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.

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…

black smoke chronicles (part who knows)…

Posted in BSC, Insomnia, Late Night Silence, Laughter, Loveable Losers, Poetry, Series, sex, TWTC with tags , , , , on January 31, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

bsc final poem

come with me

seems too easy bein’ overly sober;
with endings already revealed
before anyone can say anything
about a long fuckin’ time ago or
far far fuckin’ away. i’ve spent
enough time guarding darkness
during peripatetic solitude. self-
seduction never seemed so right.

no matter, can’t sleep here anyway.
all night, every night, i’m movin’ even
while motionless & staring into space.
wet-bagged eyes stay comfortable
behind sunglasses. polished correctly,
attention deflects toward inside jokes.
exhaustion without time to sleep, where
insomnia is news & bloody noses are
transmitted via blowjob.

lucky enough to find a bag of flames
held in reserve for midnight moments.
black smoke rescued & im born all over.
i’m feeling better with that razor edged
determinism dulled by vapid righteous
indignation. maybe it’ll even getcha off.
black smoke hides sobriety induced
visions of storytale endings. mystery
again rules supreme; can’t leach all
the fight out of this kid; not when it’s
still fun to bleed on occasion.

———————————————

Thinking the fun starts tomorrow. Digga digga digga digga do. That chick giving off the girl next door vibe reminds me of a story I heard from a reprobate bastard waiting in line to buy one of those xmas tree angels from a discount retailer. In July. You don’t even want to know what that crazy fucker said he was going to do with it. For the sake of the angel, I hope it was idle chatter but don’t really believe it, much as I’d like to. It is that kind of world in times of crises. Somebody remind me what well rested feels like. That’s a kindness I’m willing to request. Oops. Shirley, you jest.

prostrate lunatics with grandiose delusions…

Posted in Insomnia, Late Night Silence, Laughter, Poetry, sex, thoughtful trips, travel with tags , , , , on January 20, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

delusions of lunatic grandeur

assuming an amusing story arises
a suitable distance in time, failure
wrangling compromise from commitment
damages only previously shaken faith
in wisdom gleaned from experience.
focus drifts from discarding tragedy
toward all-consuming efforts aimed
at maintaining escape velocity.

evening hours crack, chip, &
finally disintegrate, falling away
from an elegant sigmoidesque curve.
demands for ex post facto concern
thinly veil a malevolent agenda;
expressed by obsessively repetitive,
violent arguments between adherents
of similar interpretations of meaning in
thunderclaps. rational discourse loses
ground amidst adverse circumstance,
shackled to all manner of resource
exhaustion.

i can’t sympathize; all the things that
used to scare me to death
now turn me on. unfamiliar territory
for anyone satisfied by wandering
aimlessly, grabbin’ remnants of
desperation. forever waiting as
a million hours making up unknown
numbers of days jam into
one single moment.

sunrise parades, unidentified sunsets,
& calenders of every possible origin are
allies with common cause removing
thought-work from existence. only thing
left is taking battle against the
all-night brigade & their ebullient
admixtures of chemical variants to
their home turf.

by first light, we’ll sift through
every possible ambidextrous
solution to carnal desire hitch-
hiking down single lane highways,
wantin’ nothing more than to find
an elusive, easy peace between
revolutions & the transitory voyage
of the nearest star.

—————————————-

This poem was an attempt to build a personal narrative into a larger context. Obviously, it is not for the writer to declare success, but I can say after 7 hours of tinkering with language, thematic development, grammar and expression, the poem is ready to leave my hands. It was originally inspired by a long discussion with a local frozen pizza distributor looking for a short-cut to f0r his delivery schedule. We went back & forth for a while until I realized he just wanted driving ideas, not existential debate. What was it they say about leading a horses ass to water?