Archive for March, 2011

coming up next…

Posted in Ha Ha Funny, JL Stories, Laughter, Never Been, Poetry with tags , , , on March 26, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

news @ 11

every detail in the contract
is already signed; asking me
the same question twice won’t
get you a different answer.
i told you that stiletto heeled
story. heels under feet that
probably hurt (i never asked)
but all the same mostly it stays
unspoken. how much faith do
you think she has? last time
she kept walking & didn’t say a

limits or reticence, nobody knows.
parsing the same damn territory
already cut up nine different
ways wearing the same brown
sweatshirt hiding the same smile
under the same hat & leading
nobody in circles. i’m putting
the music up to 11. naw, i hate
this song but it’s easier than

those kids following after me with
expectations of easy money are
gonna be disappointed. i mean, yeah
i wanna walk london streets but it’s
too far to swim & anyway ms. green
glasses took off for purple skies &
volcanic soils. can you blame her?

playing odds & evens on chances
of seeing a lost soul walk through
the front door, my reckless side
is showing again. rivers & veins in
estimated directions bring down the
medication. just feel that sweet
breath kissed by a nuclear furnace;
it’s me against the mirror again.
how much faith do you think
i have?


Dedicated to the scumbags. See, just because it seemed like a good idea at the time doesn’t mean you gotta worry about the blind reading the signs. If I was worried about that I’m pretty sure you’d have stopped whispering in my ear yesterday. Well, I suppose we can agree to disagree. That is the essence of freedom after all. Ya gotta love the trip.


with apologies to mr. henry…

Posted in Cigarette, Ha Ha Funny, JL Stories, Music, Philosophy, Poetry, thoughtful trips with tags , , , , , on March 26, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

how to keep our best in mind“*

using an old song for a washcloth as
a one man philological discussion
flows forth between verse & the
shower-head. pulsed water pushes
dirt & sweat from skin to drain.
i haven’t got any documentation or
lyrics in front of me; just a tune &
tiles behind shower curtain privacy.
it ain’t lingerie but i don’t know what
lingerie feels like. maybe it is.

ceremonial washing of hair falling over
shoulders & down my back. cleaned,
pony-tailed to keep gray strands from
cherry tips clinging to the days first
cigarette. verisimilitude in the shower,
& towel-dried skin beneath clothed
shoulders, hips, cock, legs. socks
despite my desire for warmer weather.
can’t fight the realities of ice cooled

accidentally destroyed a phone play-
ing with my rifle. my aim was perfect
but i didn’t mean to pull the trigger.
much quieter now, & i’m lettin’ today
slink around me; sounds like joe henry
& feels blues & jazz & psycho-country
all at once. our psychonaut stretches out,
relaxes. with only limited control over
the playlist & none over any of the
current revolutions silently being
decided on television, there were few
options. i couldn’t help ’em or hurt ’em,
even if i wanted to.

i turned the tv off. some mornings are
made for letting go & playing island.
how else can you hear the music?


* Title is a line from a song by Joe Henry, which I have gone ahead and used without any kind of approval or anything. Probably should have checked with the boys back at the home office, but there was no time for any of their shenanigans. I don’t know, maybe there was, but there isn’t any money involved and if I have learned anything about America, people only fuck with you when there is money involved. Less money, less problems. (That’s what it means, right? Just thinking out loud.) Anyhow, apologies Joe Henry, but then again, if you ever see this then bully for me. Well, 23 skidoo. See you later campers.

her molybdenum eyes…

Posted in bumper sticker stories, Cigarette, Friendship, Ha Ha Funny, JL Stories, Laughter, Never Been, Poetry, Unanswered Questions with tags , , , on March 26, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

her molybdenum eyes

her molybdenum eyes are cubically
reflective. at peripheral angles her eyes
reveal a partial forgiveness of desire
requiring constant vigilance to keep
them from completely forgetting. faux
cupcake plans splayed out, laid down
in farcical conversations running over
several days of imagination.
i lose my place repeatedly
even though it’s easy enough
to follow along. have to fight off the
distraction of the reflection of light
off her molybdenum eyes.

she’s dangling flip-flops from both ears
but i’m seeing stiletto boots. when
she walks her heels stab at the floor.
i’d swear the floor savors the touch,
ignoring the pain of twin knives cutting
their way across the room. jokes on me
if i ever find out for sure.

questions with obvious answers ain’t
friends to anybody. curiosity slit a cats
throat & all i did was stub my toe.
i hated not knowing what those eyes
felt like set above an unforced smile.
sometimes it takes the luck of right
place & time. other times just a joke.

her molybdenum eyes split hairs with
the words she speaks; sentience in
real-time playing possum while we
stand in the rain smoking cigarettes,
debating empiricism & leaving the non-
local physics for another day. better
to leave the daydream vicar while he
sleeps. her molybdenum eyes are rare
enough. that’s a question, not
an answer.

never been…

Posted in Poetry, travel, travelogue with tags , , on March 24, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

never been

i’m hearing words from afar, music,
accents on voices licking wedges
of lemon rind. i can’t understand
a thing as the lemon wedge voices
tell limeade stories.

exasperating breathless gestures
finally break through a mocha haze.
mango-banana hands a better value
than my cherry cola tongue. apple-
eyes hanging out above over
coconut grins roll bones around a
circle of lemon-headed devotees.

the song goes on above it all; refrain,
stanza, lyric, instrumentation. newly
remastered identity as a cherry lime
rickey gets me past the pomegranate
guard but i ain’t asking questions here.
music kept loud enough to drown
out papaya dreams i’d yet to dream
about an unrecognizable pineapple
girl i’d never met.

fruit punch schedule kept on the
back pages of a calendar keeps
everything moving. natural sugar
existence annotated by meetups,
events, concerts, tickets, sunday
morning coffee & paper over butter

lemon-heads circle up & the cycle
begins again. been here before,
never been so glad to be back,
cherry cola tongue intact.

past lives…

Posted in Friendship, Funny Morning Stories, Ha Ha Funny, Laughter, Learning About Life, Poetry, sex, Sir Marshmellow Trowell, thoughtful trips with tags , , , , , , , , on March 21, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

three twenty ten

when the knife wouldn’t twist
any farther, the job was done.
you wear a teflon swathed
reputation in my memory, so
it’s as much a shock now as it
ever was. if the local customs
seem strange or unforgiving,
call it square with the passage
of time. modern letters don’t
exist, so whatever your holding
onto (& whatever i’m holding onto)
is existence in a lump of

uncounted years of ceremonies,
admissions, loyalty, repatriation,
dance festival commentary &
past due arrivals of soldiers from
faraway lands. there ain’t word,
or any communication to clarify
mystery. a voice in time whispers
“come on home hon’,
you’ve been gone too long.”

now i’m ready to share something
better than those BITD dust-off
decisions. the old stuff can’t
compete with these new powers of
acceleration. siphoning crystalline
salts far past a face i don’t remember
into brain i barely use, i make a quick
count of the days past. too many minor
details that don’t matter; i keep
pushing until something bad is inevitable.

split works both ways; remember
there were those nights BITD
when whatever you wanted could have
been in your back pocket. no more long
past midnight conversations, expectations,
hope. for a brief moment, you kept
wondering while i practiced
falling back into your arms, hoping
recovery wouldn’t involve sharp
metal slicing skin.
(it did.)

i used to follow your trail. after
rereading your favorite psalms,
i’d drive south on route 1 past
the war college where you
almost ran away from home a
long time ago. it sinks in ever
deeper; stupidity knows no
bounds, then or now. i told
trowell the whole story just to
gauge his response & find out
how crazy i really am.

after he finished reaming me out
for three hours, he congratulated me
on not picking up an STD to go
along with the dip-shit stories
’bout past lives made rosy only
through the passage of time.

not that it matters. we were
running late for the poison
shop & we could laugh at me
later. no reason to waste time
defending the right to be ashamed
of yesterdays dip-shit stories;
fuck that noise. let’s
open the factory so we can
make more. after the poison shop
of course.


“Oh crb., you’re such an asshole. It would be poetic justice if nobody ever read shit like this. I think you’re such a scum bag. Drop dead.”

I replied simply, as was my wont. “Charade you are my dear. See above.”

After I got done laughing at all involved, I went to find clean underwear. If even remotely true, it really seems like one of those moments where you think the world is collapsing, but in actuality it’s just gas from a low quality burrito. What can you do? That’s the world we live in. May as well get a little humor in when you can.

temerity in absentia…

Posted in Late Night Silence, Laughter, Opinion, Philosophy, Poetry, TWTC with tags , , , , on March 19, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

temerity in absentia

deep into a sleepless night.
too hot in here.
immediate brow-sweat
response, halfhearted
impression of melting
ice. breathe in, breathe out.
hide from imitation wanna-
be turkey bacon; with
nothing better to do,
that’s all i’ve got.

all the while a
true-believer whispers
high pressure steam.
speaking through cracked
odometers & stalled watches,
dangerously magisterial
tones stroke rambunctious
laughter. dirty jokes
end the day over protest
of the true-believer.

nothing more dangerous
than a true-believer
in heat. say anything,
even as temperatures
rise up until eyes
run red. after the last
tired muscle spasm, the
voice gives up. a battle
in the wider war;
true-believers always

morning sun works through
the window & kicks a
hole in closed eyes.
waking to vague memories
of something someone said
in a well lit dream. too
hot to think; continue
in the same direction
as before. takes almost
no effort to sit here & bake,
easy to think about
teachers & dancers & to
wonder where they


I’m told admitting you have a problem is the first step in getting cured. Here I must strenuously disagree. I’ve got almost zero problems & nothing to admit. Still, I do wonder, even after a shocking accusation that pisses me off even though it was six months past already. Probably a poem in there to write tomorrow, or perhaps later today. Well, matches & lighters aside, it’s all true. There are a million ways to skin a cat.

should be…

Posted in afternoon requiem, Friendship, Ha Ha Funny, Hysterical Romance, Laughter, Learning About Life, Poetry, sex, Unanswered Questions with tags , , , , on March 16, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

she has no idea he thinks she’s summer

virtuoso performance during
the daydream phenomenon
snap-fastens focus on rapidly
lengthening daylight. onset
of summer is timed out on clocks
reset months before actual
arrival. from incremental distances
beautiful eyes see through mountain
ranges & dig holes in skylights.
seeing is believing.

moving in a determined if
meandering saunter capable of
teasing psychosis from sanity &
it ain’t hot yet. still, less imagination
is required with each passing day
to feel the steady approach of
heat on the wind. light whispers
give voice to sunset visions with
bluegrass overtones. same games
as ever play on advice, restriction,
desire. eyes penetrate & probe
out of line-of-sight. results remain
unknown; how else could
daydreaming be so welcome,
or so easy
for so long?


Refusing to behave has its privileges too ya know. There’s a thin line between silly & stupid and I have no idea which side I’m on. Maybe washing my hair will help? Other than that, I’m all out of ideas; that means subterfuge. Only other way to say what can’t be said.