Posts Tagged ‘Mocking Myself’


02 Feb




he said
my relationship
with my son
is like a great Nirvana song
that will break your heart
if it was written about you


The Last of ’15 Poems: II

05 Jan



asleep in the sepulcher
asleep in the sepulcher
like teenage fantasy
I fancy myself a monolith
of obsolete quixotic or poetic notions
imagined up by romantic mercenaries
who smoked like alchemists
and dressed like they fucked for free
every climactic second a salvo in a virgin war
we’re killers now it seems
and we once used to be oh so inspiring
surrounded by beautiful things like empty pens
souls with long, pale or hairy faces
cut up into pages vocationally destined to become flyswatters
midnight stomach aches, hospital blood tests
cigarettes in adolescent hands, hallway whispers
park concerts like trips around the world from a burgundy afghan
stars like hickeys in the sky made by lecherous gods
big loveless eyes that command oceans and lose travelers
early morning phonecalls that screech with the bombast of backseat harlots
the voice that returns
barely, but I can feel its fingers
it tugs at me like I was a naughty child, by ear tip
it tells me, like a handshake I respect
that all the strong men
are already waking up
because we’ve lost our time for dreaming


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?


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


short, like perfunctory, white wine on a day when we try not to drink

09 Jul



lynard skynyrd on a mechanical piano


reading the newspaper aloud
vodka on the veranda
turn the page
a crow is born with blue eyes
like tattooing life
spoken for
on the skin of a world alight



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


once, maybe

11 Jan



unplugged 1/9/2015


right now
i am watching a wild
madly brilliant
young songstress dancing
on a stage
on a page
on a minimized screen
i’m smoking a cigarette with my tea
it’s early, must be just a quarter after three
her performance is unplugged
she’s singing jimi’s angel now
and it’s snowing outside
but here, it’s warm
i’m thinking chinese food
an egg roll, some fantail shrimp, maybe pork with broccoli too
it might have been a rough week, i don’t remember
in fact, it’s all forgotten now
the smoking gun, she’s getting into her indictable offenses
four fingers clutching a bombinating belly
the inosculating litterateur gazes at her navel and yawns a new dimension
splitting words and therefore sounds
(because aren’t worlds but mere sounds, after all
wingless, apteral)
oh, as she dances
hair as a whiplash with a smile underneath
i pick up the phone and dial the szechuan garden down the block
run by miss diaz
we, both, here, feel at home
because we both know
that there’s nothing underneath
but ground, heavy travel bags and bone
and other kinds of being left alone


What happens at 4am…

21 Jul





exhausted by this eternity

I whittle myself to my barest form

a tired twenty seven

about ten pounds off my fighting weight

my halo just the blurred vision of the other drunks

I’ll fart out a living eulogy

spend my last few cents on airfare to Kenya

buy myself a couple of gas can gallons of Changaa

for my last binge

instead of drinking to sleep

this is drinking to wed

a celebration of my connubiality to this fate

self-imposed, of course

this is no rage

no dying of the light

no good story to tell

a swim in the spittoon

endless shit between my fingers

forcing my hand to put a smile on the body

laying still

exhausted by this eternity


hangover, or maybe love, who can tell at 3pm…

11 Apr






as empty

as a bible on another star

I wake

with a two day beard

and a beer I had forgotten to cap last night

gone warm

it’s a new day

and I’ve been sleeping with Dorothy Parker through the last few weeks

it might’a been two

and this broom

swept through the hall



as useless

as a room where you can’t smoke

I wake

with a two day bill

I have to leave this bed by noon

they’ll clean it up

spray some perfume

and I’ve been sleeping with Greta Garbo through the last few weeks

it might’a been three

and this broom

swept through the hall



as dead

as the sunglasses on her shelf

I wake

to blood and bread

a breakfast unchampioned, routine

I feel like there’s been nothing here before

she says, we’ll vacation in Tripoli

visit the markets and the Roman arches

and we’ll sleep like the moon

through the day

just a few

just us two

and this broom

will no longer abide


The Taco Bell of Lyric Poetry

24 Jan



toothpaste (eat your religious figures)


all we have at the end of the day is our seemliness and our self-respect, but fortunately for me it was the morning, marring me like a smith, and I was nursing one of those perfect hangovers that makes one feel as though they were on the fast-track to sainthood

my ante meridian ablutions commenced around seven

the water ran through my fingers like a debut

through the pipes of the sink it sang

but I knew the melody was ending

the bob of the de Musset rhythm was subsiding

and my head stabilized   

finis coronat opus in the steam of the new day

and yet the mirror revealed

that I had toothpaste residue

on the right, and usually quite deferential,

terminus of my moustache

–  and now I had decisions to


my apathy strained me when


the endurance it would require

to wet my hand again

and brush it off

then rewash said hand

and then, lamentably, drying also takes some time –

maybe, since this toothpaste hues green

I’ll embrace it and

reintroduce it as performance art –

I’ll add a dab

of a little moisturizer too

as tender as a drop of sauce as surfactant

on the tip of my left cheek

right where it meets the skin that rides the zygomatic slope

I’ll let them both stay

like friends with nowhere else to go

and simply let the world

feast on us

at will


From 11692 to 11423

26 Aug



Jamaica 11423


true story:

the statue asked me to brush her hair

and handed me the brush

the repetition of the word

concerned me only

during the bus ride to work

we were going Caribbean and stoic

and I knew that I was running late

the statue

carried me home around 7am

over her shoulder

across hip hop and rerouted train lines

metropolitan construction and approaching hangovers

becoming faith, becoming reconciliation

becoming brown, becoming blue

becoming overpriced cocaine at tourist prices

the repetition of the word

worrying me again

bus ride back to work

the statue

as silent and gray

as a sad punk girl that I dated

a few years ago

who I’ve heard turned pink and happy

like the inside of a sea shell

when she discovered mediocre electronica and MDMA

the statue

studies my constant and formidable reluctance

she lets me kiss her neck

just once

and she speaks

just once

adorable and admonishing

like an infant tyrant in a picture book

“baby, you’re going to be late for work”


Stroganov Likes Smetana

19 Apr





the more I live the more I think

two people together is a miracle


– Adrienne Rich


I am not soft, nor sentimental

it is true

but, I do not believe in competition

am I

I am but what you’ve made of me

a wreckage of derelict machismo

discovered by an azure-blue dusk


I am a golden button on your blouse

the suffering string tether that binds me to you

slowly limping into the dream of embezzlement  

underneath your index finger  

a binding breaking; a freedom, maybe

but, loss – most definitely, loss

becoming myth

becoming fabulism

becoming nothing

a drowned island

that future eyes will never see

and I should end it there

because the past twenty explain it well

but you know that I always have more to say

especially about that time

you know which one

five minutes after it was over

like a war when all stood still

divided in binary solipsism

a wounded poet and his despotic muse

surrendered to themselves

alone, each in an empty cavity

that holds them firm and prim

the leftovers in a funereal fridge

a hope that’s prone to spoil to be devoured soon

soon enough

am I

I am

are you

becoming bracelet for your tyrant god

becoming abandoned night

becoming nothing


Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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