virgin suicides tell the strangest stories…

Posted in afternoon requiem, Ha Ha Funny, Intervention, Laughter, Learning About Life, Poetry, Psychonauts, TWTC with tags , , , , , , on November 22, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

addiction vibe

i was laying around
thinking about predestination
making further existence
somewhat superfluous save
my experience of seeing
self-fulfilling prophecies
work themselves out. i
ain’t a prophet.

here we sit, thinking about
chaining ourselves to some
peaceful-lie & locked onto
some deterministic fantasy;
each left as another
snake oil salesman
shilling potions of
questionable value.
mine are obviously
the answer for you.

if it seems like
all the mirrors lie, if
sugar tastes like shit
even in fading afternoon sun
after a midday nap, then
persistence is virtue
but flags are all waving
in the rain. anything
can go too far.

i’ve felt the claws
under my skin, same as
you’ve felt yours. i
know what it means, just
don’t make me leave;
i like it here just fine.

while delusional fate-dancers
are swinging from ropes,
playthings become work/job
while i sweat blood in
some ceremony of cleansing
i know i’ll dirty right up
first chance i get. knife
me in the throat if you want it
over quickly;
i don’t expect much. it
might take a while.

after everything is written
nothing is complete.
sounds through an open window
testify to another world
outside. there is someplace
else after all.
i’d just rather be here.


Wait; do YOU remember yesterday? What’s it like to be able to do that? Fuck me; you can’t listen to anything this day & age.

marisol gathers dead flowers…

Posted in Hysterical Romance, love n' luck, Marisol, Poetry, Unanswered Questions with tags , , , , on November 18, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

“waiting on marisol to return”

omphaloskepsis & marisol is gone.
yesterday i watched her gather
rose petals from flowers i’d
gotten her into a bowl before
placing the bowl on the center
of the table, disembodied flowers
& all. an occasional blast of wind
knocks petals from the bowl,
bleeding marisol’s work over the table
to the surrounding floor.

while she’s gone i’ve gathered
flower petals every time the door
opened, refilling the centerpiece
so she won’t see a single petal on
the floor.

when she returns the room will
have that cheerfulness that is mostly
her & some of me. i haven’t waited
for a first glimpse in years;
i’d sell my soul for a footstep
as long as it ain’t one of mine.

internal arguments against
predestination say we’re
together by choice; easily
enough everything else
flows from there. when she’s
out wandering i can still hear
her verbalizing action & close

marisol will soon return to this
rose-petaled home. exaggerated
separation ain’t really her thing;
not with so many flower petals
waiting on her to arrive.


I’d explain, but there seems no reason to stick my foot in my mouth again. Written for an audience of one. She’s very important to me.

rumblings of a planck physics misfit…

Posted in afternoon requiem, Funny Morning Stories, Ha Ha Funny, Hysterical Romance, Laughter, Learning About Life, Poetry with tags , , , , , on November 18, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

rumblings of a plank physics misfit

& i’m not sure breathing out
is as much of a solution
as it used to be. trying to keep
sane enough to listen to the music
i’m pumping into the room.
existential questions about bits,
hawking radition, information.
it’s not what the music is about,
it’s about what the music is.
sanity slips away in the strangest
of ways.

all i can offer is comparison by
analogy; without notice, tiny changes.
no two maps converge anywhere
relative to the land. confusion
reigns; reading lands the faithful in
trouble with various laws of universal
application. entropy will ensue,
in time, so we wait. didn’t mother
ever tell you how impossible
it really is? this must be why
they dance.

it’s all geography & sound.
amplitude variance is the same
as the rest of existence, another
place to put misanthropic trust;
same as faith except less preconceived.

the comfort of knowing it’s always
something encapsulates the air
& whatever is left of my ability to
reason out potential sensory data.
the whole thing reeks of ‘later’
& so do i.



Perhaps overly complicated. Such things happen all the time lately. Should have stopped for BBQ; live & learn, apparently all while hungry off & on.

down to the bone…

Posted in Learning About Life, love n' luck, Poetry, travel, TWTC with tags , , , , , on October 22, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

tendons of a feather

lost the last bits of clarity
of purpose (as intended)
by the skin of luck & forest
blocked light. trees ringing
a lighthouse aren’t
inspired to greater heights;
nothing could be further from
the truth.

samples of atmosphere are puked
onto t-shirts & bumper stickers
sold at discount shit shops
littering beach roads everywhere.
what do they sell in oklahoma?
i’ve never been there & now is
no time to start.

enough hurricanes for any
coastline; too much knowing
after every bad decision comes
a cock-up redemption attempt
boiling down to the desire
toward continued existence.
all tied together like that,
it’s hard to believe
we were ever separate to
begin with.


Thoughts on comings & goings. Always one or the other it seems.

plans askew, more to come…

Posted in afternoon requiem, JL Stories, Opinion, Philosophy, Poetry, thoughtful trips, TWTC, Unanswered Questions with tags , , , , , on October 2, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

greed of the suck-fish

gettin’ bombed watching sunday
untangle the last of her hours,
smoking cigarettes that go down
like water. rainfall outside fights
a rear-guard action keeping the
cloudy sky in place. the only
forward movement is in time.

whomever wanted it badly enough
could feel the electricity; inherent
in swallowed ovoid capsules.
transformational acrobats are all
the rage in this delicate town.
almost nobody watches the slow moving
grass waving in the foot-breeze.
short attention spans virtually
guarantee this misdemeanor attraction
generates moderate success.

by varying account, autonomics rule
the day as it constricts the loose
hours spilled out over the afternoon.
tomorrow is already given over
to a celebration of the old days;
today is the pocket the key must
pass through before being inserted
into the lock. pandoras box will
spring open on its own.

marisol drives me home…

Posted in Hysterical Romance, love n' luck, Marisol, Poetry, Series with tags , , , on September 29, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

marisol drives me home

upside down after clock-hands
swap spots; the usual timing
of the extreme, all at once,
all the time.

the ice cream melting in the
streets of fire, where the last
guitar string vibrates to infinity.
last years hits play out on
the road to electronic bliss. i
can handle defeats of the past,
leaving them gutted & bleeding
on some distant corner where
they belong.

marisol smiles in the patches
of sun unbound by shadows & unlocked
forever from confined destiny.
road, field, stream & meadow confer
an early indulgence of raucous
laughter. we brace our claims in
the mirror, each other, ourselves,
all in the same gesture. slipping
inside all i feel is the ride home.

she asks over & over
“is this your definition of love?
do we come in pairs?”

i’m not privy to an answer
to the hip thrust questions.
words are less than useless &
i’m answering in the dark
without knowing what my face
looks like.

people in other cars are heading
home, music plays & all the lights
seep ink or paint or blood to
color the tracks of tires all
heading in the same direction.

infatuation with our infrastructure
leaks out over a parking spot
close enough to the front door.
we almost touch, then we do.
our magnets are cleaner than
our hands. we’re tangled hair on
the pillow when we’re rising
with the sun. the hands
on the clock move again.


For Marisol. I wish I could tell you what it all means beyond the light, but these are words, not flashlights.

they come with questions…

Posted in afternoon requiem, Cigarette, Fear, Friendship, Laughter, Poetry, thoughtful trips with tags , , , , , on September 29, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

“fantasy of movement”

i don’t know where we are.
driving through arteries soon enough
to be choked with other travelers
heading back to a lodge in the
crack shack with all the evidence
of arguments & bullet holes.

we are the lovers dancing at the
end of a silver string. all
our games are scripted but no
rules are enforced. willing par-
ticipants; every penalty a bruise
with a purple/yellow story. rampant
is the mistaken belief that
this chemical road turns to dirt
later rather than sooner.

signs of resolved struggle
dash through the afternoon, dancing
through car windows. sunflower
oil & black licorice leftovers
demand no attention; given
time the precursors reconstitute
themselves. we will discover
a new form only afterward.