, varied speeds

tattoos, tattooed mistakes

the past, reworked, reworded, remissed , hidden away at a chance or two

a quick miscalculation

a couple of strikes – you had better lawyers

but now, homey, it is as it is

as we might have expected

but couldn’t have been prepared for

yeah, man, we had lost touch about a year ago

but this is truce, for real

sorry it took so long for this parlay

I’ll go see your mother soon

pay my respect

when I get my nerves in line

and figure out what I could possible say to her

but, fuck it, brother, give me a call when you get a chance

I should say that now

wherever you end up

and we’ll meet up on a rooftop

and pass a joint around that you’ll ask me to roll for us

and talk shit a little like we used to


(Dedicated to the memory of Josh “Enzo” Enzer – Rest in Peace, big heart homey)




Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

Copyright © 2010 - 2018 All Rights Reserved.