Archive for the Fear Category

gasoline alley…

Posted in Fear, Learning About Life, Opinion, Poetry, Politics, thoughtful trips, travel with tags , , , , , , , on March 9, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

paint thinner revolution on gasoline alley

nobody is coming to
help. complaints don’t reach
government sanctioned office ears;
if he didn’t burn he damn sure
would’ve starved. dead is
dead atf.

Faida stalks
her beat knowing damn well
there’ll be no succor for those
unorganized demons of hunger
& thirst. petty tyrants are
everywhere lately; she wields
a truncheon like a champ.
(imagine for a minute she
was pms’ing on 12/17. let it never
be said real revolution
doesn’t begin in the womb.)

all the same, nobody knows
if it really matters.
billyclubs get swung. be a
waste to forever argue
good from less good.

in a few weeks most of the
planet was screaming for mercy,
a few kilo-calories & a future
for the blastocysts waiting on
their turn to burn down or up
or to one side or the other.
repetitious cellular division bears
the mark of soon-to-arrive children;
what can you hope for
if the food all tastes like burnt skin
& fat & blood while the water is
paint thinner?

i was driving toward the beach on
my own trip
when the man finally left here
somewhere else. i’m told
scorch marks still adorn local court-
house steps though different faces
occupy government offices. another
martyr paid in full & again got
nothing he wanted. written off;
i think it’s in the job description.

i didn’t know the man & now i
never will. i know he took more
shit than he could live with but
how lucky was the man that he
didn’t? dead is dead.
now he’s known from Sidi Bouzid
all the way down gasoline alley
to Washington, DC where
the IMF boys & WTO girls make
mama so proud burning
incense to cover the smell.

————————————————-

Inspired by M. Bouazizi. You got the shit end of the stick in life. All things considered, I suppose it was an odd meeting; maybe that’s what happens when we cross paths in the one dimension that doesn’t rely on geography for proximity. (Though in fairness there are nine others of the M-Theory folk are to be believed. Fuck it; this isn’t about physics, it’s about biology. And physics.)

cry now & get it out of the way…

Posted in afternoon requiem, Fear, History, Learning About Life, Opinion, Poetry, Politics, thoughtful trips, Unanswered Questions with tags , , , , , on February 24, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

don’t cry

it could be
72 hours ’till
an AAR nobody
will see. every
one is say
ing what was said
jumbled around &
walked into walls.
those are the
lucky ones.

sound without pictures;
a nice fat man on
BBC said all’s well
& nobody asked
why refugee camps
only get built when
everyone is doing
so well.

this isn’t slow
fanaticism at the
spur of the moment
& if you really
wanna know;
there’s nothing
to know, do,
or think. you
can watch on tv.
bullets won’t be
stopped by hands
thousands of miles
away when there’s
so much flesh to
bleed out here.

i hated truncheons
’til i learned about
Kalashnikov dynastics.
marshland uprisings
ending in slaughter &
refugee crises
ending in slaughter &
desperate poverty
ending in slaughter &
endless incursions
ending in slaughter.

i will comfort you
when you need to cry.
i will comfort you
with everything i have
down to hands,
heart & blood.

hopelessness can
make a vicious brew
mixed with a lil’ hunger.
of course, these days
you can buy trigger
fingers at 33 cents
on the dollar.

we’ll learn to eat
trigger finger stew.
it might mean more
than the blood sausage
we’re all about to be
served.

i will comfort you
when you need to cry.
i will remind you
to save the tears;
there’s little clean
water & you’re
gonna be thirsty
later.

i will comfort you
when you need to cry.
i will comfort you
with everything i have.

—————————

Lunacy to think that Malthus wasn’t wrong, just early, right? Well, right now all you theists could start backing up what you say about love thy neighbor. So I’m sure there is a good reason innocent people need to get gunned down for another week of meetings and vague pronouncements of no meaning. I’m sure that comforts the wounded & the families of the dead. This is a sick display of humanity. Just sick, without excuse.

what was that…

Posted in Cigarette, Extreme Spinal Pain, Fear, Late Night Silence, Learning About Life, Poetry, TWTC with tags , , , , , , on February 23, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

where’d he go?

transient obsessions dependably
move on towards whatever point
in the sky they’re bound for. let
’em go; no reason to hang around
if gravity isn’t getting involved. when
ya wrap my gifts in barbed wire &
forget the band-aids, you don’t have
to say a word.

i’ll stay still, transfixed, staring at a night
sky i can barely see from look-inn point.
a little imagination goes a long way
out here under a wannabe starry
night ripped from canvas to be pasted
overhead. before that it was a girl
who loved anne sexton poems hangin’
around but she’s somewhere in the sky
too. before that; i don’t know. doesn’t
really mean anything.

my mentality of a flesh-wound lifestyle;
nothing serious, ’cause i ain’t gonna
remember anyway. standard treatment
calls for immersion therapy as long as
it takes to convince the patient that
everything is exactly where they’re
supposed to be. i ain’t got the faith for
any of that to work on me.

time
money
identity
purpose

mission creep towards look-inn point
where i’ll rendezvous with my shadow
& be reminded how lucky i can be if i
set my mind to it. dead-set against it
but what can you say? bullets hurt.
i’m told to take credit for parenthetic
victories i know nothing about.
evidence jibes more with defeat. it
looks the same to me but i’m willing to
be convinced i’m wrong.

if it’s easy enough on you, i’m gonna
sleep on it. if it still feels right come
sunrise, all questions will be answered;
just not by me. got a cigarette?

——————————————

Dedicated to the honored dead everywhere. You gonna tell us how it got that way? Inspired by chronic delusions of reality cashing out at the casino knowing it’s time to find a new game to play.

welcome to the circus…

Posted in afternoon requiem, Extreme Spinal Pain, Fear, Friendship, Poetry with tags , , , on February 8, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

broken alarm

it’s my alarm bell wake-up call watchin’
your coincidental resemblance to
salvation tease heartbeats from cemeteries.
keeps me thinking back on when my heart
beat sped up the same reason.

with no way to share such a miracle,
it’s kept safe, & saved for days like today;
sunny days too cold & windy to think
about anything else.

————————————————-

enter the fool (part 2)…

Posted in Enter The Fool, Fear, Insomnia, Laughter, Monday Poetry Potluck, Poetry, TWTC with tags , , , , , , on February 7, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

Part 2

no more apologies

first timer tricks are hiding up sleeves,
or sharin’ pockets with aces n’ deuces.
outside, muffled voices lose themselves
in discussion. talk falls back on current
events; irreducible complexity & six day
exhaustion. in temporary unity raw fear
is surreptitiously replaced with transient
faith in vagabond ponytail philosophy.

days later n; heard i’d been missin’ a while.
only thing i remember are insistent sunset
binges though sunrise turns me on as much
as that beautiful dancer. received wisdom
taken home in a spare pocket highlights
lessons to be learned. even under daytime
starlight i mistake change for progress.

still not sure ’bout what’s lost.

——————————————-

Feels like forever. TWTC & exhausted to boot. That was really bad news yesterday. Guess they can’t all be winners Billy Bob…

whaddya know?.?.?.

Posted in Fear, Music, Poetry with tags , , , on January 12, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

letting go

broken right hand
leftover from a fight
that couldn’t even
generously be called
a draw. jacked-off on
the back end of a
pancake morning that
didn’t hit rejection until
the last possible second.
par for the course; months
prepping with fish-hooks
dragged across skin as i realize
“i’ve been here before.”

harsh contortions maneuver
players into untenable positions
relying on long-shot odds
of eventual recovery. not
sure if imaginary ecstasy
does much for any part
of me still anchored to reality;
torture comes with the territory.

standing alone at center-
stage, i welcome those
tiny voices to shut the fuck
up & hope tonight is the night
they listen. terrible plan of
attack; gonna take a lot
of time to get this wrong mind
right. lights are already on
& here at center-stage i’m
desperate to get my lines out
before they’re forgotten
or prophetic.

————————————

Dedicated to Joe Henry for his song “Tiny Voices.” Inspired by the verse

“I can quit this anytime,
It’s just to help me sleep,
It stops the tiny voices
And strange hours that they keep.
Who wants to hear them bleating on,
And have to answer too?
Better to be dumb when I’m
Falling for you”

(Joe Henry “Tiny Voices” lyrics here.

So what does it mean? Not a goddamned thing. That, and you can always count on hearing the one out of your 100,000 song catalog that twists that knife farther than you ever thought possible. It would be bloody amazing if it went down any other way. Well, on the bright side, tomorrow is a big day. These next 12 hours go fast if I have to get out & push.

black smoke chronicles part four…

Posted in BSC, Bukowski, Cigarette, De Quincey, Fear, Friendship, Opinion, Poetry, thoughtful trips with tags , , , , on December 29, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

okay eddie.

stalled out this close to
the end, duckin’ too much
thinkin’. honesty can
be a real motherfucker
when it doesn’t go your way.
curled up, knowin’
that fighting two
battles ain’t much
an idea; how ’bout
one?

not that it matters.
everything you want is
gonna come true, but
moving with you like that
almost makes me wanna
want to do it again.
seems dangerous.

if this is acceptance
(maybe i’m reaching?)
no need for anymore
tosses against those sharp
rocks waiting on time & tide
to smooth rough edges. their
patience is infinite where
mine is jest; wannabe
laughter from a
strangled throat.
i can’t speak as you
flee like a ghost
in the breeze.

—————————————

Dedicated with what I’ll charitably call ironic hipness, and I’m not hip. At all. Trust me. Not real charitable either, but that one can be explained by poverty so fuck it, right? Also, no, I haven’t posted BSC part 3 yet; don’t worry. It will be up soon whomever keeps clicking on part one.