Posts Tagged ‘Surreal’

The Pressure of Patience (Part III)


03 Sep

-8-

-8-

pine coat blues

 

a pint of bourbon and the pine coat blues
a singing, persistent, rises from the park cement
dead body on other dead bodies under rock
as though a loop
as though meaningful, ancient
not just another mess, a waste
some thirty-four, a boston breath
unshaven, friendly, coarse
ready to share now for a future drink
a home, a standing lamp to piss on
fuck outta here, it shouldn’abeen marking out that corner
now nothing
solemnity, a fuddled liturgy
for a night
booze and candles along the spot where he was found
the broken revelry again the next one out
again
until a coterminous iteration of the pine coat blues
is sung anew through a fresh pint of bourbon
whose glass will break to the shouts of bis
and further empty time

 

(for Tucker)
-8-

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-

Ecdysis


04 Dec

—-7—-

—-7—-

all fragile myths

 
the
      great
                art
only requires the audience
            of one or two
            sets of eyes
stir, stir
            wild love
we will all be
forgotten
like
            the last goddamn kingdom
            that our doubles built
ground down by the weather of years
the trials of tempest
spent in chaos and lost poetry
the
      great
                art
forgetting
            requires only your conscience
(tired eyes and glasses on the nightstand
(by the cigarettes, ashtray in lights)
—-7—-

eight


20 Mar

—————

—————

eight

sitting around, getting fat like a clef note
an ego in the front room
crossing through the ante
i become the cloudy piss of my poetry
and there’s resentment
then resentments
a reenactment
a play made up of the same silent scene
the progression of the panhandler
that becomes the guy that sells celestial subscriptions door-to-door
twenty years too late
like changing the world
like fatherhood and all
potential, fictional, alive
like passing down
that true wisdom causes isolation
like naming him Augustus, nicknaming him August for short
smiling when the little girls tap his shoulder
call him “Auggie”
the result of an anxious calendar staying up
and then we thin it out
the dreaming that is
son, try not to do it
because there’s more of them than madhouses that room escape
trust me, i’ve worn the robes
but in the whispers sprouting up in the air like will-o’-the-wisps
you know
it’s clearer in the eventide
it has to be
the world is laying quiet
—————-

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

————–

gonna ramble soon…


16 Jun

————

————

montage (penance locked in 8 x 8)

 

and almost-everyone’s uncle al yells out from across the room,

“mary, quit pirouetting through the place before

one of these rotten motherfuckers steals your

tupperware!”

he gets the party rolling

talks back in the day

like the dermatologist of a muse of greek antiquity

he fills the holes of his memory with wine:

fischer came to ny to learn chess and hustling

an ersatz madness

as always, he notices me

i’m playing my game with a ghost

and as always, i’m losing

a knight on the side i will not abide;

he says,

the only job you’ve got in this life is to keep all your teeth

and i’m already a few behind

shortchanged by a bit of too much experience too soon,

and when asking about the saints

he invariably informs you that

gangsters like Harpo best

because he knew how to keep his mouth shut;

when talking ardor or exaltation

he mumbles something about birds

then says that love is nothing but

a clap-trap cunt

turning you blind as soon as you get inside.

and as always i’m playing my game with a ghost

trying to describe the one across the room

for al’s sake

for mine as well

auto-da-fé

soon they’ll notice too

her eyes are dark

obsidian

ancient

amour fou

her eyes glimmer

i see where soul ends

deep in that dark

like metal turned to vine

creating carnivorous arcs

clawing, clasping on

then going in

until finding a turbid home there dressed as a catacomb

in its bareness                in its bareness

i tremble and concede

————

a curving thought


09 May

————-

 

—————

monotony

 

they say that men are meant to ossify

while women are meant to melt

I’m just waiting for my invitation for coffee in the Andromeda galaxy

curious to see what it feels like to be sucked into the center

 

smile

you’re already dreaming

this is a dream (pearls tap-dancing across the wooden floor)

you are asleep

soon your peers will discuss it

 

there’s maybe another ten years, tense

in taking a break from drinking

a few days

lift a few weights, stare at the sun

delight when you think how they say

you can’t see stars from this balcony

 

polluted, I take a sip of water from my bedside glass

new training (sweat turns charcoal on the sheet)

pair a couple of words together

sleep, smile

you’re already dreaming

————

resting on my shoulder


17 Apr

————

————

biography

 

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

breathing

the ones that didn’t so easily believe me

– did you?

————

 

The Last of ’15 Poems: III


10 Jan

———–

———–

fifteen line jesus

 
few people manage to eat well on camera
it’s mostly a self-conscious nibbling
until someone makes an entrance

pity the weeping man
as he nestles his head into your lap
a sweat through his earth of hair
a sweat like victimhood; a swarming freedom
they keep the laundromats open all night long
for the drugs and the spare change
to keep the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling
lit
pretending that this isn’t all scripted
pretending that this isn’t the place
where the saints get stoned
where the puppets get their strings tangled
where the naked bodies throw themselves against the wall
as he tell you,
“stay here, brother. i’ll be right back.”

few people manage to get eaten well on camera
it’s mostly a self-annulling feast
before a break for advertisement
———–

new breath


27 May

———–

———–

A Train (“una furtiva lagrima” by Enrico Caruso, 1911)

 

            like a prowling midnight wraith it passes

            like dust

            we travel

            all a temporary kin

            we are survivors

            thrown and shaking

            across bridges, tunnels and bad news

            sitting together, shoulder to shoulder, god to god

            locomoting through

            no destination

            where memory and culture try to find a solidarity

            beyond

            so close we sit

            the kids dance for smiles and dollars

            swirling around polls as though the metal was a light and it was summer and there was cooking and we were flies alive, abound and peckish with curiosity like an explorer’s hide made grim by wanderlust and rain when it domes over you like falling locusts, like a growing parasol, like the flash of cameras over the pale skin of an American actress smiling for the last hello

weeks at a time

            I watch them before going back to my book

            out of respect for other artists

            struggling to make a buck

            I’ve tried performing on these trains as well

            but I’ll take the street instead

            too shy to preach the underground measure

            a cement that my boots could grab is good enough for me

            I have witnessed prodigies (in the archaic sense)

            flopping

                        flapping

                                    flipping

                                                through the blocks

            I have seen surrender and true love

            I have seen not all, enough

            with more a still filling drink

            a name

            a new name

            all we seek

            all we must change

            if balalaika’s life and banjo death

            then we must change the name along with the tune and season

            and meet again when we are all unconditionally different people

            still traveling to something new

———–

Showing Teeth


23 Sep

———–

———-

electric chair

 

the sons always defend the mothers

smoke gets in the eyes

the killer says goodnight

and pays the bill

smoke gets in the eyes

a murmur spreads the rumor

that we’re all going to survive

like a dawn remembered by a metalmark

as her wings begin to wither

smoke gets in the eyes

the voicemail tells me

that they shot Ronnie

because he was unwilling to give it up

the stash was worth a couple o’ grand

a belly wound and three-to-five

a second strike while out on bail

smoke gets in the eyes

the sons defend the mothers

the fathers just leave a trace

some stoicism and facial ticks

a twitch, a trick, another life lived in

sweatpants and TV dinners

smoke gets in the eyes

a familiar face beaming

because we haven’t seen each other in oh so long

it will take time and new resentments

to bring us back around

I’ll help her with her bags

and take her back to my apartment

and there we’ll sit and reminisce

on memories that time’s corrected

to be what they should have always been

but then just like routine

smoke gets in the eyes

the killer says goodbye

apologizes for being born

as though he had a choice

smiles weakly, meek, sedated

last meal of biscuits a lead weight

the hair begins to burn, the mercy seat

the temples thunder, the light flickers

smoke gets in the eyes

————

Someone To Love (A Thinking Man’s Erection)


04 May

————

————

liricheskaya (if I ever write a song in prison)

 

lay in my arms

like the book that you inspired

the velvet slip a binding

taken off by one passion or another

one more time

sing it with your ambit  

sway against my lips

like a choir of seraphs

that after some drunken revelry in purgatory

(which resembles an overpriced bar I know in Times Square)  

cantillate vulgar ballads about maidens of antiquity

in golden curl and vicious skin

that Orpheus never brought back home for dinner

to hear his lyre twang

fading like everything

beautiful and obscure

within a sandy sojourn

in an arid savage climate

where no one grows

taller than a capitalist  

slowly blown away

farther than the mind can go

and it’s only us

translating into wind

speaking or scarcely listening

to snakes and other animals

that barely resemble secondhand Marxists of some kind

who make you laugh like a laconic port

that turn your teeth to butter

and my hands to parking lots  

 

lay in my arms

like that nude portrait that you bought

hung on a wall for decoration

to hide the truth of cracking paint

and any resemblance of a life that’s being lived

(another percocet for a new twitch that dances)

and I’ll coo to you

from that mark the nail made inside your wall

and I’ll tell you

slightly muzzled by the celebrity of your churlish quietude  

that you approximate

an e e cummings poem

because it is the Woody Allen movie that you haven’t seen

you are becoming

that soft light that gets stuck inside my teeth

a canicular hunter of imaginative men

who lose it all gambling inside of you

sleeping unaccomplished

they will still be there

ghosts along the sacrilegious highway of your thighs

waiting to be stuffed like pronghorns for your mantle

they will have their own time to crumble

like war torn monuments to independence

so, lay in my arms

for just a little while longer

I’m still writing you, you know

the day is still ahead

and if later

someone calls you with a better proposition

go with him

I won’t get lost

I promise

 

(for anyone who’s ever been loved before)

———-

Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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