Archive for April, 2010

trying too hard…

Posted in Intervention, Poetry with tags , , on April 28, 2010 by Caribbean Fool


in the midst of dual celebrations,
i lost a contact lens.
uneven eyesight should
have led me into the teeth
of a headache. i tried to
feel it; it just never came on.
one too many joy-sticks
later, it was buried under
mountains of smoke in between
dry swallowing something
i’d hoped would smother
restless thoughts.

i had to give up on vision;
the other contact was thrown
to the floor. better certainty
blind; it would make for dependable
mystery. movement was never
part of the agreement;
just squirm.

feels so good now;
felt so good then. such disparate
sensation seems the mark of fortune.
tying my hair back in either
case; push the button
just above the target.
we aren’t correcting for wind as such,
just making sure it feels good.
our heroes fought and died for this;
to deny either on moral grounds
would set a lousy precedent.

cigarettes mark the completion
of both acts; if not the feeling.
my own teachers being long
gone to continue spreading
wisdom, now it seems people look to me.
frightening to think of anyone following
me; but the pleasures of the
harbor call to everyone. we all
have to learn nirvana may be
a myth.

there are always occasional
glorious days. i can’t see
a fucking thing, but i know
it’s soft; a fine place
to lay my head while waitin’
on blood to spread glad tidings.
glasses wouldn’t make it
any better; just a little
more clear. things are good enough
without such straitjackets
as sight.

broken glass…

Posted in De Quincey, Poetry with tags , on April 17, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

now & later

long afternoons waiting
on summers heat to arrive. cold
for now & later warm.
we can debate rationality

reason for hope is enough for
now & later sunny skies &
smooth sailing. i can’t get high
on hope, even if
de Quincey prostrates otherwise.

aliens melted my brain…

Posted in Poetry with tags on April 17, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

your catchy title here

it’s 150 thousand degrees in here,
a radio stuck on repeat;
i don’t remember the song.

walked from couch to kitchen
enough times to wear tracks
on the piss-poor carpet skin
coverin’ all the floorboards. pondered
the meaning for a few minutes,
quit when i couldn’t find one.
laughed when i remembered;
that’s where we keep cold drinks.

i can’t say i mind such mysteries,
provided of course each one weighs
a thousand pounds and we deal with
all of them at the same time.
obviously, doing it any other way,
say perhaps one at a time, would
be boring, and lord fucking knows;
we can’t have that.

i’m laughing so hard i’m pissing myself;
worse is that just brings
more gales of laughter, which only
brings more piss. it’s a vicious cycle,
with no end in sight. i heard a noise;
turned out jakob dylan was playing around
with his guitar. at least it wasn’t on
repeat. i switched pants &
stopped laughing so hard.

the song finished playing
for the fifth time; it seemed
easy enough, walk over to the remote
in the kitchen, brave the flames,
change the channel, maybe
a cold drink. in between here n’ there
i ended up on the floor.
i lay staring at the underside
of the roof for some time;
all things considered,
seeing the top, even from
underneath is kinda nice.
beats wearing tracks on the bottom.

serenade evening post…

Posted in Philosophy, Poetry with tags , , on April 16, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

enough, or nearly so

laughter & a toothy grin;
what else you gonna do? picking
fictitious fights ain’t much
of a way to spend idle time;
though in a pinch, it’ll do. anything
else seems extraneous;
good enough, or nearly so.

besides, other questions
predominate. the plan was
to make concentric circles around town,
feel out the territory,
maybe find some food. instead,
the laundry makes rotations
about 20 feet away; thats
as far as i got. generous
portions of misanthropy, today
even themed-afternoons
find the LCD. sucks the night
right down through the
shit-house floor.

prostrations of innocence aside,
spare a garbled smile for
momentary happiness overwhelming
situational discretion. back in the days
of hawaiian-eyed teachers
my biggest fear was getting
caught red-eyed;
good enough to come
full circle; et. al.

the long grind,
being preferable to sinecure,
is a matter of justice; Lee’s buck
private would attest to that.
any more contemplation
past that would be a sin, with
all that it entails. who has the
energy for shit like that anyway?
i’d just as soon leave my hair down;
a surprisingly rare gesture,
all things considered.

Because if I scream, the neighbors will hear it, and there have been more than enough arguments today. Ugly, but a W is a W.

bad ideas…

Posted in bumper sticker stories, Poetry, thoughtful trips with tags , , , on April 15, 2010 by Caribbean Fool


sunk three feet into
what’s left of this evening;
waiting on my buddy to say go,
maybe just imitate the clowns;
we can use the laugh
while we burn for each other.
friends forever i s’pose.

all the others, like Tallman,
Virginia Line, the Marquessa, &
the king n’ queen
(a matched set;
they ain’t comin’ alone) plus
any of those other fuckers still
banging around, whispering
’bout one more shot; it’ll enhance
the vision & clear the
mind. well, that or just hangin’
around. if you got something to say,
fuckin’ let it out.
i tell ’em to keep bangin’.
nothing like all that screaming when
i’m tryin’ to think; they drink outta mason
jars lookin’ like old friends.

luckily, they don’t die.
that’d be too simple;
(no, i don’t wanna see ’em die.)
they just get married & have kids.
warning would have been
sharp, but coming & going
like magicians ain’t what i’d
been told to look for anyway.
miles out on nights edge,
serendipitous elocution tells the story
of everything that happened
between when i last saw any of ’em
(of y’all.)

i ain’t good like y’all seem to think it
should be; ain’t yet past teenage
rebellion, despite more n’ more gray-hair
courage showin’ up. hidin’ out
here ain’t permanent. we might
meet again; if we do you’ll
know you got to me;
true either way if y’all
need to know.

gonna bury all of this leftover evening
with one last white nail.
call it a ditch digger’s union
contract rolled up in whitewashed
pulp. zipped the lighter under n’ over
till the nail was dry. if y’all are
gonna keep coming on,
lemme take a break, cause
escape is a luxury; just a miracle
kilter. paced out, find
another room to enliven,
another sunday conversation
lookin’ for support.
it would seem that even the
poets are people.
proof on demand,
evidence on arrival.


Why the fuck not, right? Dedicated to a handful of friendly souls from all through the years and places. One of them saved me a few nights ago. From what? How the fuck should I know? Virginia Line pulled me out before I could get a read on it. Thanks darling. So true it’s almost real.

pilfered topless shoeshine…

Posted in JL Stories, Poetry, thoughtful trips with tags , , on April 14, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

facetious diction

after a week, we had to invent killers from
whole cloth & just as quickly shoot ’em down.
propositions falling into my back pocket;
i said “no” to a Louisiana lady
who wanted a cup of coffee
before driving into Pennsylvania
looking for a millionaire;
without any target to point towards,
there wasn’t any need to look out
for straight-line wisdom
colored like sunset reflecting
shimmers off the Potomac.

certain scent of perfume hanging;
moments asking
for a few paltry dollars
in exchange for a real easy ride.
the marquessa wouldn’t approve;
but she ain’t got to know that.
golden torture is just how we play.
ask me to pretend to love you,
after that’s done,
will you pretend to care
that souvenirs and sappy songs
about broken hearts are funnier
as time goes by?

now i’m ready to eschew
Louisiana blonds & Pennsylvania
millionaires for this pot
of orange pepper. the pepper-pot
peripatetic will indeed keep me
moving. far be it for me
to insist on transitive principles;
that’s what we got left.
besides, mid-Atlantic boys ain’t s’posed
to be playing in the gulf;
plenty of room in the Atlantic.

Dedicated to DOA proposals. If you knew better, you’d never have asked such a stupid question. Fucking hell, you gotta qualify everything these days. Still… beats working for a living. Assuming that is what this is of course.

made it back to bed…

Posted in Extreme Spinal Pain, Poetry with tags , , on April 14, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

in one piece

driving home late, the last
of the night about to be cashed in.
whatever the urge to
get one last word in edgewise,
this is all the time there’s gonna be;
until tomorrow.

’bout the last thing i seen
before the lights went out
was a face in the sky
telling me something about
a first kiss, or maybe not
to miss. even when my hair
blew in my eyes & all the windows
were open and the breeze was loud,
i know what i might of heard.

we can worry about me being wrong later.
all cashed out, there ain’t a thing to lose;
anyway. at this hour
you can do anything you want.
least anything except ask
these left-over shards of late-night
magic to reassemble themselves;
that ship has sailed.

Dedicated to the insomniacs watching the walls hold up the roof. Good luck with that. Fuck ’em, right?

doubtless doubtful, but new hats are all the rage…

Posted in Poetry with tags on April 13, 2010 by Caribbean Fool


ain’t it a fucking tragedy?
waitin’ for some beautiful genius
to say something beautiful
& profound; instead she gives
out pablum, or worse,
love poems. is she the tender
sort? doubtful. yet
there is so much to say,
& she’s got the chops;
something special is in there.
fucking-A darling,
what are you waiting for?

You just never know who might be listening to what you might be saying. I probably wouldn’t be so bothered if I didn’t think there was something fucking brilliant wrapped up in green glasses. Well, every good poem needs some mystery. What good does it do any of us to have to spell it out? Besides, no link this time. I ain’t gotta worry about who might be listening.



Posted in JL Stories, Poetry, thoughtful trips with tags , , on April 13, 2010 by Caribbean Fool


i’m feeling very metal-parts today.
must be something i ate.

sentience on morning glory colored ridge-backs,
rambling style colonial-militias
holding target practice training
using mountains to block bullets.

silence bleeds between borders of music and noise;
they’ve been told once,
now i’ll tell ’em about contortionists,
mimicry, hunger & stay-at-home mothers
breast feeding a damn seven year old idea
under arc-sodium lights far from
the local scene. green grass stadiums
will have to be enough.

they make real killers there too;
though it’s all fuckin’ victim’s memorials now.
i know someone who’s been there, seen those
goddamn granite stones coated with
church-service silence
while withdrawal
sickness plays out. none of the junkies
got shot, and there aren’t any saving graces
for the ones that were. are.

scary place, no?

as the over-reaction wanes,
the survivors flee the county
for safety in suburban climes while
those of us too addicted
to the farm and manure smelling spring winds
just lay around too stoned out on
epistemology to care about
bullets or blame or bullshit. they make real killers
up there too; what’s the point?
winds blow, bells chime,
mortarboards… mortar?
damn tassel in the right eye,
then the left.

sometimes i guess it’s better
not to see.


Posted in Intervention, JL Stories, Poetry with tags , , on April 12, 2010 by Caribbean Fool


this is me:

hair tied back,
maybe a hat or something
to keep the strands of hair,
(both black & gray)
from smearing out the lines
ready & waiting.

slap dash requiem with
marble collars and velveteen
ropes. inhalation helps,
no more than a bumpers worth
to keep moving forward.
fanatic umbrella plans to
keep the rain from falling;
something ain’t right.

keep coming back without getting caught.
there’s a recipe
for long term success & torpor.
dissonance is easy; though
arguments could be made
that reactionary archetypes
do no more service than
fairy tales. give it some thought.

this is him:

he’s leaving the room to
do his crying someplace private;
unless i’m wrong, and those
aren’t really tears. read into
such pioneering ain’t some
last ditch effort to inspire.
‘boy just had something to say.

sad stories bore me,
so i didn’t hear what you were saying.
i know that sad-sack look;
glaring family sitting in
a smi-circle, telling you
“boy, we love you.

but we’re so disappointed.”
that kind of parabolic
wake-up is destined
to produce short-term results.
for anything more you’d need
to do better than that.
who really gives a fuck,

run boy.


Inspired by an “Intervention” episode on silent while “Freak Show Excess” plays loud int he background. Dedicated to same. Put it this way; if I hadn’t made that comment, I doubt this would have seemed that important.