Archive for March, 2010

scare me up some food…

Posted in Philosophy, Poetry with tags , on March 30, 2010 by Caribbean Fool


An empty stomach can’t be filled
with cigarettes. Between considerations
of philosophy & hunger;
most of the pack is gone.
Still nothing is different.

I’m most philosophic when my
pain is at the worst;
knowing there ain’t a thing to be
done about either; cigarettes
come and go, vision fades & sharpens,
all jotted down in beautiful notation.

still, similarity moment-to-moment
is not the same as stability;
if only stability weren’t so boring.
pushing this or that while the
whole time much longer strings barely move,
stretched past vision in every length
& time.

any comfort found between
desire to know & ability to ask
it is that this is no solitary quest
or obsession. part of the chain of thought
runs through my mind, also without
end. continued rarification I suppose.
Everything goes forever,
because nobody can stop pushing.
Read “Confession’s of a Philosopher” by Bryan Magee. Fucked my head up but good. Fantastic.


Posted in Music, Poetry with tags , on March 29, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

future plans

Three hours without any slowing down at all.
That might be some kind of record.
Having nothing the compare
the experience to,
I’m at a fuckin’ loss as to whether it was
time well spent.

When I was done, it didn’t take long
to ease the evening in with something
slow; quite possibly something with
Tripping from the couch to the outside air
for cigarettes and temperature changes.
It’s gettin’ dark already; I’d swear the day
had barely begun.

For a second I was drowning but now I’m ok.
It’s gonna take all day to dry my hair,
and I think I forgot to take my earrings
and contacts out. All things being equal, I
should be able to see just fine.
What’s with the double vision? Even
the sun has given up on the day.

As luck would have it, there’s still a little money.
That means all kind of good things could
be headed my way. I saw a guy in a red
Cadillac convertible smiling at his much younger wife
(she had a great rack.) Now I
know how he felt. Difference is, it only took
me 70 bucks to get here. Smiling, I could hear
him mouth the words. Fuck you too.

The car keys will get me just far enough
to get just far enough. I got plans for the rest
of that money; put to the right uses
there’s no question of value. Another
night in the suburbs; if there’s any other
idea, I’m all ears.
Inspired by an afternoon spent reviewing an album. Not allowed to say which band or which album, but if they are getting a review, I’m getting a damn poem out of the experience. Besides, they know who they are, and it’s about 50/50 they see it anyway. Go smoke a cigarette or something.

hopeless romantics…

Posted in Loveable Losers, Poetry with tags , on March 29, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

short love poem

take the end of this sunday night.
i’ve been keeping it for a while,
saving it for the right time.
so desperate to give you something;
something mostly perfect
(or as close as i can get
on this rainy night.)

i got this night, and
hope more than anything
for five minutes of you
looking my way; maybe even
thinking ’bout me. anything else
is more than i can ask for; more
than i can beg for.

anything else ain’t that look
you give me right before
you melt my heart & knock
me down. more than i deserve.
more than i can
beg for.
still i beg for your eyes.


I used to sit around Sunday nights, eat a really good dinner and watch my woman move around in the fading dusk. If the temperature was right, I can remember sitting outside smoking cigarettes and just talking about this and that. When I lost my Sunday nights, part of me just didn’t know how to deal with it. Ever since then, I spend my Sunday nights watching the outline of my heart beating in the dark shadows. All I see are my shaking hands and all those questions. Guess that’s how life works. Still, I cannot get that image out of my head, and it makes me sad. Luckily it only comes once a week, for a few hours at a time. Must be my fucked up head. Nothing new there.

a story that will make you laugh…

Posted in love n' luck, Poetry with tags , on March 28, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

well… what now?

she was dumb & fun to fuck.
our relationship was confined
territory in that sense;
most of the interesting shit
about her & me
was bound up desire & ignorance.
she thought we were discussing
Schopenhauer as i was asking her to bed;
i thought she might know what she was
talking about as we fucked & moved
in a well lit room on a breezy day.

one night, i thought i heard
the sound of air
moving behind here eyes
and between her ears.
asking her questions produced no response.
just a heartbeat,
warm lips,
but nothing to say.
her answers were never any use anyway.
every good self-deprecating joke
i told her tip-toed by unnoticed;
never commented upon. she laughed
by rote and always screamed
right before she came.

still, there was something to be said
for that kind of thing;
i told people that,
knowing it wasn’t true;
she didn’t make me a liar,
though she wasn’t much help me
avoid it either.
some days it was easier to lay in bed,
fuck for an hour or so,
get sweaty enough for her to
hit the showers so i could sleep.

by the end, when fights might end
with knives or condoms or nothing
she became convinced I was
hiding something from her. she
was right, but i never saw why she’d
needed to know that. it would weaken my
position. you don’t win a lot of
arguments that way.

it’s all over now; she’s gettin’ it
stuck to her by some other guy;
me? i moved on to smarter girls,
never quite as much fun to fuck;
they take me to bed, i think she’s
talking about Kant; every time i ask,
she just laughs & screws.

Let me just say, if you think this poem was inspired by YOU personally, you would not just be wrong, but moronic. Only read into it as far as it takes to make you laugh. Thats as far as it goes. (Devils Advocate; wouldn’t that be just what you’d expect me to say if I was lying? Oh shit, what does that mean? Is it about me?…. No. It isn’t about anyone. If anything, I think my roommate inspired the first line with witty conversation, and the rest just sort of followed.)


something else…

Posted in love n' luck, Loveable Losers, Poetry with tags , , on March 27, 2010 by Caribbean Fool


you offered what might
have been revelation; i
could only take a guess as
to some ultimate rationale.
two bodies
reflecting the glow
of late-night tv
was at best imago,
nice while it lasted.

it was nice while it lasted;
final thoughts on what could
be any fuckin’ subject;
too damn tired
to ask, too sure of the answer
to feel any fear about lost opportunities.
no consolation prizes
tonight; just some sleep
with some luck,
or all-night lethargy
without any at all.

feeding off the situation,
ravenous intellectual
seeks answer,
perhaps just a shove
in the right direction.
minus the late-hour
wonderment of sub-lingua thought,
there’s a lot to say.

probably shouldn’t have
assumed the ending;
self-fulfilling prophecies
are never that fulfilling.

nice while it lasted;
should i have pushed harder?
this very second an angel
on my shoulder is beaming with pride;
the devil seems pissed.
now i’m trapped in dualism waiting
for an outstretched arm. can i
count on you to lift me up?

nice while it lasted.
could it be nice a while longer?

Fading thoughts on an electric conversation. Who knows anymore what the right questions even are. Sure as shit I don’t know. If this is the cusp of the wave, when will it hit? Questions, questions. Some people move like poetry. Is it my fault I want to be close to that? Fuck me. Inspired by the limits of desire.

clear the shoals…

Posted in Philosophy, Poetry with tags , , on March 27, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

funny logic & world peace

cigarettes are endearingly non-judgmental.
I’ve never heard one complain
about fate; or deny five minutes
of relaxation & joy to anyone who asks.
of course; it’s as hazardous to your health
to smoke
as it is to get out of bed in the morning.

since everyone shares identical fate
after their last breath,
you’ll forgive me if I
don’t blame the smoke.

multiple realities exist
inside totalitarian regimes;
“fitness for living” a pseudonym
for twisted meritocracy;
philosophers apologize for the methods
of communism,
never mind consignment of the lower third
into organizational purgatory.
of course, nobody has
problems with that.

sins live in cigarettes.
taken farther & built into an ideology,
epitomizes cultural warfare.
battles over gay marriage,
global warming,
the rights of animals.

both sides manage to ridicule themselves
simply taking sides;
how can any person know
which rights are to be denied
to which groups,
which rights are the birthright
of the fuckers at the top. (there are
always fuckers at the top.)

of course, we can then treat each other
accordingly; i’m convinced rationalization
is a Darwinian process;
same as eye color or
opposable thumbs.
considering such veracity of logic,
maybe there’s some
sense in blaming the cigarettes.
people don’t treat each other any better,
but we can always rationalize that away.

guess I’ll give it some thought
out blowing smoke in the wind;
sitting under the sun, watching
breezes zip around power-lines &
cell-towers; cooling the saccharine-sweet
coffee & tea in the cups of those
upstandingly-moral nonsmokers.

blowing smoke.
finally a concept
we can all agree on.

scorpions & fireflies…

Posted in love n' luck with tags , , , on March 26, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

better now

I’ve no time to spend
thinking backwards;
there’s nothing gained continuously
exploring everything that
already happened.
time-to-time, someone grabs
my shoulder from behind;
blinking-eyes desperate
for some recognition of
character & plot-twists to
stare back at them.

sometimes, the face is blond-hair
framed; other times I can’t make
out color, just familiar scent.
slow-muscle movements;
temptation incarnate, even
through time, space, impossibility.
no matter the ease of explanation;
no, i don’t want to see. no,
not ever again. half-crazed
is crazed enough for me.

words in smoke chiseled in stone;
i guess everyone has to learn
people can hurt each other in ways
beyond physical violence. part of
growing up, it all seems
self-referential; once upon a time,
back before I built what I have,
I had something else; really a
creaky foundation & rotten plumbing.
house was probably destined to fall.

now; is that it?
lost somewhere between present-day
asphyxiation based narcotics and
yesterday’s dirty trash (did i ever tell you
i used to be a garbageman?) are
ashes and past-tense emotional
rescue. nothing to scavenge;
not now, certainly not later.

here is stability, solid ground, my eyes
on a pertinent soul who outshines
the environment by several shades
of bright light. ornamentation doesn’t
count for much, slightly more for
comfort, a like-new
pair of blueberry eyes.
that’s all it has to be; despite fears
to the contrary.

it could have been a truthful prospect;
of course i can’t give you any benefit
of doubt. last words might be angry,
upset & occidental;
maybe not. when you spoke my name,
passion was only an echo.
spoken again, all hatred
dripped in wax. nowadays
who knows? does it even
matter? I give up.
Good-luck going your way,
I’m gonna go mine.