8 x 8 (Rifacimento of Capitulation)

I’ll tell a tale of old Manhattan

Adirondack bus to go

Standing waiting on my number

And my numbers gonna show

The world seems to try to obstinately convince us, young writers, that we shouldn’t be so preoccupied with love – romantic affection is impractical and no longer ubiquitary enough in our everyday to necessitate so much thought, so many letters – this has long become a difficult reconciliation with contemporary values for such as myself. The ones that write unironically in Brooklyn coffee shops, too broke for the sugar after spending their last fiver on a half-pint of Old Crow down the block: the raceless, genderless, nationless orphans of the world. Screaming as long as there’s a beat underneath. We’re around and we wonder where we’ve been brought. We take so much space wondering: about who will wake us up, about who will buy our time now that we have so much of it. But yet, listening to Van Morrison’s Tupelo Honey or Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks while feeling wistful about a former lover that’s incrementally fading from your memory is still downright dangerous, it seems.

In a slow drip, they say that only men need to be loved while women only need to be wanted. What an atrociously cruel deadlock! I drank a bottle of whiskey last night and ran out of weed this morning. So now it’s coffee time. Thinking about what an adorable mess living has made of her.  

Running out of time. Running out of words. No medication necessary. I like drinking in the park with the old men. They still have shine in their eyes. And sometimes, like yesterday, they tell me tales of the good girls they’ve known, and they’ll smile, and we’ll drink, and we’ll let the heat slowly treat us like the past. Most aren’t aware that this heaven exists, outside of board meetings and day errands and dimply lit bedrooms. These are simpler times than most would care to admit, there is just more that’s fogging our view.

There’s a new story that I’ve been working on. I turned Rimbaud into a character. It was a witty joke, and I was pleased. I laughed, actually. But I’ll likely be the only one. But I still posit that the joke was a success, well worth it. It’s difficult enough laughing nowadays. She asked me what there was to live for, how trite, but the truth still seems remarkably easy: it passes by like childhood nightmares, and times that are spent alone; the truth is that there is nothing to live for, there is only that which is worth staving death off from. When a kiss becomes an anxiety attack. Mornings when you’re reborn as two people. A few days, a few moments, that’s all we should hope to get. Other times, meet me at the park for a game of chess with the hustlers (watch them castle with only half a minute left on the clock – they are our last great optimists), a coffee cup with whiskey and classic coca cola that tastes like an aged paperback on a weary, weathered day. A joint that slides easily between a dozen hands. There will be smiles, and I’ll turn to you and say: “Don’t worry, darling, you’ll fly again one day. This world is just sunshine in a paper bag, trust me.”

I heard a tale of old Manhattan

I’ve never been there but I want to go

Standing waiting on my number

And my numbers gonna show


–Jack T. Tumult

Jack is a damned writer floating through the streets of NYC, and sometimes you can catch him performing poetry throughout different venues in the city like a drunken ghost; a few sweet, a few bombastic lines, and then he disappears into the ether. You can check out his work on his site and updates about future readings on Facebook

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