Posts Tagged ‘Notes’


04 Feb



untitled (we are a country of dangerous people)


We are a country of dangerous people.

There are so very few, a small penultimate, near-endlessly thinning minority, of individuals, leaders who participate in the world without pride, without indulgence, without ego – or at least without utilizing these cankerous facets of their humanity as the engine animating their flesh; instead they know that they are meant to serve as a benevolent affect on the world instead of simply being an affectation of this act. We are the net positive flicker of existence, meant to fade, and we are rarely encountered, rarely announced.

We are a few.

We are a country of dangerous people.

A politically undereducated populace. Making mistakes unmaliciously.  

Then there’s the Joker voters. And the sociopaths. And the psychos. And my ex-girlfriend. A manically designed mixture of entitlement and apathy. Those that didn’t vote at all.

Elected officials, power hungry and money hungry, unambitious to make history beyond a reelection.


How far can you see?

At least turn around and see who you’re leading.

Who you’re leaving behind.

Turn around before you’re fully blind.

We are a country of dangerous people.  



17 Feb



Don’t ever go to one of Joseph’s parties. You might find yourself nonplussed, and your dignity and modesty tested.

New short story, “The Party (Sol Invictus)” is coming soon. I promise that it’s worth the wait.


Also, look out for the new Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds album coming this month:

Push the Sky Away is available for pre-order, in the deluxe edition, here:



I Guess It’s Time to Educate Like Cunnilingus that Resembles a Zinger From Heathcliff

08 Oct



Although I will never apologize for offending anyone with anything I’ve ever written – because I don’t care much for the sensitive types that can’t take the time to read through into the intended meaning of something I’ve ever published here and will instead only get themselves foolishly riled up by a few four letter words I might have chosen to sprinkle in here and there like paprika to spice up a crowded text – I will say this instead:


Though certain things written here are composite sketches of people that I know; exaggerated, abstracted and lovingly manipulated so as to seem amusing or tempting or entertainingly subversive, they are never exact replications of their biographical realities. But if I ever write about a hypothetical person and call them “humorless” or “only of mediocre creative capacity” or “a good fuck but barely memorable outside of your imaginative use of hot sauce” or “full of a self-assuredness that can only be a later hindrance” and you see yourself in these lines – you should probably take a look inward, rather than at me. Most likely, that wasn’t about you, you arrogant child. I do not think about you when I write, because someone who takes themselves so seriously can only be a target of easy mockery and I am not in the easy mockery business. I create what I see as Art. I write because I am a writer and because I am capable of capturing the world for myself and for others in a surrealist, lyrical, acute perspective that seems to make more sense than the senseless reality we’re sifting through on our way to the next inevitably meaningless plateau. Enjoy it and learn to take a fucking joke – you should see how funny Freud found that one about the pedophile and Catholic priest at the petting zoo after he shot an eight-ball. Dennis Leary once said in his stand up set (likely stolen from the far superior comic writer Bill Hicks) that life is composed of little pleasures: “it’s a cigarette butte, or a chocolate chip cookie or a five second orgasm. You cum, you smoke the butte, you eat the cookie, you go to sleep, wake up and go back to fucking work the next morning – that’s it, end of fucking list!” All relatively meaningless in the mesmerizing quandary that is the universe and our shared existence within it, especially if we consider the span of this meandering sea that we call time. So, trust me, you are feckless too in this futile schism of the revoltingly revolving unimportant – meaningless to me and to the apathetic world. The people who still nest inside my head are all mere ghosts now, trust me – and ghosts aren’t real. Go get laid and forget about it.



But just in case, for the ones who are slow and unnecessarily delicate – I have provided a notice in bar to the right of you regarding the fictitious nature of all work published on this site. You’re welcome, you touchy cunts!



Upcoming Shows, Notes and We’re Out of Coffee, Walking the Terrain of Ephemeral Publicity

01 Sep


Hello folks,

It’s good to see you. Here is an update on my upcoming shows…


Thursday, September 6th – Art House (Jersey City) – Feature Set at the Season Opening


Friday, September 7th – I will be crashing the Open Mic at the Greenwich Village Barnes & Noble to give a warm, drunken hug to my old neighborhood (NYC)


Thursday, November 15th – I will be supporting the publication of my friend Zarina Zabrisky’s novel “IRON”, and doing a short set at Pegasus Books Downtown (Berkley, California) because cheese pies and wine have already been promised



With the beer warm

and the whiskey hot

my apartment is crisply burned.

They said it was an electrical problem –

but who’s going to replace my booze?!





I Have No Idea

16 Aug


A few notes before we read my new “masterpiece”.

Paul Ryan seems awfully willing to suck the cock of a defense contractor – so how are the religious right going to get behind him? Eventually, under the Romney/Ryan administration, we might be spending 98% of our annual budget on defense and the military-industrial complex (see how many roads get paved that way). Homey, is that how you’re gonna protect us from China?! I can’t even get a few nerdy Chinese spammers from commenting 40 times a day on the same goddamn post.

Global Pussy Riot day on Friday. The Pussy Riot vs. Putin’s “Free-Democratic” Russia (quotes a satirical necessity) would be amusing in a surrealist fashion if it was fiction, but the fact that this is real should send a shudder through anyone opposed to large (and growing) totalitarian states.

Also, I will be on the West Coast, doing a reading and supporting the publication of my friend Zarina Zabrisky’s book sometime in November. More details forthcoming.

[Pre-Order at the link provided]



Mr. Quaalude

(for Anim)


Mr. Quaalude

say something to the audience

something new

you already paid for the new suit

got paid for the gig  

talk about me

about my conjugal visit with my old bitch, Depression

talk to me like a gabby shirk

talk to me about her

my chemical cartoon

my busy, dizzy moon

my funeral festoon

tell them all the details

about the way that I ripped her clothes apart with my teeth and claws

about how she had to walk out naked from our little room

shivering and wet

celestial and concupiscent

tell them about the dead libertines that were the rock stars of their days

that wrote verses about orgies and plays about boisterous erections

my friends don’t believe that they ever existed

don’t believe that Papa showed off his chest hair to reporters

was commissioned to look for SS subs by the US government in Cuban waters

that Mailer used to punch party guests in the face after too much whiskey

that Kerouac used to publish three criticisms for one bad book

mostly in anonymous pseudonyms

that Fedya looked prison death in the face

that Ames dated Apple

that our clothes are all smoky and rough

and that the unification of intellectual thought

like barbarism

isn’t elitist

but a sensual logic meant to breathe and grow outside of the constraints

of underfunded education.

Mr. Quaalude

to be honest

I don’t know how to end this poem

because it’s not really a poem

but a diet

I’ve been skipping meals to hasten my metabolism with caffeinated bourbon

and now I’m writing out of lack of exercise

my punctuation has gone to shit

and my guts feel golden

and rusted

and rusted

and rusted

and immensely lyrical

like yesterday morning  


Notes about a Girl Named Irony with a Nice Ass

03 Jul


So I started writing this poem…


Come to me sacred and lost

like a rebirth in archaic belief

a cathartic reprise

because I still miss you like I miss heroin at night

and on those mornings that are hued gray by a drying desperation

and you just want some penetration to know that you’re still capable of feeling


… and then I said “fuck it”, like I didn’t need the pride or the self-containment, because I realized that the piece sounded like everything else that I’ve been writing lately. Even a stoic antihero with a bad liver has to watch that he doesn’t waste his time in awkward repetition. Thus I decided to take some time typing up a few new pieces that have been bathing in ink for a while. They’ll be published here in a few days: but, FAIR WARNING they are quite NC-17 thematically. So if you are easily offended I would skip the next few pieces that you’ll see from me.



Coming Work:

The long awaited Gravity Pt. II will be here 


The One Regarding the Tenacity it Takes to Bring Philosophy and Anal Sex Together


Pickles, Brandy and Other Notes

09 Jun


I’m a Hard Man to Kill is going to be screened (on the big screen) at the Tribeca Grand Hotel this Saturday, June 16th. Come one, come all. Details at the link below.



Sex Machine got bitten by a vampire and tried to hide it from the group.


To do: start writing a memoir called Morphine and Ice Cream.  


If someone asks you to pen them a poem about a sunrise, punch them right in the fucking mouth and watch them bleed like it was a Pink Floyd laser show at the planetarium.


New York used to be sanctuary for the dispossessed. But the junk and drink and crime and waste and youthful ideology either killed them off or humbled them into venture capitalism. The remainder is a tenement across from a high rise. The remainder is all and null. The remainder is us caught in between, hoping for a classic city blackout.


a guy, a girl, a hat, and some cigarettes


Your bed was a ledger of mediocrity conquered and thus I became obsolete relatively quickly, but we still fit together well.


With all the miscellaneously sped up experiences that I’ve amassed (more drugs and unemployment than Charlie Sheen has ever seen) in my 25 years, what is left to look forward to: heart attacks, overdoses, lonely nights and further subterranean adventures in books and clinical depression?


Winona Ryder is in her early 40’s now and still seems like the most interesting, gorgeous woman in the world. Also, Jennifer Connelly – plagued to be an old school Brooklyn girl in her soul – is a former English Lit major who digs Nick Cave and Polly Jean Harvey (what’s weird is that I think my future ex-wife was the one that told me that particular tidbit).


If you ever find yourself literally running to a bar, I suggest you start collecting open container tickets instead.


If she asks you to “build a home” with her, build a sepulcher instead.


Love is simple. Simpler than we make it out to be. It is the only thing remotely holy or defiant in this entire deranged, fucking waltz.




Equilibrious Stasis (but I could use a cup of coffee)

12 Apr


Will be updating the Official Material section in the next couple of days to encompass selected pieces from March.



My Little Lo’  


I would like to sell you

like a bundle

like an american dream to an eager immigrant

with pockets full of lottery tickets

but before that

let me fuck you as though it was how I worshipped

and let’s get high and forget everything for a while


I remember

I was nineteen while she was seventeen

yet she still called me Humbert Humbert

like a dirty old pervert

unreliable and sullen

hopeless, but less pedantic


Sometimes I wish I was still there

in that river’s wonderful ebbing roll

with water that tasted like fresh murder

polluted by mysterious questions of a rhetorical nature

and other toxic heroes we’d read about together

while chewing on the dirty holy air that bound us


And if death comes, she’ll say:

“Oh my little liar, oh my sad little liar –

what has gravity made of you!”


A Whiff of Humor

23 Mar




The incendiary nature of nulled retribution:

I just wanted to

fuck her so good

that it would make her miss it

but there’s always

a guy on the elevator

that smells like

birdfeed and urine

that’s getting off

on the floor above us

leaving me to struggle

like Oedipus preparing to blind himself

in this shifting ado

of nothing much important

besides the ascent

and my hand between her breasts

resting like the wings of a hummingbird

during courtship…



Be mindful to check out my friend Cat’s new musical project: The Audiobodies.


New Work Coming Soon, Likely as Running into a Stranger with Something to Offer

15 Mar


In the back


scratching our souls through our cheeks

jagged like a joint rolled on a timid morning

we were the maniacs carved out of society like a C-section

smoking by the club doors

drinking from the smuggled pint

we watched the performers…

and now I can say we were “looking smug like a polluting smog”

(or something like that) –

but that wouldn’t make for a very good poem.


I promise to be back soon with some real work. It’s been a busy few weeks. Not enough time to perfect some pieces begun, and a heavy editing workload constantly whirling feverishly about me, reminding me of its presence.



If enough acceptable work gets done over the next couple of days – I might do a short set at Bowery Poetry Club on Monday.


Notes and Bullshit

04 Mar


Going down on your girl while listening to indie hip-hop trio CunninLynguists isn’t as an amusing of anecdote as you think.


You should always share your drugs with your rented William Blake, especially if you see that he’s stumbling.


Never joke about heroin with junkies who spent the early 00’s listening to Dashboard Confessional, unless you’re prepared to listen to dour tales about how their friend Mousey died in the back of a Taco Bell bathroom. Also, don’t respond to their sad story with “speaking of which, I could really go for a quesadilla right now…”


Stop smoking Sour Diesel prior to doing a poetry reading, stick to the gin. Otherwise the words will spread and you’ll recite half as much to half the applause.


Poetry on the Bowery is as beautiful as cheap prostitution. But it’s time to sell your body, anyhow – they’ve begun putting Sedaris in textbooks.


Remember to thank whoever refilled your wine that night. One can always use more wine.


To show my gratitude for the warm reception in Jersey City, here’s some new Joey:

We definitely could use some new Mood Muzik, homey…


More new work coming soon, I promise. But, for now, I have updated the Official Material section.


Have you been waiting long?

12 Feb


            It was an onerous night just as today was born a cold morning.

            I’m wearing a scarf indoors (wrapped around my neck like a bow tie), and as some of you know I was to do a short reading on Wednesday night at a bar in my Greenwich Village… as much as I’d honestly like to hence inspire you with a tale of my easily gained success, a receptive and awed audience – it did not go over well.

            The morning of the reading I looked over my material and chose the pieces that were to be recited. I was not hungover, thus I was capable of logically considering the manner in which the pieces would rise and morph into one another seamlessly; each continued where the former left off. The strong, brewed coffee helped as it was meant to do, as it usually does.  

            The decision was made to first read “Youth”: a piece that is light and usually goes over well with people that remember a time when they were radical juveniles skipping school to smoke pot and drink cheap beer with other wayward adolescents on the sand of Coney Island, or Brighton, or Manhattan beach discovering sex and small rebellion; people that remember that brief feeling of freedom before it was stifled by the coming responsibilities of adulthood.

            Next was “Sunflowers”. A piece that is one of my sentimental favorites. Easily accessible and sweet, with a couple of great lines that sound pleasing when orally recited – even by someone as mushmouthed as I sometimes become once begin my ritualistic inebriation prior to performing.

            The closing piece I chose was one that I do frequently in short readings because of its dark, anthemic presence: full of mockery, consideration, criticism and my sincere love for all the various aspects NYC that have been hidden under the couch cushions like smut. “I want the night sky” was going to be climax, the empty peak – meaningless, except for the brilliant view.

            But, also – before I was going to get off the stage – I wanted to have a strong conclusion to my recitation; a sordid, but strong epilogue to my short reading. I came up with this during the afternoon of pre-reading cocktails with friends:


So before I go, I’d like to say something about us poets, artists, creators, beautiful perverts and the aficionados of acute perception:


We are spilled wine and bounced checks

We are rekindled cigarette clips and second hand books

We are mangled smiles and cardboard homes

We are warm winters and savage summers

We are expired food sold at a discount

We are the rusted water from the tap

We are the humiliation of empty pockets

We are the loosey spot down the block

We are the fear of insurrection

We are the suffering undefeated and unimprovable


So, listen to us a little longer… while we’re still around


            I cockily thought to myself: that’s some strong shit (no need for anything to be cut with baby aspirin). I thought that I was ready.

            … and then I accidentally, inadvertently crashed the GLBT night of the particular series of poetry readings within which I was to be participating. Surely an unforeseen turn of events, to be sure – but you have to play with the cards you’re dealt (if I may be allowed to use this particular cliché as an avid poker player). So thus, completely unaware of the type of reception that I would get, I watched the other performers before me: a middle aged comic, also clueless about the various underlying contexts of the reading, was the first to perform and was the first to be booed off the stage after a couple of jokes which were perceived as remotely politically incorrect. The following readers were alright, with two standout readings by young female poetesses about their individual adorations for some women close to their hearts.  

            I read seventh. Got cut off after the first two pieces by the hasty promoters who realized that I wasn’t exactly blending in with the chosen themes of the night. No caterwauling or boos to send me from the dais, just applause – but still I left with a nagging hurt in my chest, because though I didn’t recite any poetry about my first lesbian experience in summer camp or about the prejudices of the outside world; I did recite words which by their own nature makes them important. That’s what it’s supposed to be all about, boys and girls. Not about any central meaning that you’re trying to impart, not about your personal agenda or even your underlying intentions for the world – it’s supposed to be about celebrating the words which make all that come alive, even the slights of maxims.

            I do want to thank anyone that enjoyed my work at the reading. Sorry if I didn’t stay around for another drink. This was a disappointing end to a long week for me.

            Now that I am back to editing and some boozeless sleep, I do want to share something in the manner of post-script.  

            I had to recharge my batteries the next day, and realized that tripping on hallucinogenic mushrooms should be an annual ceremony because it truly gives the mind a bit of necessary spring cleaning. Once a year or so you deserve to meet with your friends, find a comfortable spot around the living room, cover yourself in warm blankets and watch Yellow Submarine: you can sing along to all those songs that remind you of your childhood and watch an animated film where the Beatles basically go around being dicks to everyone. You’ll be giggling throughout while having seemingly revolutionary thoughts intermittently on the cultural merits of contemporary society. It is an invigorating experience.  

            I’ll be doing a lot more readings in the city, so please check out further updates in the Upcoming Events section. They will likely turn out much better. But also, if you yourself are getting back into reciting your work: be steadfast against difficulties presented – there will always be someone like me in the audience who will care about the words and will cheer you on like a drunken father at your little league game.

            More work will be coming from your dear old Jack soon as well.



Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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