Archive for July, 2009

awful poetry…

Posted in Poetry on July 18, 2009 by Caribbean Fool

the one’s that are gone

last thoughts before more black ball poetry,
or maybe just driving around looking for a familiar sight.

clips and fragments,
fucking pictures; fucking pictures;
I don’t want to see any of these pictures, or the faces.
I don’t know any of these people, and they don’t know me.

Biographies on bumper stickers, cold comfort hello,
goodbye, let the years roll on,
how you been,
married maybe, you got kids?

i almost did,
but i had an angel on my shoulder.

more forgotten faces, some of them staring back.
that feeling like the last first kiss,
so sweet and hazy under a cloudy
that might have been just like this

old folks now, long gone,
gone off to wherever you people go
when i leave the village.

it’s insomnia swell, 2 hour naps
with the lights on
and the music all the way up

i was going to play that song you
used to like, way way back
but masochism has limits,
and i don’t know any of these people

this one is just a joke…

Posted in Poetry on July 12, 2009 by Caribbean Fool

the most likeliest of explanations

i don’t want to be Bukowski
but I want to know how it felt
to cry for Jane
in the dark, all alone amidst
the mindless or heartless.

i don’t want to be Lebowski,
but i want to find some way
to stare unconcerned
when the rug, the car
and the money are gone.

i don’t want to be Sam Clemens,
but i appreciate the irony
of some kid watching his funeral
and tricking some dumb bastard
into white-washing the fence.

i don’t want to be Eaglesmith,
but i love it when
his songs make me sad
in that good way
like missing a lover gone forever.

i think i could have been the guy
who coined the word
it just feels like something
i might have done. (i didn’t.)

i might have tried not to be the guy
to lapse in conversation
when i get lost, and
think about all those things
i don’t want to be.

more poetry?.?.?.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized on July 12, 2009 by Caribbean Fool

cleaning up salt

she’s probably almost finished
cleaning up the salt
from when the little plastic oval
fell out and let the salt
spill across the table like summer snow

she’s probably cursing and looking at the
trail of spilt beer
when the shaken bottle opened
and the fizz and beer drizzled
all over the floor
that still needs cleaning

she’s probably thinking
“now where did we go wrong”
and making plaintative stares
out the window
waiting for an answer
but the beer doesn’t clean itself

she’s probably worried
because she didn’t ask why
i’d rather starve,
than beg or borrow
and she never asked
if i still wrote

memories of a departed muse

i miss the muse that used
to turn on christmas lights
in her window
to let me know we were safe

and when we’d run from
some dull neighborhoods
in a quiet part of town
we’d laugh and play
that game about pretending to
be something you’re not

i miss the muse because she never knew
that though i wanted
to slip inside her,
this was better. this was real
somehow, even if she fled
a long time ago,
i still get word
every now and again.


Posted in Poetry on July 12, 2009 by Caribbean Fool

#27 blues

spent 27 hours searching
through too many pages to
remember why I started
looking in the first place.

the search was built on
structural concerns, populated by
searching eyes waiting on
some lips and a tongue.

fortunately i’m reminded that
if it all goes according to plan
i’ll know it
when i see it.

untitled (is that a cop out?)

i’m coming clean
like waking up
from long dreams with bright colors

i’m coming clean
like the first cigarette
before all the other one’s get in the way

i’m coming clean
but it’s getting down
to wanting to get dirty again


it’s a son-of-a-bitch waiting on inspiration
that won’t listen to reason and
just show the fuck up when
it’s been called upon.

the fucker takes months to show up
unannounced, gives out a quickie handjob
and is gone
(that reminds me of someone else)

I suppose all of this will slip through
gutter cracks, as it has, as it will,
driven to distraction,
some dense novel considerations aside.

if you ask the muses why they’re in that
line of work
the good ones hush up,
the unreliable flee the coop

fucking insanity.