Posts Tagged ‘Sensitive Poet v.s. Former Professional Asshole’

Too Many Pens, Never Enough Ink

19 Sep


[favorite record currently, from the 14:31 mark]


from a political press conference to a literary interview to nothing at all

you gotta understand the gamut
Joe runs the game
and as the king
he allows Meeks the fifth as though it was a fiefdom
a bottle to drown down one’s AM ambition
and we all become too drunk to unlock the door
to our own freedoms
these knaves keep us stunned and humble
voting like a necropolis
hanging up
only works for bats, journalists and dying stars
it is not
a thing that lovers do
that’s why I stay on the phone
listening for her breath
like some renewed compassion
until the embers of midnight fade
into the blissful, new annihilation of a waking, screaming morning
and I know that she was safe for another night
after we wake up
and you’ve already gone to the bathroom
to put on your makeup
before getting back into bed
then I’ll likely
need another drink
like last night
when I first saw
that you can’t save me
from myself and everybody else
Leo McGarry never ran too quickly

all the way somewhereinthemiddle

25 May



murky in existential terms


some accent when you’re drinking
my homey’s got a crush
and then there’s that brendan behan reference
from three years ago
back when i though it was witty
and now i just like the play
the words
how they seem to swim
with the days
and the messaging decided
the meaning minified
the truth becomes like that jury duty notice ignored inside your mailbox 
the colors, though, the light, as always
remain, i used to write about it
how that can be
a lot more
but it’s there
even without my own interaction to it
and it’s always almost enough
like familiarity with the presence
and knowing
you’re always almost there

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


lifted, not far off the ground

01 Dec



purple drapery
as much as i want to be surrounded by nothing but your underwear
like the rob gordon line
evening blouses, lacey garments, indie fashionista smocks, demonstration commemoration tops
anything and everything disrobed
keeping the apartment messy to stay in bed as long as possible like a lazy bohemian motif
as titillating as all of this might be
colors molted new by each attaching memory
new skin to smell and to remember
new ways to feel your nudity
based on what you’ve left behind along our floor
as proud as i would be to hold such honor
to play footsoldier guarding your place of pardons and reprieve
where you sleep as though the world did not require your full attention
i would drift inside this duty granted
favoring the responsibility to guide any errant follicle of hair
fastidiously grazing over the pathway to your gaze
away from where your dreams may be prevented their foolhardy rushing in
as much as all of this is my ambition, truthfully
i fear i don’t have strength more today than to get stoned
step out onto my balcony
or maybe even to my building’s steps
(no further though, oblomov kush keeping the man grounded to the courtyard)
to whimper just a bit
you were the winter baby to my fever
and it’s too cold outside for me…
… for me to be melting quite this much
i don’t have strength enough right now to get all back together
and they don’t like giving credit out to humpty dumptys anymore
no matter how sweet they deign to sound
like trumpets undistinguished from other metal squalls of night

toss that dithyramb back into the cage

20 Oct



red crayon (autumn)


I was born right before the dawn
as though a seismic shift
through the shame
the plates collide
my condition changes
through frustration
form foments
and I see nothing
but an echo of the glow
like the acid trip I had my sophomore year of high school
a grace in color, amber turning into mauve
glistening, agowned in gaudy splendor
I find something to familiarize myself
lost in the sunflowers for a while
and in the fiction
whichever manner and dainty curlicue it took
visage familiar yet lost
and I couldn’t see the moon
the other idealistic destination
that doesn’t mean much anymore
and didn’t even then
nothing real but pretense and pride
like telling you how beautiful you are even though you already know
it’s all just made of cheese


I’ve always thought that autumn was a song, but Vitya told me, as I rode another languid bus across another bridge collapsing, that actually autumn is nothing but another beautiful cage…


half of a red crayon
rolls across the floor
in a dejected fashion
the bus lumbers on to its next waiting place
a purgatory wide enough for a sandwich and a cup of coffee
the crayon travels right along
in singular dancing solitude
until a momentary stillness
leaves it at peace in empty space


I can’t tell if I’m getting older. But when I look at my hands – I know that they’re definitely getting older. I think I have at least one more year to fully acknowledge any real adulthood.


the less you’re able to predict an individual’s behavior the more likely they are to destroy you;

the less you’re able to predict an individual’s behavior the more likely you are to fall in love


singing, singing, they all sing
and then they tell me that
as a man, if you don’t watch pornography it seems almost like you’re a walking waste of a 21st century penis
and I explain
death comes as woman
though maybe just to me
she’s not at all
that handsomely besuited dandy
from that old Twilight Zone episode
and hence an awed respect is warranted
since she is the only one who can take on the form of your freedom and penitence
and then we remember how
the five families made a toast to peace and profits
how the best-hatted Harlem gents gave out analgesic turkeys to their former neighbors
how ten years ago my block had so many shootouts that it might as have been called Kuiper’s Belt
we remember new york and the history inside this ride
and then get back on the bus
barely damaged
bravely in love with something that got lost between the stops


on the subject of love and creation

20 Sep




what if god just happened
like the man from earth
what if the stars led me to you
those mysterious dead travelers
they told me how you were created
like god
you just occurred
they merely opened up their nomad’s wings
made of an endless migratory light
and there you were
for me and for the world



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


resting on my shoulder

17 Apr





vita brevis,

ars longa,

occasio praeceps,

experimentum periculosum,

ludicium difficile


a beer sipped through a straw

will get you just as drunk

but won’t taste nearly as pleasant

let’s get off this train before we keep going

and baby, Babylon may have the better beds and loftier coverlets,

but let’s just stay here – the glistens are more memorable in the ghetto regardless – if you’re willing,

and I’ll spread out my afghan

made by Brooklyn hands creased by small rivulets of weary blood

for us to lie comfortably upon,

envisaging the wonders of hanging gardens above us

both of us knowing because of the past and because your temple is

resting on my shoulder now

that the most miserable sound in the history of human sentiency

is other people making love to your woman inside your head


it’s been agreed upon by all those with a vote on the matter

I am my own inept biographer

creating historical accounts from falsehoods and fantasies

a hoodwinker who never forgets anything because there was never anything to remember

a face that simply says ‘keep blinking’

an emotionally-unavailable drunkard

the man who sleeps inside the sky

you are yourself

but I am myriad

a plethora of shadows nurtured by broad steps

stumbling, palm across the alley brick

rambling loudly like a tyrant something like,

——–“it is only those that have claimed to love you

——–that have the capacity to fuck you over

——–everyone else is just acting accordingly…”

I am some witty parts, some salty, one autodidactic,

all much too prideful, most unbearably stubborn

bellies full of cheap, mongrelly ingredients churning

gin and citrus keep me clean and regular

merry as a butterfly who knows how long this lasts

knows it all to be a cycle, rebirth unnecessary after the one go-round

we, each of us, spin, then become what we were

a scattering of sleepy, cracking stars chasing after Eos

the cylinder creates the illusion of moving chroma

though born poor, though die poor – the quicksand of my living was made of gold

it was, over time, put into small, leather pouches

given unto lacquered fingers of the ones that kept me sane


the ones that didn’t so easily believe me

– did you?



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


this is how we almost feed ourselves

15 Mar



Less Tense Than I Was The Last Time I Confessed


it’s not your fault that you don’t love me

don’t want me

I, of course, am an acquired taste

a factory of fantasies and fingers

a taste of liquor and sincere, black rabbit sweat

and I just bought a beer

and I’m too tired to either be complacent or considerate

more so than this

in other words, I’ll be fine

elusive in the ether, we only find illusions

it was my homey, not me, that ripped his hand apart

I’m no romance-stigmatic

and besides, your brand of bullshit no longer stings as much

as it did before

now I just write it out in a night

quick poem, reflexive now almost; no six hundred page tomes begun

the other one (the one that was for you,

                         your hand, your button, our little button, a tiny face

                         that looks like mum – because she’s the prettiest star,

                         like the dance I should have accepted when you were sick –

                         for your ebon curls down your back, bared,

                         I massage you, oil, a stoner comedy on the screen,

                         something with rogen probably, but that shit

                         was long ago, and now the one that was for you

                         is a relic of warning, mourning, desperation,

                         sex as sacrament, bad vibes, nervous hands,

                         sangria at some west village Spanish spot,

                         some dress you wore and then took off…)

yes, that other one, motherfucker’s still going, you’d be surprised

and maybe when it’s done… ah, fuck it, princess

no more crowning the authors no more

casually, you know why my hands are eventually coming off

not like my friend, but sort of

the reasons, now, seem strikingly similar

but none of this is your fault

I get that

I guess I’m older now

and priorities have been forced on me

because of mistakes (the miserable sort)

because of madness and pride

my big head

my feeling of entitlement to affection

my lack of time


if you change your mind

and you want your man to cook your eggs for you

I’m two hours away by train

come see me

you know where I am, keep shining




28 Jan





there’s just not enough of her

they all stare hungrily

as though she was other than invisible

objects that are not objects

animals of reexamination, improvising

things that aren’t there, never alone

those which have been let go, on their own, for long

are those that are sought the most

struggled for and languished on the most

and I’m amongst them

staring hungrily, unfed

like when she says, as I’m about to leave

‘I’ll stay at the bar for just a little while longer…’

and I see the way they look

they don’t want to open up community centers in the hood

they don’t want to write novels to keep the turtle’s back firm

they don’t want to stick around just to see what her kids will look like

whose reflection they will take

… but it’s a pointless urging

I’ll leave the bar and pretend to trust her

as their laggard fingers take her dress off leisurely

we all pretend there’s theatre here, and destiny,

and now

but our days grow meager, thinned

about as dense as headlines

and we’ve all been so esurient and keen for such a while

we stare at her as though she were a feast

as though there was anything to eat there

and our disappointment becomes the continued rumbling of the belly

and our ambition becomes to quench that need

and we create shiny pretty things to fatten up the next meal

hoping we’ll finally have our fill

hoping to sink our teeth into some satisfaction unabstracted

twelve past midnight 01

18 Jan





this road has


            so slow


your little boots like kidney beans

the colors wet

mud and rain water, the broken tooth

from Spanky, the Redfern larker,

who hollered at the wrong chick,

floating like the first carrot, just for flavor, in the soup


each boot

            drops in

            the cinereous mood clinging, viscid


you finally reach the building

where I used to live

selfish in the duds of unpaid bills

you didn’t bring daisies or a sundress

just yourself in a heavy overcoat you got from some other man used as proxy

who no longer lives for you, many leases signed ago


the wait is

            retaliatory, combative

            a relationship to immolation

            but always a preparation for the next

you ring the doorbell, percussing lightly with a gloved paw

marked pink in the western orbit like a late winter afternoon

from where your college roommate spilled her tea kettle

around the time when we first met

I kissed your hand then

but tonight, darling, there’s no one home


Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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