Archive for May, 2010

i’d heard all was well…

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

terra firma

after i gave up on being
drunk, i had to find
comfort in other places.
from what i’ve heard of the times,
it was mostly staggering
around, breathing in
whatever walked by;
speed-ball poetry
takes forever to learn.

nowadays i don’t bother
coming down for anyone.
my own
comings & goings ain’t judgments;
i can’t tax an empty memory,
no matter how much sense
it seems to make.

of course, i will
occasionally go to the trouble
to invite someone up;
whatever the rationale,
there are only so many ways
to learn. finally figuring out
it can never be forced
was worth everything it cost.

Dedicated to one of the two decent poetry teachers I’ve ever had the pleasure of learning from. If she has one failing, it would be her failure to mention the name Bukowski. There are few teachers who can help out poets without bruising them; further proof that sometimes you luck out and find someone willing to help you get where you want to go in spite of the shit you give them.

hunger sharpens thought…

Posted in Philosophy, Poetry with tags , , on May 25, 2010 by Caribbean Fool


it can’t all be easy breezes
pushing the boat around
a masochistic map;
reminders, notes, playful
ignorance of important dates
in the history of
those circling my little world.

all fairly significant milestones
in a historical sense,
even though most scheduled
holidays should be as easy to celebrate
as to remember. same weakness; an
inspired failing on my part
to stick to the schedule or
keep it in mind.

there has to be some consolation.
you’d think i might have mastered
apologies, convinced
by a long history of absent-minded
movement. i keep saying
it ain’t on purpose;
yet it keeps happening. laughing
is usually not the best reaction,
though it is invariably mine.

apologies are at best another
reminder of my original failure
to recall the moment;
i’ve always hit in the low teens
while the league average
has to be above 50%. has
to be.

what gets remembered, what
gets forgotten; such tenacious
repercussions either way. if i
thought it would make things easier
on any of us,
i’d promise to do better. having
tried that several times,
i can assure you it doesn’t;
so i won’t.
but i am.

all that being said,
i can see you are neither
impressed by my candor,
nor assuaged at my guilt. i suppose
it’s never enough to simply
love & respect those that
mean the most to us.

if my faulty recollection
of calender notation for those
celebratory events making
fairly amazing lives overwhelms
my more pleasant characteristics,
i suppose that says something
interesting about priorities.

(whether mine or someone else’s
i’ve yet to figure out.
the quest continues unabated.)


I miss a lot of important dates. Anniversaries, birthdays, meetings, responsibilities, agreements, and every other conceivable holiday and significant milestone attached to a specific calendar date. Over the years, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I can be a good friend to someone, or even be someone’s child, and really care about someone and still fuck up every event that is tied in to a specific date. It just happens, it isn’t malicious, and most people that know me understand that sometimes, I’m just gonna miss shit from time to time because I have no specific memory for anything that isn’t a sports related statistic or a theory of how the universe began. Why do you think I don’t tell anyone my birthday, nor celebrate any specific holidays? It’s just easier that way. I know this is a losing battle, and I know nobody will ever agree on me, but considering recent events, I feel it bears repeating. If you are only able to measure the value of friendship or love by comparing the number of scheduled events completed with scheduled events scheduled, you are missing out on a lot of the world. Nothing works on schedule. That includes me. Does this make me unctuous? I’m feeling way too lazy to find out.

Dedicated to anyone who has ever gotten pissed off at the author for missing an important date of any kind. Nothing personal, hope you can understand.


there are perfect days…

Posted in De Quincey, JL Stories, Philosophy, Poetry with tags , , , on May 16, 2010 by Caribbean Fool


every part of the touch
was orgasm. fairly circuitous
route, butcha can’t question
results. my modest
expectations for the day
were blown right to hell;
i didn’t have to do a damn thing.

there’s my busted up phone.
it only gets about half the calls,
and some unknown percentage
of the texts; that’s why i
don”t get a better one.
my two favorite words,
“plausible deniability,”
are written in black permanent ink
on the back of case.

we made De Quincey proud,
giving over the space once reserved
for the Marquessa to some
fantastic combination of accelerants
& nervous system depressants
roiled in so many cigarette wrappers
we lost count. time passed,
magic potions got stronger,
n’ even if the damn phone rang,
i didn’t have to say a fuckin’ thing.

ain’t used to days like that;
there’s been so little perfection
of sensory induction that a few
scrapes, bruises, & headaches
are just tossed off wages of sin;
if you believe in that sort of thing.
i don’t.

coming around a later part of the day,
sun back up guarding windows
from darkness. few hours past
the overage of an evenings play
forgotten by miscreant actors
lost to sophistry. such fierce debate
hashed out on familiar terms.
arnold palmer in a glass.
that kind of thing.

now with brushed teeth, n’
a mostly shaved jaw under
easy black n’ red eyes,
gotta figure out how to
get goin’ again.
asked and answered,
as always.

dedicated to Razor Bob & the Bucket n’ Straw Brigade. May you all live to fight over and over again.

unless i ride…

Posted in Poetry with tags , , on May 14, 2010 by Caribbean Fool


i can already feel my degraded
muscles turning to jello;
i took the proper dosage
for complete wreckage.
they say “he don’t booze,
he can’t be one of us.”

they don’t know they’re wrong.
they can’t feel the kick
or turn themselves to taffy
with the help of good friends,
& the right mix.

topped off with a hastily rolled
crooked cigarette with sweet tasting
smoke, i got everything i need,
everything i want
except for the smooth feeling
of skin on skin
in rapid gyration.

all that aside,
fingers stop obeying orders
and movement is impossible.
i go where i’m led,
unable to speak or protest.

i can live with the jello muscle movement,
the almost random directions.
De Quincey would be proud,
even if it ain’t
the fruit of the gods.
just a homo sapien invention
that happens to do the trick.

by now i’m spread-eagle on the floor,
feeling like an amoeba after
turning off my senses one by one.


thats where it ends. passed
out on some floor
possibly sliding around
but you can’t be sure.

aloha my dear…

Posted in love n' luck, Poetry with tags , on May 14, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

“transition 101”

nobody stops moving.
all i can see is
repetitious behavior
as patterns play out unaffected
by resolutions of change.

left stranded between
two points; equidistant
from anywhere important.
another driver, another car;
there’s always another one coming along.

luck holds; my own stillness
as a voyeur watching
artificial legs contort on the highway
pays off in speed & resilience.
tomorrow we’ll all do it over again.

music plays over the scene;
we can alter the dosage but never the drug.
myopic effects warp circumspection into
i’m gonna sit here where the road bends
and watch the cars go by.

ain’t worried; can’t quit…

Posted in Poetry, thoughtful trips with tags , , on May 13, 2010 by Caribbean Fool


i figure understanding
is probably out of the question;
but given enough time,
anything is possible.

i’m dining on
mixed soups. stole
the recipe from
a girl in Appalachia
who loved me for
a very short time.

the soup is warm
n’ everything else seems
egg drop & wonton
mix well, tastes good.

still, thought i’d feel better
’bout that whole episode by now;
that dream was
years in the past.
not even i know
why i listened to that dream-pic.

might as well keep
smoking. after dinner
cigarettes are a party
right now. you may
as well look away.
its kinda fucked up.

this whole world
feels like after-birth.
ain’t goin’ nowhere
except to laugh at myself
in the mirror.

too far gone already
to keep caring so much.
i can take care of the few
bumps in the road past penury;
but i shoulda probably
listened to her
past stealing recipes
for an apple crumble
& egg drop wonton soup.

you always know better
after it’s over.


just cause…

Posted in Loveable Losers, Poetry, thoughtful trips with tags , , , on May 13, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

so what

remembering every detail
ain’t really the issue here.
i woke up after the battle
of 11500 with no control over
my body; just thoughts
that we must have won the night
’cause the day got here okay.

stanchions and yawns
coming to attention;
don’t you remember how good it felt
to ride again?
saving it for later might
drag it out longer, but in here
i’d just as soon put my pitiful
concession out of its misery and
run as far & fast as possible
while singing out
“take it all, take it all”
interspersed with laughter.
always gotta be laughter.

sergeant nose was on leave
so i activated lt. throat
to take the brunt of the
artillery. he’s a good man,
always willing to let the fuckers
think they have a chance to win
even though they don’t.
they don’t make men like that
any more.

wreckage of the room aside,
the music nobody heard is still
rolling while i pick up pieces
of myself that got hacked off
during that raging ride.
cashing out the winnings,
countin’em up as silent agreement
is offered
to re-fight the same battle again.
deep down, i know i’ll throw in
my lot with fuckers that don’t
give a shit about anything
but the ride.

we can always
smell out own.

Dedicated to those silent dirty mornings that always seem to follow the best nights. I’m cool with everything falling apart, just takes a while to put it back together. It’s being exhausted yet exhilarated at the same time, never knowing second to second how it’s gonna be. Sanity and stability are never guaranteed.

you don’t have a clue///

Posted in Music, Poetry, Scott Kirby, thoughtful trips with tags , , , on May 13, 2010 by Caribbean Fool


i got enough down to make things
bend and wave. ain’t nobody really
looking for much more
than a piece of something
they can’t define
because nobody knows what it is.

long hours pass where knives & guns
can’t hurt me ’cause like Joe Henry
says; “I’m dead to the world.” still,
explanation will do no good.
i’m told you just have to see it for yourself.
1150 milligrams later,
i know something y’all
ain’t never gonna know.

so, we keep looking
for whatever it is we’re
supposed to be looking. propose,
study, learn, experience,
all in the name of something
nebulous. i feel like if i
held some of it,
it would constantly change shape.

i guess i’m laughing
’cause i’m living in this world
but i’m not really living in it.
laughter is my only real weapon
to keep everyone
a few feet away. (we all need
space. nothing personal.)

time machines are everywhere.
memories bring on more laughter,
even when the laughter is sad.
mostly it’s like watching
some movie you used to watch
over n’ over again
when you were younger.
now it’s decades later,
that kid is gone, all you’re
left with is you.
whatcha dono is what to
hold onto.

it took a lot of time to get here;
inspired yawns while spinning along.
like i said, nobody’s ever done
this before; we didn’t
know what to expect.
3 stooges later, i ran into
an 11500 milligram wall and fell over.

now i could explain the why’s,
but i wouldn’t explain anything
so you’d could understand. we do this to
ourselves because
we ain’t lucky enough to make
section D of the local newspaper.

sometimes you just have to trust
your pharmacist. lost in the
moment of wanting to be young again,
it got right on top of me.
my world is distorted,

way past fucked in so many ways;
those chemicals wouldn’t
do a thing to hurt me. next you’ll
be telling me that joint was all wrong
for reasons we’ll never know.

my hands can’t move; i’m still.
when i wake up, i’ll probably do it
again. all kinds of music, lights off
figures dancing on backgrounds
yet to be built.

enough down to make things
bendy n’ wavy. ain’t nobody really
looking for much more
than a piece of something
they can’t define
because nobody knows what it is.
i can’t do it anymore;
11500 can save me & make me laugh,
even if only for a night or two.

Dedicated to what happens when you take the easy way out one too many times. Brothers in arms, knowing we’re at the bottom and doing whatever we want ’cause we know we can’t do any better. What else is there, and who the fuck is gonna stop us? That’s right. Because nobody cares, we can find a new freedom even if it leads to walking into walls and falling down stairs. Until there ain’t no more, we are in attack mode. Fuck it. I got a lot left to give.

ms. __________ want’s her afternoon back…

Posted in Descartes, Poetry, Scott Kirby, thoughtful trips with tags , , , on May 10, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

holler down

just after three and i’m beyond
caring how good i feel. tying
a stranger’s glove around
my throat, tightly wound makes
breathing difficult, but what should
i expect in this swamp? all by my own
volition chained to hand grenades
swapping vertical for horizontal.
certainly movement;
by now uncontrolled.

i finished kicking around purgatory
in the flash of an off chance phone call.
planned meetings and such,
exchanges. the execution of business.
finally something i know how to do.
today we’re in the business
of feeling better, avoiding
citi bank in the clouds
and pigs on the streets. i swear,
i hadn’t any clue
it would be so simple.
only the logic of De Quincey
is to blame.

acidic aftertaste aside, there’s cuban music
like Scott Kirby heard on his teak-boat trip
for purposes of mood. shifty light,
flashing LED’s, textures for feeling
sentience and invincibility. no need
for a “next move.” this one’s
doing fine by me.

i rescued my friend from behind
thick glass via a strangers
cool grasp. liberation from Descartes
feeding synergy within the experience.
i found a savior because i needed to;
extrapolate the afternoon search for meaning
based on that.

later on i’ll shuffle back
to the sunlight and watch
shadows dance on asphalt.
if the show ain’t inside,
by process of elimination,
it’s gotta be outside.
happiness is such simplicity.
even afternoon saviors
arrive in small bottles.
reinforcements turned the tide.
simple as that.


Words don’t exist to explicate mornings like this. Dedicated to my afternoon savior. The least I can do is use the gifts I have been given to thank you for giving me back some semblance of sanity. I’d say I owe you one, but we both know one wouldn’t even begin to cover it.