Archive for July, 2011

marisol stays up late…

Posted in Hysterical Romance, JL Stories, Laughter, Learning About Life, Marisol, pictures i don't know how to show, Poetry, TWTC with tags , , , , , , , on July 24, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

meeting a new friend

someone spoken of,
but never to. i’ve heard
good things about impossible
miracles readily delivered
to me as the man makes his
rounds. we’re all ready to
take a shot.

introductions &
cold drinks all around.
marisol happily redefines
her photography while
a wise man keeps everything
together & talks of the liquid
extract as if we’d reached
the brass ring.
in the grasp of long-
distance vegetation, we’re all
smiling about something else
& trying to talk about
this addition to
human possibility.

marisol’s trimmed pictures
testify to her work same
as empty cups speak ’bout
throaty gulps depriving them
of liquid. smooth haze covers
the afternoon while
marisol keeps a surprise
up her sleeve, peaking out
under the influence of a
faraway root.

someone spoken to after
long waited arrival. this
is new territory in need
of exploration. marisol
takes pictures but none of
us recognize the familiar
surroundings.

indonesia-deliverance
as the psychonauts
gather close
for the next big thing.

——————————–

Sometimes you luck into circumstance. I can think of a lot of ways that might possible happen, but this was amongst the best. Marisol is a dream.

all at once (we were saved)…

Posted in Cigarette, Extreme Spinal Pain, Friendship, Funny Morning Stories, Ha Ha Funny, Laughter, Learning About Life, Poetry, thoughtful trips, Unanswered Questions with tags , , , , , , on July 17, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

we were saved

so now i know;
everything scattered
will be picked up by the
time we gotta leave,
no harm to the birds or artists.

sixty thousand dollar
apologies flood the post,
all it takes for acceptance
is to see the larger powers
at play. nobody is dumb
enough to apologize to a
head built like a brick.
call the meteorologist
& ask him which way the
winds gonna blow. we’re
all getting the same
answer, no matter who we
ask. maybe i’ll sign.
maybe not;
post looks light.

numb-minded misapprehension
feeds our celebration. don’t
let the bastards getcha down,
don’t let ’em know you’re holdin’
big slick in the river face
lookin’ like a double deuce;
everything is gonna be alright
for those of us ready to bleed
& lick.

scars are tellin’ me cuts
have healed; when my bet pays
off i’ll know it’s time to
move. until then it’s 4th
starters to the rescue ’til
the front line guys get back.
i will get back.

————————————-

Apologies for the length, this has been a long fight that hasn’t ended yet though news from the front speaks of smallish victories. Better than routed defeats. This was a morning I woke to greet the sun without waiting for the sun to greet me.

quasar the vermillion dust (part 5 the finale)…

Posted in Hysterical Romance, Late Night Silence, Poetry, Quasar The Vermillion Dust, Series, thoughtful trips with tags , , , , , on July 14, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

closing time

heard from a messenger;
that girl is smiling
because she is breathing
the same air running wild
in my alveoli. disbelief
on my part until the realization
we were listening to the
same music too. might even
have shared dinner
& split a milkshake down
the middle.

i reached out for her
with a name that was &
wasn’t hers, hoping she’d
see i was only here
because i needed her as much
as she needed me.

———————————–

To M, even if she doesn’t know why. We all have our reasons, even when there is nothing reasonable about them. With love.

Authors note; this is the final poem in the quasar series. I think I got what I wanted out of them, but that as always is a matter of opinion rather than factual observation. Anyway thanks to all who read them. I appreciate the support.

average fella…

Posted in Friendship, Funny Morning Stories, Ha Ha Funny, JL Stories, Laughter, Music, Poetry, thoughtful trips with tags , , , , , , , , on July 14, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

semolina from the heartland

what could be wind or just
6 billion voices condensed
into a breeze swept into
town this morning along with
the sun barely making any effort
to warm the planet on a string.
poets croon about dead trees,
forgetting it’s still summer,
time of growth. i can’t blame
them; they like the metaphor
too much ever to say no. (i
feel much the same about Semolina’s
close cousin.)

i had a minute or two free to
pick off almost healed-scabs
from when i had to prove
a razor was sharp as needed.
now i can breathe into this
morning & see wheat waving
to nobody in particular.

the penny arcade summer made to
last longer in these parts.
thorton & keen at the local joint
telling jokes & singing songs for
the price of a nickel steak,
little white pedro & his friends
on the radio playing games,
typical summer fare. the durum
seeds were planted way back &
we’re two months from harvest.
all of our worries boil down to
phosphorous deficiency. easy
solution to that.

——————————————

You’re welcome Doc. Not that it makes a difference (with nothing lost & all) but I have a really good excuse for disappearing. Damn. I forgot it; I got a mind for shite lately.

we ain’t the good guys…

Posted in Fear, Friendship, History, Insomnia, Learning About Life, Never Been, Poetry, thoughtful trips, travelogue with tags , , , , , , on July 13, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

rumor, perception & reaction

must be something ’bout
the kind of folk collecting as
whispers tolls under bridges
& the plans of outlaws running from
trumped-up charges accruing at
a daily rate. the music is okay,
even with their judgment for shite;
all the guts to follow the
story spilling out on floorboards
shot with holes that usually let
light-beams from stars through
since the ceiling fell in.

not much time to wonder when
bullets are flying over
telephone lines until i
strap on kevlar just so i can
let it ring. might-have-been
tourniquet solutions superate
between feasibility studies passed
along to unseen eyes. so rarely
a study in beauty,
the questions never asked,
another fuckin’ street-side
proposition.

safe path is to agree that bore-hole
flooring below the flaming telephone
lines & a joke gone wrong are no
place to hide. the sensorialists
will have a field day with the real-
life research; the possibilities are
endless.

————————————–

For those situations that spiral rapidly out of control due to over-reaction. As always, there is a reason it’s called a ‘passion play.’ Quo vadis?

directional madness in a pseudo frame…

Posted in afternoon requiem, bumper sticker stories, Cigarette, Extreme Spinal Pain, Friendship, Ha Ha Funny, Poetry, thoughtful trips with tags , , , , , on July 13, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

blue surfer shorts

gris-gris;
slash the mesh &
turn a swimsuit into
shorts. they’ve been with me
ever since,
over a decade for a
five dollar
lifetime commitment.

the burn marks were
once red cigarette cherries
hanging from my red smiling
lips. sometime while driving
they fell & burnt holes in the
synthetic fiber, if not my
skin or subconscious, &
certainly not my dick.

gentlemanly mis-management
espouses cheerful exhaustion.
you gotta get ready for the next
Big Thing. “always ready”
reply the surf-shorts,
“we’ve been here for years.”
some of that smoke-scent still
whispers stories all drunken &
blotchy.

—————————————

From a comment a few minutes ago. Good thoughts, but down.

poetry in richmond…

Posted in afternoon requiem, Friendship, Hysterical Romance, JL Stories, Learning About Life, love n' luck, Lyrics, Marisol, Poetry, travelogue, Unanswered Questions with tags , , , , , , , on July 11, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

poetry in richmond

if what’s being said is true,
luck don’t mean a damn thing &
we can all go home & kiss our
girls. background singers cross
into frame for a few bars
then disappear as the kettle drum
leads us all to desired wisdom.

i can’t help but follow along;
there’s nothing to drink but
the mob knows thirst better than
anything at all.

synthetics are taking a beating
across the board. everyone is
screaming for the real deal &
pulling in three different
directions. i lost my bead on
the kettle drummer so i follow
the crowd. by the time i’ve
reached a dead end, it’s too
late to appreciate anything
but ‘classical gas’ coming
through the speakers &
the beautiful girl learning to
daydream once more in my bed.

looking down at my own claw
marks, i can only wonder about
marisol. deep scratches
taken during the bear
rush, there wasn’t any time
to think. the “i love you’s”
were spoken in the dark before
collapse. dreamed we were
closer than ever; saw myself
through her eyes.

——————————————-

Something a little different this new morning. “Classical Gas” is a reference to the song by Mason Williams, so please don’t sue me Mr. Williams. It’s like they say… volatile, but kind. Love you everyone. Just do.