Archive for July, 2010

deal in principle…

Posted in Poetry, thoughtful trips with tags , , , , on July 30, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

raid on menechino

gotta get plans straight
between the Marquessa, Trowell
& Ethylene.
timing everything out requires
more certainty between parties
than can possibly exist;
offset by unspoken trust
spread evenly around.

mildly hallucinogenic effects of doubt
upon the evening
aren’t lost, just
exposed, tasting
like watered down cola
n’ some short amount of time.

altruism can’t save me;
trying to decide
what not to say in the garden,
how long to wait to shave-
off my beard, what hour to
call the future.
what to say.

between momentarily consolidation
i took laser beams to both eyes,
hoping for salvation.
now everything looks so far down
it might all be marionettes.
i think i see string.

by the time i’m
running low on cigarettes
& pacing out the dimensions
of the room, nothing seems closer
to solution. burnt eyes
look around without looking
for anything specific; grasping
at straws requires only simplistic
deprecation.

still gotta get plans straight
between the Marquessa, Trowell
& Ethylene;
timing everything out requires
more certainty between parties
than can possibly exist.
walking slow & lost
in what could be thought,
guessing that
everything ‘ll get straight.
it usually does.

still there’s the Marquessa, Trowell
& Ethylene to think about.

sorta busted…

Posted in JL Stories, Philosophy, Poetry with tags , on July 27, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

nuclear furnace

they make sunlight there;
seemed for the best.

cliche it may be; everything
running slow, burning
oil (i think. might could be
a leak) & on & on.

at night noises
come at irregular intervals. like
somethin’ large bumping into
furniture in the dark. sounds bounce
all over the house.
whatever it is,
i’m sure it’ll find wherever
its supposed to be. i’m lost
in places like that.

not a morning
for hard consonants;
all perceptions are formulaic,
driven by tempo amongst
limitless time. playing around
at some percentage of
speed, answers being
a kind of payment.

i wanted to get drunk.
it looked easy enough,
but it never really worked.
keep trying?
there’s nothing else to do.

girls in the shower…

Posted in De Quincey, Lesbians, Poetry, thoughtful trips with tags , , , on July 13, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

gals

rough & lithe, tattooed; moving
the way junkies move.
her eyes almost give it all away, while
i wanna take it.
damn those supple
curves, and body language
languid after the fact.

she can only relax.

greetings so exchanged,
favors, flea-market value
at civil rights price;
who wouldn’t wanna see the
owners of perfect breasts pushed
against bare window glass?
i guess alcohol could convince
faster than i could beg.

my favorite dykes
always have good stories,
maybe some blood, a few wrecked cars,
borrowed gas money,
rattlesnake t-shirts;
everything wrong to be questioned.
i needed the Marquessa to
explain it all to me.

i’m a dumb kid.

parsing welcome, good luck,
temporary passing on a warm hug
overflowing with meaning;
situationally rich. period.
underlined.

no matter
who sees what,
doors close and girls leave,
leaving the scent
of summer perfume.

de quincey would be proud
of me for reaching backwards;
i like to think he’d fall in love
with the Marquessa and hate me
for being a friend. about the girls,
i have no fucking idea.

i’m a dumb kid,
i always need it spelled out.

————————————-
Dedicated to all my dyke friends. Y’all have been a bunch of muses for reasons I couldn’t ever possibly explain. Thanks for the loans of the magic, even if you know I can’t pay it back.

crb.

nothing…

Posted in Poetry with tags , on July 11, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

“something”

it used to mean something
to get a woman to take off her clothes;
virtuoso effort for
long stretches of desire;
knowing that movement
& elasticity might be different;
always certain
the finale would be
worth a name
called out
under any shade of
sexual light.
——————————–

crb.

phonebook anachronisms…

Posted in JL Stories, Poetry on July 11, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

freedom

dremel out the rough edges,
make it easier to lean against;
get used to it after long enough.
truth is; spines don’t gain
strength through experience,
only minds & hearts
do that.

just after midnight,
safely stop worrying
about right-now pain n’
we can talk all night
about how bad tomorrow’s
gonna be.

finding some kind of safety
in the moments between
those now-pains burning
my lines &
comin’ when i
get out of bed in the morning,
always assuming i can find my way
in.

you play the game
as dictation comes down;
friends far away
that should be in the next room;
bunch of new faces,
as of yet untold stories;
hair still growing longer
by the day.

nothing ends without
drifting scents of conditioner
coming from twisted hair
hiding my eyes from
the ceiling. when it ends
in that clean break
i can stop worrying
about what it’ll feel
like
to wake up with the light
of day.

————————————
dedicated to insomniacs everywhere. it’s not a great a great feeling to be fucked, but it’s a lovely idea to be fucked together.

crb.

flaws under the lights…

Posted in bumper sticker stories, Loveable Losers, Poetry with tags , , on July 10, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

sometimes

some process.

can’t cry ’cause i don’t know how; not
right now. that doesn’t sell
like fishhooks through fingers.

looking towards the panorama
for a hint of liquid;
someone who knows how
to cry or spit or bleed or cum,
even when a fly crawls
on your leg;
and me without
enough energy to shrug him off.

shears cut. separations;
characters posted in past tense
revolution; moving on;
everyone has to go somewhere;
maybe it’s wet; or better
they need it dry.

——————————-

crb.

thirty years whole…

Posted in Loveable Losers, Poetry with tags , on July 8, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

cracked ribs

answers an answer;
gotta breathe
to get it out;
free to inhale/exhale, and
whatever it cost to stay silent
stifle all aches & pain;
keep moving.

when i woke, ashamed,
still breathing (with trepidation
) there wasn’t
anything i could do;
save keep breathing
keep breathing
breathe. talk.

sweetened baby steps;
scars beautiful enough
to demand tears;
assistance from a cigarette
pulls on my damaged-side;
nothing permanent worth
worrying about.

all those voices growing
distant; i’m tired of
waiting. tired of
waiting.

———————————

dedicated to the ones who can’t say it for themselves. please believe me, it has to be said.

crb.