Archive for the Insomnia Category

doing the job…

Posted in afternoon requiem, Fear, Ha Ha Funny, Insomnia, Never Been, Poetry, TWTC with tags , , , , on September 24, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

elaborate preparation

line-item assembly of chemically
inclined biota transfixed into
somnobulence & a strange stare.
it sits, scratches at the last
piece of evidence still plausibly
lookin’ enough like a beating
heart to sound off ‘Parkers’
Mood’ for the thousandth time
& generally enjoy the experience.

i could still choose to cry,
if i wanted it badly enough
& thought it might be far enough
to the wrong side of right.

lucida releases the strain of any
variety, all comers. mixed into
remnants, holed up inside specially
formed glass glorifying transition from
solid to liquid & back. muddled
leftovers on top of long lines
drawn with sand for real feeling;
or maybe just less of it
as time goes by.

by the third imagining of some
lame, unidentifiable voice asking
for details about purpose, i’m
sure that all has gone according
to plan. i don’t even pretend to
answer a knock on the front
door. faith & credit tell me
it wasn’t that important,
anyway.

———————————

authors note: ‘Parkers’ Mood’ refers to the song by Joe Henry. It’s a good song. Well, I think so.

atrocious gambles on short odds…

Posted in bumper sticker stories, Ha Ha Funny, Insomnia, Music, Poetry, thoughtful trips with tags , , , , , on August 29, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

fat chance

thinking back & imagining
what it looked like from the
other side of the ocular divide
brought circumscribed attraction
to the fore.

mighta been an atrocious collapse,
barely prevented by slight
variations of entropy rippling out
from anthropocentric principalities,
a lidocaine memory smeared onto
temporal after-effects so
the whole thing lingers
on past closing time & coin
flips.

i’m playing my part with resig-
nation; there is no other
choice. hassling the victorious
would defy terms of peace,
regardless any competing desire
to reassure the faithless.
last of the first hours slip by
between shallow breath &
deep dreams. temporary exhaustion
finds long sought relief from
open eye syndrome between pillow
top mattresses & blankets.

all will move with local-photon
8 minute re-arrival. vitamin d
hangs in the air amongst amended taxes
& remains of mistakes that seemed
partly right at discovery. money-
good doesn’t getcha what it
used to, but it’ll get you enough
as long as a skosh is enough
for a life of plenty.

——————————————

Dedicated to the missing. Dependability is important, but it ain’t the only thing.

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?

the music is playing & i’m not going to bed…

Posted in Hysterical Romance, Insomnia, Marisol, sex with tags , , , , on July 9, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

forever & three days

slip-walking’ those
leveraged steps along
the path through the park
leading to sweat falling from
a neck tracing a spine above
beauty. we walked
the long way home holding
hands while gradients of darkness
admitted more & less shadow
until the sun rose to flick
insolent patches of grass
into the light.

me & my ladyfriend attack
masquerading sunlight attacking
our headquarters built of pillows
& sheets. all the shades
drawn in preparation for combat-
napping. there’s no war among
comrades fighting battles together
as old wounds show up hurting,
punctual s’ever. her smile quiets
my exhaustion while i try
to comfort the source of her
tears.

as i wipe away her tears i feel
my cheeks drying.

————————————-

Because it’s easier to write than say.

crb.

more than 48…

Posted in Cigarette, Descartes, Hysterical Romance, Insomnia, Late Night Silence, love n' luck, Poetry, thoughtful trips, Unanswered Questions, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on May 21, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

more than 48

it was only our 56th day & i knew
i’d hurt her by chance as well
as i knew she’d never admit feeling any
pain. we’re too far gone for any kindness
to soften the harder edges of what
used to be; i’m already bleeding
at the edge of tears knowing i let
a princess down.

i couldn’t take her where we shoulda
been; my car wouldn’t start & i for-
got my wallet in the coldest bedroom,
collecting silence like souvenirs,
(poems are free to the public)
i can’t sleep on this lonely night.

i told the mirror it was bad luck &
piss-poor timing. i shaved off more
than 48 hours of stubble at 3 a.m.
lookin’ for a smile that had disappeared
hoping it would dramatically reveal itself.
i ain’t angry, just disappointed in a
smile i couldn’t coax out of hiding.
been more than 48 hours on high alert,

she has no interest in Cartesian
dilemmas, even if she worries about
it without knowing what she’s worried
about. forget that fucking Gordian
knot; whether alex cut through it
or not, 56 days have passed & the sun
shines down as the earth rotates. all
that’s wrecked will be fixed with
sleep & the days last cigarette
smoked down to the nub.

———————————————————–

Thomas Paine once wrote “These are the times that try mens souls.” I’d always taken him at his word, but lately it would seem to be far more of a metaphysical than metaphorical comment on the trials of life. Ah well, you do the best you can & hope for the best, just like everything else in life. Off to bed; two days in a row is a real killer & tomorrow is already here…

never anywhere…

Posted in Cigarette, Early Morning Silence, Friendship, Ha Ha Funny, Insomnia, JL Stories, Philosophy, Poetry, thoughtful trips with tags , , , , , on March 13, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

never anywhere these days

lost in an unrecognizable place;
greased, gonzoed, n’ pretty far
gone. sweet relief from thinking
too hard or too much ’bout any
prior footstep before one last
foot-drag brings a wall within
reach of a roach makers hand.

braced up against ceiling support,
breathing deeply the scent
of bastardized me; a
mirror-perfect imitation of
misspelled words pressed into
service as the best of what’s
available under circumtsance.

i need a new body,
a new set of lungs,
kidneys, muscles, discs.
sharper edges & a keener
shine. if the scene ain’t
what it used to be
i still dress the part.

smashed glass testifies to
past failures of judgment,
some pissedoffedness at a
prepackaged jerkoff party
type accusations. got called
a cartoon character &
my reply was ungentlemanly
in the extreme. repartee
not even close to my high
standards, the conversation
terminated at name calling.
(i’m a little two-
dimensional, admittedly.)

i’m not worried, i just love the
sound of my knife ripping
across the fabric on couch.
v. komodoensis in jeans,
wearing my best scars as jewelry,
stealing existence, backwards
hat & dusky eyes. it’s
all destruction, no orgy, no
need to wonder about a shot
motor or radioactive fallout
or shampoo in my eyes.

just early enough for hashed
brown breakfast & another
chance at another day. slap-
dash cavalry is here to rescue
everyone. in our piece of
faith, doped past the gills
& watching the same movie,
asking the same questions,
& moving in the same
d
i
r
ec
ti
on.

never alone.
never anywhere.

——————————–

Inspired by a show of unity when things could just as easily fallen apart. This time, I actually do wish I could help; since I can’t, I’m guessing hash browns, eggamoobiemuffins and maybe, just maybe… orange juice. Everything a growing boy needs. And no, this has nothing to do with that delicious, wonderful, tasty, delicious image in my head of food. Shenanigans on that. Que ridiculo.

barricade confrontations…

Posted in Bukowski, Cigarette, Fear, Friendship, Insomnia, JL Stories, Late Night Silence, Loveable Losers, Poetry with tags , , , , on March 11, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

barricade confrontations at 3 a.m.

gesticulation on the page; there’s
no such thing as the suburbs
whether or not there’s any proof.
outside of doors & windows people
move past asking all the same
questions over & over.

balloon shapes on stilts, waiting,
same as me, to say their piece.
then it’s on hope or faith in
whatever ears catch the sound.
only choice is to keep looking &
speaking & waiting for reply.

racket of SUV traffic mixes under
skies polluted with flashing light.
i can’t help but wonder if anyone
is coming. it’s been a calendar
full of days & rescue seems less
likely as time passes by. fortune
cookie advice is to save yourself,
but somehow that seems like
giving up, even if it ain’t.

save yourself for what? the
refrain pounds my senses with
no suggestion of meaning or
man-behind-the-curtain. nothing
left to do but ask for help & see
what happens. i junked the fortune
cookie; whatever the rationale,
clarity will have to wait.

————————————

Just a test of something. Doesn’t matter what. It’s half past 3 & there’s more barricade than confrontation. Well, no risk, no reward, right? Besides, it ain’t like I’m gonna remember tonight when tomorrow is still on schedule for dawn arrival.