Posts Tagged ‘Sincere Poetry’

uncle frank returns


05 Apr

-8-

-8-

untitled (elvis jesus medgar uncle frank)

 
he said
people
are just messin’ bags of reaction
some wear pearls
some beat their wives
some hurt, some pain
some sleep, some stay and some just barely remain
some steal, some cheat, some are full
some are generous, some are brutal
some become presidents others convicts
all react
as they keep on movin’
retreat, submit, conquer, continue, on and on
rubble to rubble
reactionaries, all of ‘em, reactionaries
people, barely people  
-8-

sound remaining


14 Feb

-8-

 

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

————

vacation plans


29 Nov

———7———–

———7———–

bitterness

 

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
———7———–

all about coming back…


03 Apr

———————-

pastiche, like numbering smoke

 

we wuz who we wuz

it is what it is

we know what we know

it goes where it goes

 

it might be only due

to my location and my pea coat

but I’m feeling like a Leonard Cohen looking for his Janis Joplin

as she in turn was looking for Kris Kristofferson

on her elevator ride

yet I’m still lost in the spectral eyes of someone else’s ancestry

a fabular darkness I destroyed so I can live again

as diamond

 

it must be tough knowing that you’ll always be loved

 

hearts are hearts

the mind roams then dissipates

the smart people are never in the room

the cheap lighter has been adjusted for pyromaniacal debauchery

and for the one-hitter I’ll smoke through outside tomorrow’s venue

 

we are stronger than our history

we are more than the arbitrary collection of

                               events that preceded us

we can change, we can become new in seconds

but most of us stay the same

either way, don’t get lost

—————-

—————

Come out to Eva’s (11 W8th st.) tomorrow night for a dope Nitty Gritty Open Mic night (8:30pm – 10:30)

Also, I would like to happily announce the return of the Washington Sq. Park Poetry Project, hosted by yours truly, coming back later this month (date tba – will be providing more info soon)…

————-

do you miss the fever?


26 Mar

————–

————–

defervescence

 

this is the one that I wrote
before the narcissists went to bed
before my own humble sun dared to take a peek
there is so much that I can’t see anymore
maybe I’m not drinking enough
maybe it’s because all the women I want I tend to miss
and all the ones I don’t tend to spend the night
this is a small island
that’ll spend the next decade going underneath the shore

 

this is the one that I wrote
that’s not about heartbreak
this is the one that got away from me
more musicians than the room can fit
not enough music
my friends run this joint
soaking in it until nothing can be heard
nothing can be felt
I’ll twist my ankle careening down the stairs
and wake up slightly bruised with the pills still in my system

 

this is the one that I wrote
because I didn’t aim to please
no poetic cunnilingus, this is no song of songs
tongue wakes at the inner thigh
no, this is merely the expectoration of some spirit, glowing
the hue of an honest sickness
no money and no work ever again
I’ve been called to wait it out
for the narcissists to go to bed
for new cognizance to bring me something to dream about
a cogged suitcase full of suicidal gambles, unopened
a little face that says ‘I do, I will’ somewhere down the line
this is how goodnight spreads across our earth

————–

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

anyway,

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

 

———–

twelve past midnight 01


18 Jan

————–

————–

poor

 

this road has

            been

            so slow

            dripping

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

            until

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

————-

hold on to it, if it’s true


15 Dec

——————

——————

nostomania

 

I never believed myself worthy much

but I don’t concede, I won’t give up this stubborn pushing

despite that in the past with you

as always I wanted more than I could get

more than I could sweat through

and if we’re really being honest, no anniversary flowers bought, I probably didn’t try hard enough

and yet, as I write this

you know the remaining truth

which is

that I am still the unsurrendered and as much morning as this weed will let me see, I’ve been right all along

making the 2-hour trip (from Queens to Harlem),

buzzing from downstairs, an interminable mounting of your stairs

trying to impress you with some softness in my words

or something cooked to remind you of the beginning of the movie

maybe a joke would be better suited

I thought of us and you

and your newest year and you

and I thought that there is something to

that we’ve both grown up a little

and some history has passed

that it’s a good day

because back then, that time before,

the only way a woman could cum

is by getting hysterical and seeing her local physician

 

when I was younger, I always recoiled at the word ‘lover’ – I found it antiquated, overtly-baroque – but, once my life caught up to the true materialization of that word’s intent, then I realized that, though a more neoteric synonym could be conceived to task as an appropriate colloquial replacement, no other word would really do – like from the root, then to the stem, then to the bloom and crown above; the beauty lies in the honesty and the simplicity of the qualification denoted

 

like, my skin: her skin –

the narcissism of the shadow

the crooked picture is the one that gets the second look

and I can’t offer you the stability of money

or that I won’t ever be cruel, or condescending, jealous, obstinate, bad breath in the morning, a drunken fool once a fortnight or two, minor post-adolescent acne, a beard that won’t grow in right, obsessiveness with the details, every birthmark on your skin

and I do tend to treat the hoi polloi as either children or long lost friends

and I’m a big proponent of morning sex – especially in my apartment – and if you’re here, I wake up early; my cock, your smell, like an alarm (I hope that you won’t be late to work)

and I know you hate it

when I’m spitting on the sidewalk

potential evaporation and bio-degradability be damned

and it’s icky that I still have my third cup despite the fact

that the coffee makes my palms irriguous and dewy

I’m not good on paper

and

I can’t promise you to change any of it fully,

never been released on good behavior yet –

what I can do is to keep on trying

always

and maintain a sense of humor getting it accomplished

step by step

 

(rhythm is reaction and repetition

and so, here’s another one

darling, welcome to my heart

… let’s dance,

like you were sick and I was scared and healing)

 

—————–

Returning Into Something New


11 May

—————-

—————

inspiration
 
a blending of color
a blending of skin
this is how the world begins
this is us
this is future
this is past
this is crisp nothingness
            and Babylon
            and torch songs
            and freedom
            and the right to elect crooks with friendly smiles
this is America
and the third world
and endless ocean
and thinning air
rising gas prices, art
pornography
something sacred
something sold
something that resembles an emerald lost in a dead purse
money and history ignored inside a little pill
a shadow of sleep underneath your eyes
this is a graceful exit and a fresh start
this is cake for breakfast
this is a blending of color
stardust, eternity, all the other flowery bullshit that poets write about
this is the blending of skin
stay in bed, a hangover, late to work
this is how the world begins
this is us

———–

Cigarette Burns (Part I)


01 Apr

————–

————-

cigarette burn 01

 

the mezuzah by the door

purifies the house or makes it lucky

she couldn’t remember anymore

when it first started

when my blood first caught the rhythm

each beat of my heart synchronized to the blinking of her eyes

chestnut with a waning light caged inside them

my life the warlike ocean roll of all she saw

eventually,

she couldn’t resist it anymore

when it first started

and married herself to my bed

a few toes capering off the sheeted mattress

full of sweat and epiphany

and a slight aerugo of amnesia

blue and green, all rusted stars

our sky, our bed

our humble victory over the world

spinning in such busy ways

made us smile and let us sleep  

————-

Dea


07 Feb

————

Reading tonight at the Brooklyn LaunchPad (Doors Open at 8PM)

721 Franklin Ave, Brooklyn, NY 11238

————-

————-

connexion: dea

 

wandering through dreams

like Sylvia Welter in a vault

I found her

my dea

hopeless

for her a hapless, limbed and lithe idea

a shade of the liliaceae through the window of my writing space

a drink, dark skin, a fit of frenzy

unprinted pages

she calmed me after years of mourning

a novella stolen by a drunken uptown 6 train

coming home to someone separate and new

it was my second draft

maybe even my third

if you consider our time in Spain

my dea

how do I begin again?

 

wandering through dreams

like trauma in red lipstick

she found me

my dea

a well-informed voice

from the lungs then to the neck

and it strains

and then there’s music

clicking along the sound

it lifts the room like tenderness

soft fingers as extensions of wet eyes

she touched my arm

and I too became diapason

and rested on her lips

this trip becomes a journey through the night

so rough, so callous, full of sonnets as streetcorners

a trip that no one should take alone

although two lives lived synchronously

in concert

can stoke the dead man’s heart

with enough ritornelle to burn the air and cause a waking

 

my dea, oh my dea

always

wandering through dreams

 

dedicated with gratitude to the beautiful women who’ve stimulated my creativity simply by stumbling through my daily hallucination: one recently blonde, one stately mad and missing, one a lovely host of words and music

———-

Fading into the New Year


31 Dec

———

——–

yogurt and gray hair

 

If I said

that my mother wore braids

then it would be another lie

that I’ve turned into description

like a painter making frauds of portraits

or appraisers

naming a price

for the beautiful orphans that woke in your arms

 

someone told me that my generation

lacks the accountability of their antecedents

but it’s not that

we’ve just learned to make deceit our vocation

because we’ve seen how lucrative it’s been

 

If I said

I saw Paris as a kid

then it’d be another myth

of a child that never left the airport motel

on an accidental layover eve

that hasn’t ended yet

and I’m still afraid

of the different tongues

and a world wider

than the deli down the block where the cigarettes are cheap

 

it will be during a lonely gloaming

like this one drawing in

when my life will end

in a tumbler full of bourbon

two pawned guitars

and the correspondence of an old lover

irresponsible and unresponsive

 

until then though

this avenue will last all night

like the bloody glory of the skyscraper

and I will hold your trembling hand

surrendered to our steps

with my diamonds the raincoat on the concrete

underneath your feet

 

(the pattern says to add two lines and a merry onion

and so)

 

If I said

that it’s all going to work out well

then I’d be uncharacteristically doltish

because promise needn’t turn into pennies on the floor  

and I no longer sleep

as I once did

because the color’s waned

and the light comes

only from the married sun

growing old over the cold city

like a tired bloom

stumbling away from its reflection

 ——–

Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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