Archive for the Loveable Losers Category

sam cooke sings while i write…

Posted in bumper sticker stories, Cigarette, Ha Ha Funny, Laughter, Loveable Losers, Philosophy, Poetry, Psychonauts, thoughtful trips, TWTC with tags , , , , on September 29, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

my own world

there was talk of black
curtains to fence me in but
we didn’t need anything that
serious getting in the way.
natural light to one side
of the neural window; add,
subtract, see how it plays out
& never worry.

playing pretend with glass pistols;
billowed smoke playing the bullets
sprayed around the room hoping
for gawdsake that nobody
gets hurt. the psychonauts ride
again for points distant.


It’s been a while since the psychonauts rode. The time is coming soon & if you’re not ready, opt for sanity and hope. All others 5 cents a head. That’s meat for the roaster; we are the fire under the spit.

fighting for air…

Posted in Ha Ha Funny, Laughter, Learning About Life, Loveable Losers, Poetry, Reader Requests with tags , , , , , , , on September 26, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

scratch of razor-claw on a concrete wall

i gave up waiting for the
temperature to melt through
my steel belt & sprinted off
into the densiflora instead.
long live pedicularis the ranger;
he holds the antidote to
purple evenings shaded blood red
where hooks & sharpened metal bits
play the part of judge & executioner
without a second thought. i
never sat on the suicide bed myself,
but i’ve heard strange rumblings
that the world is going to end.
i don’t buy it.

the bears may hold the
reign of temporary control;
i’ll give it time knowing
there is every chance the next
knock on the door will bring
a strange face with bonafide
ideas mated to the red-hot end
of blunted stick. i’ll probably get
the point sometime after it ends;
exit stage left.

i touched the razor-wire to see what
it felt like. not
sure if there’s an explanation for
such repetitious experimentation.


(authors note)

It takes so little to refill my faith in the great microphone of indeterministic decency. Tangible evidence was the only thing that could save the moment. Thank you. You’ll never know what it’s worth to me. Next refill is on me.

maybe i was there?.?.?.

Posted in Early Morning Silence, Ha Ha Funny, Laughter, Learning About Life, Loveable Losers, Philosophy, Poetry, TWTC with tags , , , , , on June 5, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

one ’till seven

deep elementary like artificial
amethyst crystal. strange vowel
combination’s identify a prime
possibility of speaking all the
right words with letters all wrong
& oddly pronounced.

put all my cash into something
i’d thought you’d say only to
hear back that you’d already spoken;
if we knew where darkness ended
i’d tell everyone i figured out
where the light began. lapsed
dualism is an aristocratic belief,
the rest of us know it’s just easy.
around here, that’s the same as
being done.


Before anyone asks, it’s about getting older, dumber, & stranger as the days drift by while the answer you seek seems to continually drift farther away in time, space, and locality. It’s not even close to fair, but then, what is these days? Enjoy the laughter, it sounds so much more real than the tears. Wonder if that holds true down the line? Que sara, sara…

mirrors in the air…

Posted in afternoon requiem, Learning About Life, love n' luck, Loveable Losers, Poetry with tags , , , , on April 21, 2011 by Caribbean Fool


as usual we were slammed up
against the wall at daybreak.
realistic motion-action hip thrust
logic as spring stormed in through
the window & swept out harsh
winter through the open door.
no replacement for such elocution;
i heard every word, but
can’t do a damn thing about it
for now.

i’d laugh because it’s so ridiculous
but i got one of my razor blades
caught in my throat & talking
blood is getting cold. let’s put
down the knives for a sec; it gets
tiring as an anachronism even if
it is more fun most of the time.

besides, all of us are better
off as ships passing the night on
diagonal courses through a blinding
sun. free-market ready made excuses
for any kind of mistake any of us could
ever make. certainly ain’t worth
fighting over. nobody needs a beach
bum poet but desire feels so good.

we can shuck any responsibility like
clams to the slaughter. gilded
mirrors show us who we aren’t when
worn sunglass-style over wannabe
eyes; throaty gesticulation &
music for the background glare (i
hear it can soothe a savage beast
but never actually saw it.)
i can be your best-friend if you
don’t mind sharing the inspiration;
no promissory notes to get in the
way. if i break the mirrors & accept
any corresponding crumb-bum luck can
you pretend you never saw my
face or heard my voice?

words on the breeze of approaching
movements & original invitations. a
muse bats her blueberry eyes to
make a crowd appear. now i’m
left pleading my case to shards of
glass with a razor-blade throat. great
plan… when do we start?

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.

questions of a pressing nature…

Posted in Laughter, love n' luck, Loveable Losers, Poetry, TWTC with tags , , , , , , on February 20, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

dinner & ink

miraculous the trouble one
tongue can create. if she knew
what i knew, i think she’d be
laughing behind my back &
in front of my back & maybe
even to the side of my back.

that’s if my chances are better
than ‘piss-poor.’ sum of knowledge
gained from past lives & former lovers.

distinction made between a kindred
spirit & a friend is close enough
to require teasing out in a conversation
we’re still waitin’ to be had. by the time
i found out it wasn’t a game, we’d
already played the first two rounds.
first was a draw; the second a loss
for the home team.

so what? i ain’t the first or last to
wonder ’bout part three; like if they’ll
be a part three. i got lousy odds, but
that’s why we play the game.


I know I’m screamin’ out an empty window on this one; don’t care. I’m in way too good a mood. Good dinner, LOST marathon, a whole bunch of other shit that ain’t fit to print… You know, when you’re unemployed, every night is Saturday night. What? It’s Saturday night? No shit? Huh. Who knew?

pirate flags for everyone…

Posted in afternoon requiem, Hysterical Romance, JL Stories, Laughter, Learning About Life, Loveable Losers, Music, Poetry, Reader Requests, sex with tags , , , , , on February 14, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

redecoration day

somebody mentioned something
about this hallmarked holiday. i wasn’t
buyin’ any of it. without changin’
something ’bout today’s waylaid tenor
or acute longing, it’s just business
as usual. i’ve no injury to exacerbate
& my bones are picked clean. cracks
in arctic oscillation spare a taste of
summer peakin’ through winter. the
kid’s okay.

valentina waits on attention from
a hidden lothario n’ i wish her well.
lamentations of the always coming
soon push hard against the touch
of almost anything. underneath
changes in hip position & shivers
of a kissed off transition from sad-
sack story to another onceuponatime,
whateverhappenedto. more i don’t
have an answer (for.)

now a couple of the neighbors are busy
fuckin’ it out. i’m not as amused as
usual. we’re all a bunch of sentimental
romantics here; tiny candles floating
in bowls of fuckin’ water & everything.
dredging up pretense is as easy as
elbow grease & means about as much.
if it really is a holiday, & i still doubt it,
then no explanation is required. either
way, the kid’s okay, if not better.


This whole episode reminds me of the Jesse Winchester song “Freewheeler.” Obviously, he said it about a million times better than I ever could. Well, that’s why you keep trying. Figure I’ll get it right sooner or later. Elegance of consequence continues to lose out to eloquence of contemplation, as it should.

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.

collective vision of extreme psychosis…

Posted in Hysterical Romance, JL Stories, Late Night Silence, Loveable Losers, Music, Opinion, Poetry, sex with tags , , , , , , on December 20, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

same as ever

breathing way too
fast & hearts pounding &
everything is too
hot or cold.
too late to
care now;
don’t sweat giving in.

close enough to
see, even
feel. touched
in salt air
along this,
battered coastline
your hip thrust
is so
much acceptance
i wanna explode.

way too long playing
all-night paranoia games,
chasing chasing chasing
moments of interaction.

i’m diggin’ it.
chase halted contact,
lick me
bite me, dig
those fingernails,
across my back
’till i’m bleeding
& i’ll give it all back
you might trust me;
chase chase chase

i’ll be much better tomorrow.

I was gonna leave the poem untitled but a suggestion from someone who didn’t know I write poems was the perfect answer to the question. I rarely write sexually themed poems but I read a bunch of them on other people’s pages and figured why the fuck not? Throw in some references to torrential substance abuse and this is what you get. I mean, personally, I walk the straight and narrow (I can barely type that without laughing, just so you know.) These days you can never be too careful. (laughing really hard again.) In my defense, this is a LOT of fun.

what sammy said to randy…

Posted in JL Stories, Learning About Life, love n' luck, Loveable Losers, Poetry with tags , , , , on December 10, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

what sammy said to randy

sammy said to randy
“i can think up a million reasons
to get drunk tonight. i like that.
someting nice bout justifiably
tying one on. seems like the
kind of night for it, nothing
wrong with that.”

randy looked at sammy,
laughed without agreeing
n’ said “naw. not a
motherfuckin’ thing. except
for your fucking groundhog
day existence & insistence
of irrational paranoia. do you have
any idea how much that
pisses everyone off except

sammy smiled back at
randy and drowsily said
“yeah, i can sympathize.
but like you said,
i’m gonna forget
about this tomorrow.
guess that’s the way
it goes”

randy nodded gravely,
resigned himself to the
same old arguments,
pulling on a cigarette
for what seemed like
a million years &
blasting smoke into
a cloud above the
counter of the diner.
he thought to himself,
sammy could be a good
guy when he wasn’t
busy being such
a prick.


Guy walks into a diner and sits down. Can anyone drink coffee and smoke anymore? What a bunch of fascist pigs. Characters based on people-watching at the local International House of Pancakes and listening in on discussions I had no business eavesdropping on. Sorry, but lets be honest, none of you eavesdroppees will ever read this, so my compunction is somewhat limited. Just so you know. Fairness and disclosure and whatnot.