Archive for January, 2010

horse hair & sightless stare & poetry lair…

Posted in Poetry on January 30, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

question mark feel

And the day moved like an aristocrat,
same slow slough toward evening spite.
Looking back, it might have been
an unanswered phone,
that kind of missing documentation
of causes unexamined;
though of course,
something better might just have come up.
If it’s to be a mystery,
does it have to be an LP?

And so on and so on,
repetition gets old,
gets stale;
everything piles up on everything else.
After a while, it gets hard to remember
what it was I was wading in,
the weight is no reminder,
mostly remaining heavy,
casting a pall and a
shadow and waiting
to be lifted
or burnt like fog.

And there’s no sense guessing;
I’m sure without too much work
I could drive myself
right up a wall or down the road.
In the snow with bald tires my chances
ain’t great for safety.
Simple assumptions being what
they are, the only real question
is whether or not
skidding on ice beats an
unanswered phone.

Just more to think about,
little to act on
other than artful insouciance and
hesitation. It
makes for an earthquake
during a hurricane.
Pictures are everywhere scattered,
and a couple even have
that face staring back through time
as if still framing the question
through failure to pick
up the phone.

Cigarettes make for company
on the couch,
ashes might fall;
still I’ve no fear of burn marks
on rugs or couches,
no fear of downers or blood
stains on shirts and shoes.
If there was a term for it all,
it might be called
cyclically elemental, unsophisticated
sophistry. Still, in silence
of shadows, early evenings,
when that damn monologue

If it’s to be a mystery,
must it be an LP?
Wouldn’t it be easier to remind
me that fucked up
might be a condition,
but it’s also my choices,
as well as where this trail
leads us to.

this must be
what a question mark
feels like.

poetry for fools…

Posted in Poetry on January 27, 2010 by Caribbean Fool


if coming back here meant anything
other than a restless cold,
you couldn’t see it
in the corners of her mouth.
staying here invited conversation,
swollen tongues and all that
beer lip residue
tasting of fresh apples.

it was nothing;
nothing as assured as
commitment anyway;
more just a a hat hanging on a nail
in the wall,
threatening to fall off
with every breeze kicked up
by the opening of the
downstairs door.

still, in the time to think
before any necessary action;
just talk in big words, practice
subtle manipulation of key words,
bat an eye,
sharpen the scarab
and load the lupara.
open the porthole windows,
it’s getting hard to breath.

the smoke moves around her
when she comes back,
and when she goes she gets
swallowed by things
that defy explanation;
it can’t be as important
as it seems
to find the right word.

if leaving here was just a prelude
to coming back,
then I have to be the one to say
“could be fun to try”
cause all I get without
putting on the risk is

staying here means we’re slow.
i’m reacting to folded
she’s folding in the corners
hoping for some change maybe,
or clean sheets,
or all of the other stuff
that should be here waiting.

walking in a poet’s shoes…

Posted in Poetry on January 22, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

the day that was

sectioned off and sanctified,
pretty easily accomplished in the morning,
less so in the afternoon.
By the evening it’s too late
to change the tenor of the chant,
set as it is earlier in the day.

Beyond waking up to a homecooked meal
and a smiling face,
the tenor and tone seep in
through tiny
cracks in the window frames,
without the right words to
shove them back out,
we’re at their mercy.

You know those red lines on your arm
are healing nicely; never
a doubt they would.
So few scars for such a long time.
Is that comforting,
or frightening?

Sometime every mid-afternoon,
the clock speaks
and night appears.
There’s nothing so ignorant
as saying
“it is what it is”
but it’s so close to the
perfect answer.

after all, nobody
wanders around saying
“it is what it was”
because you can’t be side-tracked
by the chains of a
piss poor morning.

A few final minutes before bed;
dropping the day from
tired shoulders and painful hips.
Enjoined with closed eyes
is the average prayer of the inconsolable;
“can tomorrow be a little better than today?”

You never know. It is,
after all,
a tenacious prayer.

poetic license…

Posted in Poetry on January 21, 2010 by Caribbean Fool


but it’s Clint Black on the radio.
I haven’t done that in a long time,
listened to some damn sad
sappy song about nothing,
because that ain’t how it is.

In a more truthful moment
of confession; like one of those
kissing booths at the county fair;
the words come easily,
but we all know that never happens,
instead the choking numb tongue
that can’t be controlled.

so in your mind is the perfect
speech, the right words,
and you’re confident of purpose.
but that never happens,
not when face to face
over coffee & cigarettes.

Instead just stammer away.
Ask me a million times if
you’re being neurotic,
that’s okay by me. I
know it means you trust me
to tell you the oven’s
been turned off, or
the space heater unplugged.

When there is nothing left to
“get” around to,
likely sources of frustration
are conquered by serenity,
and something else pushes
Whatever the words you wanted
to say are just details,
and you don’t know what
you said in it’s place.

Nothing guaranteed, nor
blame assigned; it’s just
how these things go.
Dance, or whatever you’d care
to call it,
along the string, right
down the path. Whatever
comes next will just have to get here
in its own sweet fucking time.

posing as a poet…

Posted in Poetry on January 21, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

passing pericynthion again,
as far from the fact as we’re likely to get,
just rotating past the point-of-free-return.

Is this exploration
or just orbit?
They must be feeling invincible in Houston.
reflections of giant mirrors
supposedly teach us physics,
while on Earth
subtle manipulation takes
the place of conversation.

Does it seem irrational
to send conversations to a satellite
then back down to a point only
a few miles away from
the point of origination?

That’s just how things are done,
I’m told,
and not being any kind of authority,
I guess it must be true
that we reach the farthest point from home
when we’re closest to the Moon.

Flip-flops make rotten moon-boots,
and I forgot my helmet back at base.
But no matter,
by the time we pass pericynthion,
we’re already on the way back home.

By the time we split the atmosphere,
things were already cooling down.
Rest assured happy splashdown,
suspended under big parachutes
tugged towards the world of
geologists and seismologists,
but not astronauts.

You can’t rotate like that down here.
Gravity is a prison of sorts,
but equally enforced by mass,
useful inertia being a strong selling point
down here.

Thinking back to pericynthion,
but next time it will be someone else
at the controls.
The closest I can get is the launchpad;
It ain’t bad to watch and imagine,
but it ain’t the same as being there
for pericynthion.