Posts Tagged ‘political poesy’

Regarding the Current Need for Poetry

24 Jun



The Sessions Family Looking to Buy Summer Home in Gilead. Shocked When Told it is a Fictional Place.


Maybe I’m Done Writing For a While

Do I have any poetry left
that’s a decent question.
At this point, what does it matter
that is also one
——–==that it
—————==makes sense
——————————==to ask.
Honestly, I don’t know.
Tinfoil blankets on traumatized babies
aggressive mediocrity in everything
cupidity, stupidity, the bigot’s misery
all of this shit just clogs the throat
of thinking, of promise, of response
like soot, like the charity of inconsequentiality
until we’re chocking
and yet we ask about the poetry…
The folks that I’ve wanted to meet
are all dead now (all I have left really are Errol Lewis and Tom Waits)
The woman that I loved turned out to be
cruel and culpable
The people that I loved elected the
dumbest despot they could find
Poetry, you ask?
Here’s some. Pour me a drink.  



26 Jan



sneezing produces snot, just ask god


they burn the details of their history
that contradict their perception of the moment
to keep warm their indignation
and around this fire
they dance and revel
and wail arrhythmically
obfuscating any meaning from their words
like winds that carry smoke
until all that can be heard is
give us barabbas
give us Barabbas




23 Jan



the pyramids have eyes

i had a dream
in it
the anger rose as mountains
the inept climbed
the mindless rose one atop another
and at the peak
the cretin dyed himself
put his best hair on
and took the oath


i had a dream
we lived
huddled, defensive, an anger rising
extremities pinioned by time so magnified it wears
through corporeal weight self-manifested
nails dirty, climbing back
we choose for leaders those of merit
by way of piousness to new religions
they used to call them repulsion and schadenfreude


i had a dream

we lived

in it

and i simply couldn’t wake  





23 Mar




Oppenheimer loved John Dunn
his poesy, his face, respectful panic
I sit here finishing up
this short stanza, like melting skin
lapping up milk from a cold metal cup
keeping strong, alpha strong and shit
wondering who’ll ignite this world
on my behalf


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.  


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!

vacation plans

29 Nov





who’s to say
– it isn’t art
to bury that plastic cup
underneath the earth
a shallow grave
a representation of humanity’s effect
or some such shit, nothing sui generis, to be sure or to be late
but I have not seen spirit in artistic expression in so long
outside of music
some celluloid
a few brief words
a naked statue
and so much smoke
that’s why i wonder why i expect so much and yet
i’ve wasted at least ten years on a garbage person
that i’ve transformed into vision
in just that manner
because i thought it was
as though i was forming life, something to outlive the urn
or else something new entirely
as though that’s ever happened
yet i’m frustrated now and still want to believe again
like children’s saints and shiny things no longer underfoot
but a miserable and profitable marriage
in different ways seems a resolution for us both
like her eventually becoming a politician
despite my vote
to start a war or two
or else put some time in as a tyronic despot building ruble
blaming daddy for a lack of building blocks
back before the ocean took then dried
trust me, her armies will close in fast
most won’t be prepared
that why i’m looking just for time
for the finding of some quiet
yeah, time for that
and a new ghost to create ancient backstory for
to follow softly
as mirror becomes doorway
and we see nothing but who we truly are

sound from the wall

02 Sep





only in america
creflo dollar, mothafuck malachi
money over god
but if you dig the print
even big cloud homey endorses it


there’s always something on the news
the scales of justice
tend to tilt
with the winds of prejudice
and i
napping, midday, in the shadow
of timelessness
consider the future like the past
like repetition, trying to make it work better
considering the further
death is like an aching tooth
bothersome only until it’s pulled
and nothing remains
but empty space
and bank accounts


yet there shouldn’t be this severity
and i should just write another poem
about your lips
i like them when you pout


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


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


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




Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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