Archive for September, 2010

our hero laughs watching her learn unaccording to plan…

Posted in Funny Morning Stories, Hysterical Romance, Poetry with tags , , on September 30, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

is that for real?

i never
can tell
if its humor,
or cruelty
when i’ve
“affected”
another person.
plenty of room
to waver;
not every situation
is similar.
for instance;
when arrows fly,
it can look 100%
certain to strike
some other asshole
until just
before it
slices through
you.

——————————————

I will never tell who inspired this poem. Your secret is safe with me. (Great reply though. That was seriously hysterical. Even if I’m misinterpreted, still really motherfucking funny. If the answer turns out to be cruel instead of funny, do you think he’ll ever “get it?”) What, too obscure? Can’t please everyone, luckily for me…

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’cause someday i wanna be a poet…

Posted in Late Night Silence, Poetry, the lost children of the bokonists, thoughtful trips, Unanswered Questions on September 30, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

the gang’s all here

slept depraved nights
to pellet rifle mornings;
no choice to make. when
fallin’ backward into Bogart
& a whistle
on the summer
drive-in screen;
what else can there be?

gathering dark &
domesticated intuition
submit to the great unknown.
only preparation a
skill-saw education for
one-time humor;
“the northwest-pacific is
no place to be.” yeah…
it might be laughter.

partway back, deleterious
events,
accidents,
impossible elocution.
so much more;
all too human &
out for blood.

tangled lines,
endless laughter,
halfway home; &
this ain’t s’posed to happen;
i’m coppin’ it sweet
while you can’t remind me,
why this a good idea.

calm down ditch-dose-critter;
Trowell made his great escape
from notoriety and
maturity. he’s as fine as always;
we’ll be too. besides,
i heard he sent
apologies to that
blond with an english accent.

too much tellin’ it straight
around here;
if you ask me. even
dancin’ on the bar,
she always wrote & sang
so well.

———————————————-
Too tired to dedicate this to the 1000 people or so who had a hand in inspiring different lines of this poem. Too late to say more than thanks to everyone for the inspiration even if you have no idea what this is about.

cold leftovers…

Posted in bumper sticker stories, Extreme Spinal Pain, Friendship, Loveable Losers with tags , , , on September 30, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

Some four hour conversation drifting exactly as old friends should speak; split the difference and tap the breaks just often enough to tell all the old stories with updates and epilogues. Takes time to build up to something like that. Slipping out of format just wide enough to leak out the life-saver sparkle. A little bit of light; reference points worn down to stumps.

I’d spin if anything ever slowed down enough, but that never seems to happen. Treating my own flesh and blood like I might run out of both if I close my eyes for too long, yet nothing happens. I guess the ghosts have have their fun or the amphetamine boost just left them behind. After so much time running from the what I assume to be a stampede of ornery prison guards, it is second nature to need convincing when it comes time to shut down the lights. I’m not afraid of the dark as much as I am of what the darkness might say. Even limiting the damage to internal certainty of such madness is enough to fear sleep with the same dread as an uncovered mirror.

Over and over again the same arguments keep toiling on, and the magnets in my chest can’t be turned off as easily as the lights. Dragged kicking and screaming was never more true than when the late hours greet tired eyes. Whatever the good news from around the world, whatever electric poets plaster over blank walls, everything feels too tiring to fight back. If it weren’t for the cigarettes and mangoes I’d really be lost. The lighted tip is just enough evidence to move forward on, whatever forward means it hurts so badly to move. Whatever the time scale of the disaster, the after-effects all seem the same. Now I’m unsure if that means I’ve done too much or not nearly enough. Only thing to do is carve out a quiet place next to the speakers and hope the sound waves carry me off. A long-shot at best.

Fried tornadoes & three songs playing all at once. Nothing sounds right except the accentuated greetings of someone I haven’t seen in a dog’s age. Something like Bukowski’s small dragons, slayed and flayed, just like the rest of us. Truth be told, that Blue-Ridge mix has me; it holds you tight but not tight enough. Without being able to hear a single heart-beat I am terrified rather than comforted. Sitting under all the light bulbs saving the environment one finger at a time is helps some; as does my trusted lighter. Waves of desire will take their toll as surely as breathing in will sooner or later result in the need to breath out.

Leaving already in a tired mind with great hopes that by the time the sun shoots waves or particles over the tree-line, everything else will work itself out until the elemental rotation resets the clock. I wanna meet a bartender with a story to tell as I wait, but she’s gone off with the idea of spreading the word to all the young kids demanding to be taught something that makes everything else they’ve been told finally make some kind of sense.

Bad news kids. It won’t work like that. Even if you hear every word and know every syllabus, at the end of the day it’s your problem every bit as much as it is mine to fix everything we’ve broken. The earth can’t rotate fast enough.

blueberry morning show on random play…

Posted in Funny Morning Stories, Music, Poetry with tags , , on September 29, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

sweet blueberry & the random play-list

sweet blueberry scented air & girls from
Heart singing ’bout some magic man.
i’m instantaneous laughter; fall-on-the-
floor
laughter,
’cause i know the magic man;
& he hates that fucking song.

sweet reeking wetter-blueberry than
blueberry’s ever been. Cream
guitars tellin’ ‘tales of brave ulysses’ &
me still belly laughs-on-the-
floor
’cause i met Ulysses & he didn’t
say a fuckin’ word about any
of this to me.

sweet blueberry flowing rivers
around the room; i can reach out,
grab it/smell it/taste it…
Wonder behind it, chiming in
“until i reach higher ground.”
can you laugh yourself-off-of-the
floor?
struck stupid laughter; gales & hoots
& peels of laughter
screaming laughter
breathing laughter
spitting laughter.

bucketfuls of blueberry-fleshed
laughter & Terry Reid
would sing the next song.

————————————
Dedicated to Super Lungs. You almost made the morning’s random playlist. Inspired by the following:

Heart “Magic Man” (which sucks)
Cream “Tales Of Brave Ulysses” (fuckin’ perfect)
Stevie Wonder “Higher Ground” (RT, RP.)
Terry Reid “To Be Treated Rite” (fuckin’ perfect)

(If i broke copyright or something, sue me. You can have all the money this poem is expected to generate, somewhere between 0 and 1 cents if experience can be trusted.)

crb.

hold it in…

Posted in Early Morning Silence, Poetry with tags , on September 29, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

never you mind

did it to myself;
didn’t wait for nothin’.
masterful to
conquer
the
healing-process;
if only a few hours
atatime.

————————–
Do you think this is why I have such a bad attitude towards everything or do I have a bad attitude towards everything because of shit like this? Yeah, me too! Laugh goddammit. It’s gray as hell in here and cold and tomorrow it’s back to the lions.

you can’t help them all…

Posted in Fear, Philosophy, Poetry with tags , , on September 29, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

way far gone

i’m actually pretty comfortable,
if you don’t believe any of this.

so many mouths;
lips, teeth, tongues.
even strangers wear familiar
sardonic smiles.
it comes to me later;
they might not
care, or maybe
they do care & wry smiles are
coin of the realm, possibly a
tongue foreign to my ear.

these congenial characters
plead for attention & assistance;
equally deserving of more
than tossed off gestures,
fledgling muscle spasms &
uncontrolled ticks. all-
impressive artifice,
even if it is a charade;
it scares
the shit out of the tourists &
some of the locals &
makes me sad.

pissing across our divide or
over the queen's english;
screaming back at each other
despite our grins & laughter;
laughter
so desperate it could
mutate into tears without warning.
i'm not sure i can risk it; or
maybe i don't have those
kinds of guts anymore.

i swear i see
soap-scum sadness
grafted to every smile. i
want to help so badly; yet
how could i, without
something stronger than
steel-toed empathy
when the needs are
greater than my meager gifts.

sometimes i flee for some
other place. free-for-
all warnings ignored, &
i knew what's coming.
benzo-withdrawal,
thirst, detox,
shudders & whole body
shakes & night-sweats.

i offer back
whatever remains; so
far from giving away
what i've taken for so many
years with no other choice.
tomorrow
i expect riots despite my
continuous pleading.
i can help,
i wanna help;
let me help, please,
help me too.

i’m actually pretty calm, assuming
you don’t believe any of this.

——————————————
Sorry for the length, just a first draft and was hoping for some help eliminating the weakness of the poem. Any ideas? They are all most appreciated.

the butterfly bitch part six…

Posted in Poetry, The Butterfly Bitch with tags , on September 27, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

friday night & the butterfly in bed

me & the butterfly, a darkened tv;
mighta tasted dinner, moved quickly
for a lustful ‘good ‘ol days’ kinda fuck.

my butterfly is back, n’ everything’s
sort of nice, ‘cept not quite. was her
left wing always torn like that? feels
strange, if so safely far from new;
my jewelery is still as cheap as any
of our promises to each other.

laying in bed together, naked. i’m
staring at my ceiling asking
her those same silent questions
again & again expecting no reply;
ms. butterfly sleeps & dreams,
sleep denied me as amidst so many
unknowns; is this a kick-start towards
life with my beautiful butterfly or a
final hip-thrust turn of the screw?

by breakfast i’m no damn good
for conversation, yawning & tired.
not from lack of sleep; that’d
be too easy. i’ve exhausted
too much for a butterfly who
can only be halfheartedly held.

she leaves for coffee with a girlfriend,
& i don’t remember her telling me.
it’s ok; she promised to be back soon.

————————————–
There might be a sizable break before the final Butterfly Bitch poem is written. If it comes out anything like this one, I’ll be happy to be done thinking about every damn mistake I’ve been a part of over the last decade and a half. Dedicated to a realtor friend who is so much of a better person than I am that it’s not even funny. That she is still a friend speaks far more to her kindness than any tribute of mine. Love ya babe, even if you never see this.