Posts Tagged ‘Madness’

sound remaining

14 Feb



sound remaining

gonna buy me a new horn
to elevate the sound
before my hands rust
into false gold
gonna swim in the salt water
and dream
float on my back
wondering which narcissus buried you
a grand ceremony, the lark of self importance
i forgot that you had a similar birthmark
to lenny bruce, left cheek
similar mugshots too
voices like trumpets
maybe i’ll join you underground
for a good long while at least
miss barnes will see us through
tennessee blues, lots of green, musty books and french perfumes
nothing sacred
not for a good long while at least


confused and rude

19 Jan



golden bed pieces 03

the television breeds numb
with the cash whore
at the end of the bar
that smelled liked that one
shit pearl jam record
and opinionated daftness  
dressed like a pinball machine
and abandoned underneath an
autumnal rainstorm on some
overpriced stoop in new brooklyn
waiting on a crash, revolution
blood and academic buttes uninitiated
to whispers  
at the end of the scene
the cast
the director
the money in the background
the little person holding up the boom mic
the dp, the lighting tech, the camera man
all moan
because they care about their audience
they need to set a que
for a collective release  
so, good people –
know when to grab your dicks!

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


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)

paranoia, somewhere between conspiracy and knowledge

09 Oct



the future is the past


the holy children make serpents out of clay
watching evil dick dying sometime in ’22
surrounded by a family that has long oscillated
between pretended admiration and fear
of both the man, what he kept inside himself, and his curriculum vitae
he whispers to his daughter
shivering from this virgin softness on his breath
dry lips nearing her moistening ear
he tells her of his approximations
of how much time he left us with
about how much money brown and root made from making john un-pretty over there on elm
and if estimated for inflation, how close that score comes to
the amount he and halli-halli made
by keeping ubl breathing a decade longer than he deserved
the daughter shakes and sees her father new again
a surrogate head though the hydra seems as though it withers
she walks away as far as history allows her
skipping out on any future mass
the children aren’t at fault for daddy’s sins
and daddy’s sins and daddy’s sins
for daddy’s sins we apologize to audrey and june
above, the holy children pick up their clay
and make yet another shape


For the Russophiles… COTD 02

12 Jul



resin hit for kot matroskin (c.o.t.d. 02)


Why do I see soldiers marching with their heads tilted to the right on TV tonight
shouldn’t you be facing ahead if you’re holding an automatic weapon
perhaps be slightly concerned with poking someone in the back with your barrel
seems terribly uncouth
but it should be as of no surprise
people hardly make sense anymore
and I’m drowning in their stygian inanity
My former nation, the one of dancing bears
struggles with a populace that loves to suffer
especially with empty, silentious words
hovering in the atmosphere around their lips
(the bottom ones always swelling from the samagon
until they resemble saucers, like my homey Fedya
once described his cold Samsonov)
“it can always be worse” as it quite honestly has been in the past
and they use their history of being mutts
as excuse to despotize over any other Slavs within throwing distance
My new nation, the one of idealism and comic books
struggles with a populace that refuses suffering
and instead decides ignobly to ignore
that their oligarchs dressed as legislators
have decided around twenty-five years ago or so
that the profit-over-people stratagem
is the right one for a republic ambiguously screeching freedom
they’ve been waiting to give up on us a while
trust me, I’ve been around
none of it, nobody makes sense
So I sit here, jotting
thoughts, fragmentary but densely thrown unto the white
and pack my bowl for a resin hit
because I ran out of weed
and I’m trying not to drink as much
but still I can’t manage to lilt in full sobriety
things tend to spuriously reintroduce themselves as serious
and exceedingly more somber than they are
they keep me concerned more than they should
because in all, it doesn’t really matter
the ending was written long ago
(as was that cliché)
but for me to keep from raging against it all
I get high
put on a record by this Jersey City underground MC named Viro
who died a couple of months after they thought the world would end in 2012
and I’ll be fine, though slightly dumb
imagining beautiful, compassionate and of course naked women
who touch themselves after reading sonnets
then cry themselves to sleep
and eventually I’ll finish the book I always claim to be working on
and it’ll be good and briefly well-regarded
and in forty years, a young man resembling me
both in perspective and whiskey breath
will buy a copy of it for a dollar seventy-five
from a street vendor of secondhand paperbacks
plying his mothy wares in front of some privately funded university
run by a spectacled, stocky grumbler resembling a tweed-skinned Escobar
that everyone secretly resents
and this kid will read my book
and maybe he’ll be inspired
and he’ll begin with a few confessing verses of his own
and eventually the craft will become his own cherry-picked damnation
while the air grows thin
and people continue getting stranger
and less and less worthwhile
and more and more pointlessly provocative
and the kid will remain jotting, so very alone
like I once was
but I’ll be in my kitchen by this time
hoary as Silenus
eating my final sandwich
making sure to remember how good it tasted
when I flipped it upside down


Hard Body

27 Jun



Woody in the New Yorker


the man was torpid, bowlegged
with a port wine stain, porcine-shaped
across the left side of his face
my right testicle seemed like it’s been sagging
so I was feeling particularly frustrated
on that particular Sunday
that man was sitting by a music shop
close to Sheridan
where they sold broken ukuleles
reading something by Dickens
heavy, Bleak House I believe it was
my right jean leg felt tight
and I stumbled slightly
he noticed and he coughed
I caught a chuckle in that cough
and the way he sat there
like the wrong flag in the wrong ground
it sagged my testicle even further to the pavement
I worried that it might scrape along the concrete
so I killed him
the man, I mean
and with the testicle, now, feeling better
I strode off like I produced the play
off to my favorite diner
right there on Sixth
to order some chicken fingers, onion rings
maybe call my wife
cause she gets jealous
just like a cactus



25 May



just lying about breakfast


I like scrabble

I like sex

I like scotch (although when I can’t afford it I go Kentucky)

the latter discussed benefits from being a necessity

I drink

because I want to believe in something fated

that money is illusory

an irrational concept only worthwhile as a brief intermediary of heat

yet cardboard still works better in an empty drum

the timber my bouncy Brooklyn gentrifiers gather works better yet


I’m drinking bourbon now, it’s true

not written as some delusory device

this isn’t ‘hard man’-tragipoeticism

just ponderance on paper, the attempted penetrance of a literary amoeba

I’m drinking bourbon

watching some Philip Seymour Hoffman pictures I’ve had on an illegal streaming queue

that I’ve been meaning to catch up on

since he died

and I’m thinking

that I need this drink

to keep believing

something fateful blah blah blah

art will save the world

the banks will crumble

like the ancient temple

and I’ll break the glass for it

and just because

and I’ll stare into her eyes

and she’ll know that she’s with a man

that treated his work like a landscape

a supposed hill in Calvary

fiction, fiction, it exists, and let it save the world

the only sin is empty hands

and I drink

and watch this movie

the acting is superb

and I pretend that I’m not just a damaged alcoholic

with some depressive leanings

and various psychological derangements, pretty in asymmetry

who is a tad too prideful

and far too averse of giving up his stubbornness

we play in the realm of immortality

strive to; checkers, backgammon, childish things

they bought the boards though and that’s the problem

but I drink and I pretend

and I need

you more so now, but also my distractions

this bourbon strokes out a few more weeks

I’m getting tired and unsure, a glass needs filling

I need the renewed feeling of being right

all this is true

a grapefruit for the morning

myself, the missing

I walk into the ashtray looking for something, someone there to smoke

and I see her eyes

their feral burning

and the glass breaking

and I get a hint of fatefulness

it smells like booze and empty sheets

the glass is breaking in my head

a grapefruit for the morning

get it ready

and another drink

the pause button doesn’t work

there is no death

and I am smiling


midnight run, right

31 Jan



driving music and the chase for better


warmly measuring the weeds

during the drive through Dallas county

I pretend that I’m on the search for Bambi Woods

each motel room reminds me of how lonely I should be

and that I’m driving back

and that the brat appreciates her knowledge

even if it takes one an entire country to find


energy sapped

I’ve rolled out a mat

upon which to lay

doors have become too heavy to open

but the knowledge that my shoes won’t get dirty

by whatever they have inside keeps me sane


this keep, it seems to be called, so to speak

I’ve noticed, a cheap bottle

but thick, citrus, I think

not a connoisseur, just a drinker

my stories are better suited for better stock

a barrel browned by age and oak instead of grapes

or a kiss

after all, your lips taste finer than my whiskey

but I won’t even refuse wine when I’m on the road


the brat deserves her knowledge

and people lost deserve to be found some day

inside of better lives or better hiding places at least

and I deserve to be driving back to you

singing like an artillery inside my old jalopy I’ve nicknamed Calliope

exchanging dreams for healthy tires

and a promise underlined that when I arrive

I get a kiss that I deserve


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


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


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)


plight (it’s getting dusty in this bitch)

05 Aug



confessions of the damned (no answers)

pt. 1


you know,

I got lost some five years ago

when you still had devotion in your eyes for me

when I could still see the terrestrial souled refulgency as eventuality

believing in it like a restless, loyal pup

I would growl and act possessive

and you could still be fooled by the sharpness of my teeth

now, over the time that’s passed

you’ve figured out that I was just a guard dog

with no bite

you could beat me all you want

and you did

and I took it

and I licked your hand

and you got bored

feeling sold on a false promise

and now I rarely really write

and still I look for you to either put me down or tether me again

pet me on the head

keep me motivated, well fed on fantastical ambition

like a good woman should

had she still had devotion in her eyes

now I roam, howling, looking for a home


like all the rest of my poetry invited into orthodoxy

but currently it’s gotten worse

and I’ve forgotten how to sleep without a drink

or without you

and now I get to fuck but barely fuck

it’s burdensome enough when it’s not you

but with the drink there’s whiskey dick to contend with too

and I can only find a vestige of intimacy in the morning

before the first addition to my coffee

which used to be for fun

then it was for sanity

then it was just merely maintenance

(like the dope habit I once had)

now it’s just to feel the rot inside

to feel some goddamn something

to feel… like I’m working on the screaming in my head

and these aren’t turgid demons, trust me

if they were – we’d get along much better

you know, I’ve befriended many in my past

no, these are just judgments

detached, pronounced

the odds are much too futile now to postulate the same credulous parlay

for all of this to work

for all of this to live

my hope, and no, it’s not for love –

it’s dwindling

it’s so much easier to fade

to lie around, to smoke alone

to keep on drinking without anymore taste left to vanquish

to miss you

and hate it whenever you ask me why I do


Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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