Posts Tagged ‘dreaming’

first for the broken years

17 Nov



i used to think, but now she lives in woodside

this is the one that did me in
lenny’s dead, donnie’s president
and to read the post – goebbels has risen from the grave
took up an advisory role
an official propagandist job description is yet to be created
but no,
while that shit hurt – it didn’t cripple
(or at least for no longer than a week – i still have my records and my agoraphobia to soothe me)
the thing that did me in
was woodside
i came
i bought some purple roses
a drink to even out my nerves
obviously, i was in need of some lower case preparation
to tell you all the things you missed
it’s been a while
i wanted to talk to you about my plans
they’ve become varicolored and quite alive
our past
and how i can make you happy
i wanted to listen
to hear you, anything, just anything
to watch your eyes
to kiss you
as though three years didn’t pass
and lenny didn’t die last week
and we didn’t have cause to be ashamed of our country again
but alas
i left the roses by the door
you never heard my ringing bell
you never called to say i’m sorry either
for you or for the world
(and that’s not to say that our romantic genocide ever ought to be polite)
but this, this was the one that did me in
and now…

a curving thought

09 May






they say that men are meant to ossify

while women are meant to melt

I’m just waiting for my invitation for coffee in the Andromeda galaxy

curious to see what it feels like to be sucked into the center



you’re already dreaming

this is a dream (pearls tap-dancing across the wooden floor)

you are asleep

soon your peers will discuss it


there’s maybe another ten years, tense

in taking a break from drinking

a few days

lift a few weights, stare at the sun

delight when you think how they say

you can’t see stars from this balcony


polluted, I take a sip of water from my bedside glass

new training (sweat turns charcoal on the sheet)

pair a couple of words together

sleep, smile

you’re already dreaming


nothing to ignore, the world complains

12 Apr



dream sequence after she touched my arm


this is my dream of a floating world

where everything is correct

currency is open-warfare lust

you have a touch that pours the bourbon sweet

it takes time

it always has

we’re sailing through it

the acid makes me lazy (like Lazarus’s hypocoristic)

so rest with me, the world can sway all on its own

around us for a while

just learn to let the colors play, little darling, soak inside each iris

do you enjoy creating these new cosmoses with me

without ever leaving this bed

and hey, watch where you wave that thing

there’s already too many burn scars on this blanket

too much ash seeped into the threading of the sheets

don’t give me that look, baby, I won’t be cross

(won’t wear one either, if you ask)

don’t let it concern you though, de trop

we’ll wash each other clean eventually

let me just finish my drink

(you poured it sweet again)

and sleep with you another little while


new breath

27 May



A Train (“una furtiva lagrima” by Enrico Caruso, 1911)


            like a prowling midnight wraith it passes

            like dust

            we travel

            all a temporary kin

            we are survivors

            thrown and shaking

            across bridges, tunnels and bad news

            sitting together, shoulder to shoulder, god to god

            locomoting through

            no destination

            where memory and culture try to find a solidarity


            so close we sit

            the kids dance for smiles and dollars

            swirling around polls as though the metal was a light and it was summer and there was cooking and we were flies alive, abound and peckish with curiosity like an explorer’s hide made grim by wanderlust and rain when it domes over you like falling locusts, like a growing parasol, like the flash of cameras over the pale skin of an American actress smiling for the last hello

weeks at a time

            I watch them before going back to my book

            out of respect for other artists

            struggling to make a buck

            I’ve tried performing on these trains as well

            but I’ll take the street instead

            too shy to preach the underground measure

            a cement that my boots could grab is good enough for me

            I have witnessed prodigies (in the archaic sense)




                                                through the blocks

            I have seen surrender and true love

            I have seen not all, enough

            with more a still filling drink

            a name

            a new name

            all we seek

            all we must change

            if balalaika’s life and banjo death

            then we must change the name along with the tune and season

            and meet again when we are all unconditionally different people

            still traveling to something new


Killing the Day

09 Mar








I resign all my former muses

they were conceived in haste

they were mistakes that I believed in far too greatly

I’ve become distracted by them

like by little girls who recite Pasternak


like little faith

I rescind their obligations

and hope they leave with no remorse

no empty feeling

no regrets

I’ve tried to fill them out

as best I could

with myriad harmonies and every different sun

I could conjure

just so I could see a different light

playing off their sleeping cheeks like aubades

in my bed

in my head

I need to quit this deleterious drinking

and make this hood ideopolis my motif

instead of how beautiful they looked

and how falsely uncapturable it all seemed

at the time

never lasting longer

than a pretty-fingered vocation from a temp agency



Old Dream

03 Jun



            The junky band, led by the beautiful, blonde Germanic siren, given wings by Demeter and the looks of a Valhalla goddess, made their debut at the ‘66 Psychiatrists Convention – they found common ground with their audience by shooting coke and singing, with topical pithy, about Freudian perversions.

            I sat in the background and talked to Warhol. And although I felt self-conscious about passively propagating his aesthetic dynamism for making shitty black-and-white short films, saying “yeah, man I know poor little rich girls too”, I figured that a confrontational position on my part would lessen my chances for ending up in a bed warmed by an Edie Sedgwig artistically-slumming. And although I usually didn’t go for blondes, human frailty is a tough bitch to reject – even though all I wanted was for Athena to sing me across the seas to the demarcated destination of my beloved. I knew that she was somewhere out there, in the darkened memorial unknown. I just didn’t know whether she was still waiting for me.


            I just woke up.


            Waking up I realized I didn’t know what time it was. There was no sun to force into a pocket-watch.

            Waking up I realized that I was blind. A new night eating.  

            Waking up I realized that it was winter outside of my blankets. Using my fingertips to feel underneath them I realized that she was lying beside me, all ellipses, calyculi and half-moons, and along the contours of her skin I found epiphany enough to understand that sight could be superfluous and that the cold could be avoided.


            I realized I just woke up.


            Besides, who needs sight anyway – I no longer wanted to see the other side of her, the shadow. Because along the contours of her shadow was my depression, deep enough to dry a distillery.


Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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