Posts Tagged ‘untitled’

ash


04 Feb

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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.

Myopic.

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.  

—-8—-

cheap incense


05 Jul

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untitled (the last time)

 

last time i saw her
god seemed troubled
i brought her spicy chicken soup
a cotton hit worth of ghost pepper extract
in the bowl
the heat to help the spirit dance
she claimed to be a vegetarian
tired of propagating what she saw
i questioned it
how come, i asked,
i’ve seen you bloody
like when you performed that appendectomy on Joe
with twigs stolen from the acacia tree
last time we were all hiking in the desert
she shrugged it off
said, it was what it was
like the last time we slept together
commitments keep only those unsure
but those that know what it is they’re looking for
have the selfless right to change their mind
i told her that i liked surety just as much as demagoguery
and offered her the soup again
god said that, no, not now
it’s not yet time to wake up different
even the teeth are still asleep
she said – hey Tumult, just roll a joint
lay here and hold me
i might be better
when we’re both alive

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untitled (moon)


01 Aug

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Look for a new venue announcement (for artists and for audiences) coming in the next few days…

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I am the moon tonight

smoky luminescence through the street

reflecting off the hidden

you can sell me, if you like

I am your property, sole

it is your right to stray as blind as all great fiction

gray

but walk softly, dear, because right now we are alone

(for real this time)

and needn’t make much noise

hushed, the night will taste us hallowed

and I’ll drink on your forever

because you hide eternity within

then I’ll feel selfish, as I am due, surrendered as a savage

taking

but, here

this is the way that I can retaliate your favor

all this you’ve given me

I’ll be the moon tonight

your moon, your man

for you

guiding you back home

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A Sample of the Night


02 May

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she fell asleep

with her face

nestled against my neck

her breath

warm against my ear

listening

to the vision that she saw

in the midnight of the fantasy

from the bight of dreaming

I could not wade into

 

I realize now that you do not want to be saved, how trite, you rather want to be worshiped at a distance, left alone to die, like an object in a store that costs more than what’s in my pocket

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Appropriately Inappropriate Waking


14 Apr

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Untitled (From the Right Pillow)

 

I drank a cup of water

turned sallow

by the New York City tap

by the Hillview Reservoir

across the way

and I imagined her

twenty years ago

a twelve year old girl

going to sleep

with Esenin underneath her pillow

a letter to a woman from a ruined horse of longing

a lucky star to follow

glasses on the nightstand

large frames of ebony

a dreaming smile

swallowed by a melancholy night

twenty years apart

and then another sixty still

I drank a cup of water

and thought to myself

how time and poetry repeat themselves

a locket where all goodbyes are kept

in either memory or blood

resurfaced in quiet auburn eyes

and the acquaintance we have made

 

(for M.)

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Another Love Song


31 Mar

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Before updating the Official Material section, here’s a new sweet one for your Sunday.

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Untitled (Silence)

 

I love the rain

but it ended today

like the ambrosial benediction

from your lips.

They walked out of the service

with umbrellas underneath their heavy arms

while your toes curled

in my bed

and some sweet 70’s record

played.

There used to be time enough

for all of us

to sleep like that

but the insomniacs

and the living anagrams

own the world now

and the bed

where we watch each other

like a conflagrant sky predicted by some ancient weathermen

like an apparent truth  

is the only place for peace and sermons.

I kiss her forehead like a fever

which I’ve had since I first wrote sonnets about wings

that belonged to love and no canon in particular

a fugue composition of the heart

stirring towards a climax

and she feels warm

because these temples hide

a lovely cavern where the moon bathes at night

like a myth for little princes

and I swallow just a bit of manna from the skin

which burns restlessly for no reason in particular

and she hides me in her arms

letting me know through her embrace

that there is no longer any lie we need to live in

because we never say a word

and the silent are thus rewarded.  

 

(For Lilia Seven Years Ago)

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For a New Tenderness Resurrected (Impedimenta)


09 Dec

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Untitled (Regarding Yearning)

 

             A lot of Conor Oberst’s early compositions dealt with lovelorn narratives, but what made them temporarily unique and gratifying for the audience was that he sprinkled in sporadic hints of a personal nature and a sentimental intent into his lyrics: ergo, the writer blatantly expounds on what he hopes a given song would accomplish – most often, his intention was to write a song so biting and beautiful that the girl he  wrote it for would either come back to him, or long for him from whatever wayward present she found herself in, or simply return his calls.          

            Unlike Cohen, he wasn’t simply melancholically considering his past and the mistakes that gamboled at that particular dais, to that waltz he sang about all over the world (before and after getting ripped off my his longtime manager), the bass line reminiscent of heads plunking down from the guillotine into the basket made of ravaged burgundy reeds; the soft shudder, breath of brandy and death, you remember, a place to lay down soon. Conor was instead trying to mitigate the situations that caused him to write, to change their circumstance after posting bail. That’s why I cared and still care about those songs. I could so easily relate to their content, and most importantly, their intended purpose. I myself have so many apparitions floating in my head that I’ve lionized and glorified with my work, my writing. Each time I hoped to create something exquisite and alluring, but also something that might make whoever I then-currently craved return.

            To force a unilateral return is a difficult prospect. Nearly impossible if Conor and I stepped outside of our artistic idealism and realized that love barely haunts most people. They have an easier time forgetting – not the people they used to share their intimacies with (I still have some characterless ex-girlfriends who still remember my birthday and send me a sprightly text message on the day), but rather the weight and significance of those intimacies at the time. They have an easier time stowing away those emotional pieces of baggage into the storage lockers of their minds that they will never, or assume to never, again revisit. They don’t rummage through that memorabilia, nostalgic and pained, with shaking fingers, drunk and dancing, moving along the area of these objects to remind them what they meant, what they were, what about them makes you seemingly need their restoration. Then comes the plaintive song, about Laura Laurent or whomever, or a bit of poetry or prose about a neurotic girl who became Lilia in a bit of honest fiction but was ironically allergic to white lilies. The truth is, she was based on Lilith and not the flower. The first woman that was ever allowed to be created complex.

            Riding the A train to work I was still stuck thinking of all this. But, I always liked the A train and it was easy to find a distraction. It was the vein of New York City. Chugging with artificial efficiency from Inwood to the flaccid geographic prick of the Rockaways. Along your trip you can see youngsters (ages 10 – 14) selling M & M’s and Welsh’s Fruit Snacks for money for their basketball team or “an honest dollar to keep off the street”, or you can see the gypsies parading their infants and playing sad folk songs with the accompaniment of an accordion, or the middle aged Dominican women who try to get you to accept the accented Jesus into your heart by yelling for repentance for twenty minutes while the seated pedestrians try to swallow their hangovers with a passing slumber, or the new school B-Boys performing for apathetic metropolitan straphangers who might squeeze out a buck or two from car to car.

            I saw a father sitting with his young daughter and I began to think about them; forcing myself to pretend a story for them, varied and human, mostly emotion amidst a lack of action, the story rarely moves forward, but always feels transitory.

            He had to force himself to be strict with his daughter. Turn the tenderness he felt into a mild coldness, because he knew how brokenhearted he would later feel when she changed, grew, turned resentful, then resilient, then completely independent of him. When she started wearing eyeliner, lipstick and a rosy blush on her happy jowls; when she started sleeping with boys, staying out late, smoking weed in the staircase or in the same park which she used to run through, giddy, to the sandbox; she would no longer be that adorable moppet with the puffy cheeks. No, she’d still be in there, somewhere, but it would be different – she would no longer smile wide-eyed at him, clasping his chest for reassurance when they took public transportation and the world seemed so large and frightening, but glowing and new, like something coming up, like running into someone you’ve never ceased to love on a subway platform and making fate out to be the capricious culprit.

            It’s damn hard always leaving or being on the return. We struggle against the constipated contrariety of time: it always either moves slowly or in haste – and we strive to either speed up the moiling moments or completely purge ourselves from consciously existing within them; otherwise when you’re accumulating the struggleless times like a collector, when everything carries meaning and plans are being made and your lover is content and she spends a Friday night and Saturday morning with you in bed, eating soup and watching dirty comedies full of thieves and femme fatales who whip their hair back in slow motion and smoke cigarettes in dive bars and maybe there’s some black and white that surrounds the color like Mickey Rourke around a rumble fish – the way I’m living, I probably only got about thirty-five summers left – then you try to bottle these times, salvage them in your mind to treasure their imagined, hope-enshrouded significance.

            They say, or at least they told me as such, that all the great mad artists had asymmetrical ears. So I always tell her to bite the drooping cartilage of my left lobe and I tell her to leave her mark.

            And I still ache all over.

            But I’m a spiteful bastard, and I’m not going to let this life kill me; not the police, the women, the booze, the past, the embittered psychoanalysis by marriage to ideology bankrupt at inception, by fatalism, by the ineptitude to move around with fervor in a world blossoming idly, by mistakes (those fucking rags!), by commotion, by emotion, by anxiety, by the cost of living, by the lazy adjustments that come too late, by transitions, by tediousness, by tenderness, by the motion, by the insolvent acknowledgment that love is only worthwhile when it hurts a bit. It’s supposed to hurt. Sting you into waking. Into enduring animation. Otherwise how the fuck are you supposed to feel a fucking thing?! Everyone needs a little stimulation. So that from haggard you can move into being prolific and make her smile with whatever artillery you have in your ordnance. If you love her, you have nothing else to do but keep trying, and maybe one day she will materialize from the nested hallucination and write the blind side of the anopisthograph that you started from a single page with a single face.

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Further on up the Road


17 Sep

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cogent and untitled

(for Christopher Hitchens)

 

hubris or catharsis,

you can call me asshole, if you want

if it makes you feel better

I drink too much

but god’s gonna demolish this ghetto anyhow

ain’t nothin’ more to stay

this is no fiefdom

this slum makes the sepulcher

and it’s easy

the antitheists push forward

the theists pull back

and us deists stay put

ambivalently now, but ready for tomorrow

ensconced in silence and warm wishes

like a winter coat for a sunny day

after a cup of coffee

that will be cold on another’s lips

the sad 

figurative soul

that missed the entire point

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BOOM for real


19 Jun

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bIO_4vmXb8k

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Untitled (Bastardize Your God)

 

If you sacrifice

your queen

for a wanton pawn

you’ll die

a wanted man

 

How does

your horn sound

this daylight

in abyss

if you had ever loved me

 

(Can I convince you?)

 

Sing me a song, boys

in your junkie patois

in your own history

like Cooning drawn in chalk

to resurrect this ghetto

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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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