Archive for November, 2010

political suicide…

Posted in Economy, History, Intervention, Opinion, Philosophy, Poetry, Politics with tags , , , , , , , on November 27, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

political suicide

years past
the Trouble’s,
explosions, death-
struggles of political
evangelicalism were
slowed in home
rule. things
settled down long
enough for boom &
bust to become financial
terminology rather than
a violent rejection of

as an outsider,
i can’t help but
admire the brash nature
of the whole business.
thirst for such home rule
is a familiar refrain;
when ireland took on
the Empire there
were no oceanic distances
to help defend a
nascent republic,
even one attempting
to tear itself apart.

watching the celtic tiger
give back hard fought
freedom for generational
debt-slavery is more
heartbreaking destruction
of an ideal. pity
the tiger,
trapped & flayed
& sent down the river.
bankers take ownership
of what was once
worthy of so many
martyrs blood.

Cowen looks
on while the ECB
repo’s national sovereignty
& IMF austerity
absconds with future
taxes for use
as down-payment
on the misery already
taking root.

CDS spreads still
blow out;
jingle mail might have
preserved the
republic itself; austerity
is only tolerable if
the tubers are shared.
there’s no need
for the coming row; so
utterly avoidable yet
somehow maddeningly
inevitable, once the
ink dries.


Dedicated to the people of Ireland. Sorry you got so screwed. Best of luck and if you see Thatcher hanging around looking to give advice, run the other way. Spain & Portugal, are you also planning on heading down that path? Ask the Greeks how that one turns out. Sad part is this is going to spread, and history has unkind things to say about monetizing debt…sigh, FED, sigh. (Deflation first, then inflation. Screw them on the way down AND the way up. This is not right, nor will it end well for anyone except _________. As always.)

ex post facto…

Posted in Early Morning Silence, Loveable Losers, Poetry with tags , , on November 27, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

ex post facto

starved for something
more intense than
wax-fruit laid out
on fine linen, i’m
craving something
un-identifiable, ‘cept
i know i ain’t got
it yet.
must be in
short supply here.

tripping hard face
first to some
dogshit fast-
food nightmare wrapping
EVERYTHING in clowns;
the effect ain’t the
happiest place on earth.
unable to get what i want,
i’m trying to want what i
can get.

even after
a BM Special or two &
a coupla sides,
i’m still hungry.
hard to sate
any desire lately;
bottling frustration
should pay better.

solutions are limited,
but nothing is impossible.
talent for identifying
opportunities to smile
is useful in
moments like these.
standard warnings apply;
pseudoanaphylaxis is
a bitch, and
more is better.

assuming that’s not
vile rumor,
the worst is
past, or maybe
saved for later, but
not in the present.
i’m a shark after
eating a slow, small
fish that barely
fought for it’s
fucking life.

disenchanted by
the hunt for
satiation, i put it
aside & move on
to other pursuits
with greater
potential for reward.


No dedication. Much inspiration. Funny though, right?

so, does this mean MASH is back?.?.?.

Posted in History, Learning About Life, Poetry with tags , , , on November 26, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

haven’t we been here before?

the armistice lasted
from july 1953
through most of
2010; not too bad
for a temporary

of course, it’s up
to general smart
and a wanna-be elvis
impersonator to
decide what happens

dig up alan alda,
& winchester
might be dead, but
burghoff is still
breathing. of
course, someone
needs to get shot
blown up
ripped in half

military hospitals don’t
work without patients.
i think it was colonel
potter who said that;
or maybe i just made
it up. either way.

is MASH really
coming back
to television? even
the fans are hoping
word a late-day
cancellation; another
war nobody needs.


So I’m told.

  • .

    is this london?.?.?.

    Posted in Great Big Sea, Poetry, thoughtful trips, travel with tags , , , on November 25, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

    is this london?

    imported canadian music
    plays in the background
    as sundown brings on
    a cold clear night. somewhat
    destitute for fantasy, i’m
    laying back against
    appalachian mountains
    & daydreaming about

    pushing off the
    mountains, it’s easy
    stumblin’ toward the eastern
    shore of maryland. amidst
    amble, london
    drifts back into mind; i’m
    laughing, ’cause
    anything i know
    about london
    comes secondhand
    from patrick mcgoohan
    & he’s as american
    as i am.

    i don’t have
    any information; nobody
    is making overly complex
    plans aimed at
    uncovering my rationale
    for retirement, assuming
    there is a way to retire
    from a career as an
    unemployed writer.

    waves come & go
    off the Eastern shore.
    i’ve rambled as far
    as i’m able, from
    mountains to beaches,
    and london is still
    hidden behind
    the horizon. the
    lotus 7 is just gonna
    have to wait. besides,
    i don’t even have
    a passport.
    or money.
    or any reason to
    fear the hearse
    with tags reading
    TLH 858.

    well, maybe someday;
    as the saying
    goes, “chin up, Potter.”
    after all, he was
    shining shoes
    before harry ever
    rode a broomstick.


    Inspired by John Drake/#6. I can’t hear Secret Agent Man on the radio
    without thinking of you.

    sincere persuasion not a must…

    Posted in Great Big Sea, Insomnia, Late Night Silence, Music, Poetry, The Marquessa with tags , , , , , on November 24, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

    waiting for help

    perilously close to an
    overheated engine
    at the end of perfectly
    spaced white lines. my vaunted
    rediscovery of transitory
    prowess blends confidence
    & fatalism into whatever is
    required for a
    ride to the eye
    of the hurricane.

    inside is all calm
    confusion. no reason
    for panic; tranquil resignation
    to the cause will do.
    stamping out the
    last smoldering concoction
    draws down the veracity
    with which these
    settlements are usually
    carried out.

    i could use a some
    help, but Hinks the super-
    hero is nowhere to be found.
    if he’s off drinking &
    whoring or on
    the seafloor i’ll be
    neck deep in shit
    with a six foot straw
    for nourishment.

    any retrospect offered
    amidst sighting hurricane
    eyes from unsafe distances
    confirms obvious dependence
    on dime-store antics
    fueled by proprietary
    blend foil packs
    & caffeine. making
    do with what we got
    isn’t as much choice
    as necessary
    adaptation to
    the situation at hand.


    Faded out sharply & craving sleep and maybe a breakfast partner. Same as ever, because the bed is freshly made and McTrash will be there in the morning. Dedicated to the Marquessa. Whatever happened to her, I hope she’s having fun.

    (oh, and Hinks the superhero is a reference to Jack Hinks, beloved by all of Newfoundland as well as Great Big Sea fans all across the land.)

    travelogue in the afternoon…

    Posted in Bill Bryson, J. Maarten Troost, Poetry, thoughtful trips, travelogue with tags , , , , on November 23, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

    travelogue in the afternoon

    it’s hot inside,
    & the only thing
    worth stabbing is a
    dying cigarette
    against the bottom of
    a mostly empty ashtray.
    i’m watching gray clouds
    through the window
    take on the color of
    cigarette ash: mimicry
    across the sky.

    spread out amidst
    such expansive days,
    watching the world
    go by in scenes of intense
    frenzy with nowhere
    to go & nothing
    to do. i’d kill to sit
    under flickering
    lights in some
    dingy hotel room
    by the beach or
    for a lungful
    of beach wind;
    daydreaming only
    gets you so close.

    “look at me” says
    a memorized voice.
    nothing important,
    another puzzle piece
    fragment already
    forgotten moments later.
    i’m looking towards
    waves lapping cars
    in the parking lot
    wishing for palm
    frond shadows
    on sand instead of
    dry asphalt capped
    under low slate

    by the time sounds
    of thunder
    rip me from
    oceanic daydreams,
    ashed out skies
    begin to spit upon
    the car park.
    i abandon my window
    post as rain
    voyeur so i can feel
    the raindrops fall. if this
    is as close as i’ll
    get to wave & tide,
    may as well grab
    for the replica. i’d
    wanted waterfront
    this must be it.


    Listening to Joe Henry and watching the clouds build towards rain was salvation personified. (Shit, how many times can anyone say that?) It is possible to miss the ocean for the raindrops, as if density was the sole measure of success when it comes to water. Are there any Caribbean islands looking for poets? (It worked for Daniel Wilson, though not for a Caribbean island, rather for Kiribati in the South Pacific. Lucky SOB. (If you haven’t read ‘The Sex Lives of Cannibals’ or ‘Getting Stoned With Savages’ by J Maarten Troost, do yourself a favor and check them out. Both great travel stories and tremendously funny to boot. Is he as good as Bill Bryson? Just as entertaining, but hasn’t written as many books. Besides, Bryson is everywhere. ‘Notes From A Small Island’ is awesome and made me want to hike England until I remembered I was crippled. Anyhow, both are great writers and if you like snarky travelogues, you’ll dig either one. I’m going out to play in the rain, you should come too.

    JL runs amok in suburbia…

    Posted in afternoon requiem, JL Stories, Learning About Life, Loveable Losers, One Shot Wednesday, Poetry with tags , , , , , on November 23, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

    J.L. runs amok in suburbia

    yet another
    short n’ long
    binge on
    amphetamine lookin’
    from a bag
    retrieved from
    the freezer.
    cold to touch but
    i need the sugar;
    phantasmagoria is
    too close i need
    the energy.

    remember the hits,
    forget the misses.
    thinking for Jhay-el
    luck sticking
    to my throat,
    longing for sweet
    release from
    dues to pay.

    intensive morphology,
    gettin’ to be
    my way lately;
    strange satisfaction
    to J-Ell, or whatever
    the fuck he’s
    goin’ by lately. a
    million names &
    he answers to
    them all.

    if you don’t like it,
    pay in full &
    demand a refund.
    just the Jai Uhl
    way of doin’
    business. some things
    always change;
    adapt or die off.
    we’re welcome
    to both via
    determinism or
    free will. ironically funny
    to watch dualism
    resolved through
    shared finales, sotto
    voce of course.

    i’m already
    half-way there &
    my commitment ain’t
    the question
    should you be askin’.
    don’t worry
    about it;
    you’ll never feel me
    breath no matter
    how close
    we’re pulled
    toward contact;
    i’m dark-matter.
    focus in,
    because on
    Jay Ehl time,
    questions won’t
    be answered, even
    if precipitated; just
    easy fun with no
    risk to duck.


    You cannot escape the clutches of suburban dystopia no matter where you go around here. Some days, the cognitive dissonance is reassuring, on other days it is downright frightening. I’d take a nap but I don’t want to close my eyes and miss the show. With little or nothing going on around here, there might not be anything else to watch for a while. Clouds robbed us of the sun today, but I’m thinking of a comeback tomorrow. Right now I need iced tea, perhaps Mango-green tea with a splash of fave sugar (remember, it is the suburbs; nothing is quite real. Lovely place to visit, mendacious place to live.) Laugh, laugh, giggle, laugh…

    (Second draft, first draft unposted.)