Archive for February, 2010


Posted in Poetry on February 27, 2010 by Caribbean Fool


can’t keep these eyes
from folding up stakes.
they don’t wanna work
anymore than i do.

ain’t much in the
way of time-lag;
just down the downs,
the deed is done.
fight as hard and
as long as you see fit;
it won’t matter;
you’ll lose.

for those of us
looking for a way out
of an overly
micromanaged existence,
it’s as easy as
mixing the correct
in the correct order.
the amounts involved
matter somewhat less;
the more the merrier,

soon you’ll be working
very hard to keep
one eye in focus,
everything else moving around
in random walks,
or sparks and light.
an understatement;
focus isn’t what it was
just a little while ago.

talking in gibberish,
you exhaust the last
reserves of energy
from your soulful
one-ness with the world
around you. everyone
who isn’t there
but should be laughs,
and in the commotion
laughter falls apart into
component smiles
which dissolve into
quizzical looks at the rug.

sleep will take you back
to where you started.
some indeterminate period
of time ago
and empry bottles your only

with reconstruction
you just have to enjoy the ride.
since you won’t remember it
it’s even easier than you think
to let it all slip away,
rape your own mind
and spirit and suck
the last bits of marrow
from the bone.

with any luck at all,
there’ll be some sunlight and
statutory acceptance
in the future
of the past. the
choice is always yours,
even if the influence ain’t,

there will be time to talk about it later.
for now, fracture is the farthest thing
from our minds, Must be
something she said.



waiting to dissolve…

Posted in Poetry on February 27, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

?’s We Might Ask

Sitting indian style
in the semi-dark early morning.
the clocks are turned off,
s’ easier to sink into a daydream
or two
for the restorative power
of glazed eyes and a
spread eagle soul.

as the minutes and
silence fall away, i’m
really feeling the
saturday morning
in color,
any manner ot temperate breezes,
all the alternative universe
with easy answers
bringing on bright smiling

seems so simple in the absence
of fear.
are you thinking you’d like
to slide a little closer
towards me,
kill me with those eyes
for a while,
(you seem like the type who likes
to really play, and
that’s fine by me.)

the part of me ready to lay down
and retire sympathizes
with the part that just
wants to keep watching;
keep reading the tea leaves
and roll around in sweet temptation.
whether or not
it means anything at all matters less
than participating in a morning
soaked in scented candles.

then comes the part when
I play the fool.
it can be said,
kinda motioned,
something in the way I move,
maybe or
just a side comment.
easy enough to follow
the script.
i do my part,
even if i don’t try
that hard.

another saturday morning
overflowing with
what might happen.
makes me want to roll
aroiund for a while,
get covered
by whatever magic
translates into
whatever happens
later in the day.

dedicated to all those people who aren’t afraid to get dirty. some adventures only end if you ensure a solution. some mysteries (i.e. the vagaries of life) are more fun as mysteries than as proofs. just something to think about that reminds me of long straight brown hair and horror movies during the summer of 2003.


Posted in Poetry on February 27, 2010 by Caribbean Fool


taken too seriously,
you might even think
something was wrong.

with so many directions
ignored, co-opted by alternative
mediation, medication;
little remains save
experimentation, alongside
repetitious questions vis a vis
how much is too much?

as treatment goals are restated
in didactic score sheets,
the body makes its own
demands for release. salve
is the illusion of peace while
plaintive statements are illustrated
by broken glass and
bits of brick.

resection is a painful preference
despite the best attention, clarity
of wisdom gleaned
from experience but leading
to nothing. take
better notes,
review all the slides,

mixing varies directions;
spontaneity, jubilation,
elemental existence
without cause or rationale.
brown haired girls who used
to call me in sick to school
while we stayed home
and drank,
every last swallow and inhalation
bringing on a new level
of enjoyment.
simplicity demands the shortest
number of steps from
the door to the couch.

converging on the Potomac…

Posted in Poetry on February 26, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

Tina’s Telekinesis

Same late-night wake-up call
as ever, expansive worthwhile to the
death or dearth
of my dreams.
if we didn’t hear strains of a symphony,
caught between that most seductive
speculation, wondering just
what it is I could learn from you,
the conversation has turned too far;
as for me, I may be in over my head
but the view is to die for.

all that waiting for a half turn back,
a comment, a statement,
shared sense of purpose.
desperate that it should seem so simple
to ask Tina to share her telekinesis.
If my greed
and/or my selfish desire don’t get between
questions and conversation

Talking to Tina about poetry
and fear, letting on little save
how clear the air is here,
how well we could see and hear.

the happiness of the next generation
is telekinetic Tina’s responsibility,
that’s a heavy load to carry
no matter how much love
she has to give.

So I stand in awe,
looking out over the Potomac
basin, listening for powerful engines
carving up the surface,
showing off the innards
and the raw building blocks
while I wait on Tina
to play with her ESP.

If it’s too much to ask for,
I’m sure she’ll smile, look cool and nod;
but what I’m waiting on
is her words and petals,
a voyeur hoping to watch
the spreading of
colorful flowers and deep green leaves
of everything that Tina might say.

Telekinetic Tina can see
all those what-coulda-been moments
suffused with ease.
she’ll think for a while
prior to some sudden realization
that my desire to see her
spread those wings
is mere empty curiosity

if she can give back
what she’s taken in,
there’ll be no problem,
no more waiting for
Telekinetic Tina step back
and see what’s really happening
in the corners and alleys
of this quiet town.

When everything is still again,
you can hear Tele-Tina thinking
wondering what else there
is to learn, scrubbing the poison
from her eyes and
being unafraid of what she see’s.
Waiting on her wisdom is time
well spent; there are a
million ways to skin a cat;
I just need to know hers.

Sometime I know when I’m wrong, but don’t want to do anything differently for fear of losing a friend. “Telekinetic Tina” is dedicated to the girls wo have something to say and no fear of extending sympathy to a down-on-luck poet & philosopher

good times…

Posted in Poetry on February 25, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

tina’s amazing mind

surprisingly enough,
all questions were answered.
luck only explains the part
when she recognized that
he might be right
while he traced fractals
of her
most colorful mind.

as the conversation turned,
both participants were
surreptitiously amazed;
one mind wondering
how a stranger could see so clearly,
the other demurring
pleasures of fine conversation
with kindred spirits.

throughout the stitch in time,
nothing was forced,
despite the difficult subject matter,
no bare knuckle demands
sharply loaded questions.
as each
in turn pressed various
points of emphasis,
time was transformed,
windows opened easily.

much later it would be
so clear a point of reference;
even if it was a one shot deal,
scars on the surface of the soul
tell all kinds of stories
about all kinds of things. strength
found in the gaps between sentences,
sudden discovery of shared ideals
camouflaging any excess nerves.

timidly, then deeply,
reality intrudes,
bringing to an end even
vital conversation.
we’ll coalesce around such
stunted moments,
too few and far between.

such a payoff;
the simple joy
of finding such a
sympathetic ear
far outweighs the grief
brought on by the last few shards
of a friendly conversation
ending slightly too soon.


Sorry. But I did say that it was going to turn into a poem, so, you know, at least you were warned. Enjoy!


Posted in Poetry on February 24, 2010 by Caribbean Fool


when there are only
16 hours to wait
everything is
good again,
those 16 hours
feel like 16 days.

two hours of sitting,
watching the clock
debate moving,
knowing i ain’t got
the strength to wait,
but that i ain’t got a choice

facing inward when
i got so little left,
took a shot earlier today
but that’s gone now,
every junkie’s lament,
the point they come for you,
take you away.

assuming the night passes
as they usually do,
(nothing unusual about this at all)
things will go back to normal.
even still, there’s
just no convincing
someone who don’t
want to be convinced
that the wait
is good for a damn thing.
The mind may know that,
but the spirit craves

14 hours now. i’m two hours
stronger coming closer
to my greatest weakness.
Yeah, I’ll wait,
but it’s waiting to do,
not to watch.

14 hours is only like
62 percent of the day,
we can do that standing on our

Well maybe not our heads.
You can do a lot with a
crushed spine.

But not that.

14 hours ain’t that long a wait.
13 and half hours is even less.


Posted in Poetry on February 24, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

too funny for words

it’s about to snow
and there ain’t no food,
nothing to drink but some
beer and most
of a carton of cigarettes.

halfway drunk with the music
too loud, trying to remember
my half of a conversation
about flowers
or somethin’ like that.
As the man said,
there just ain’t no time
we got to go.
There’s crying and laughing
to do until the
night closes down.
Whatever comes between
sunset and sunrise
is just pillow talk.

Snow is a little closer,
and I care just a little less.
Put ’em down,
open ’em up,
this is what happens
when non-drinkers drink.

During the whole
melee, could we get back
to the conversation
at hand?
Seems like you were saying
something I wanna hear
over dark brew
and a cigarette. “well, we all
have dreams” I laugh to
myself, cause
misapprehension is a bitch,
but you get a pass from me.

hardly seems worth the effort,
save for
moments when you get drunk
just before the storm
knowing you gotta
go right through it
a few hours later.