Archive for the Reader Requests Category

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.

marisol makes her first appearance…

Posted in Early Morning Silence, Ha Ha Funny, Hysterical Romance, Marisol, Philosophy, Poetry, Reader Requests, sex, Unanswered Questions with tags , , , , , on April 15, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

pink flip-flops

i’d always help you tie your shoes;
anyway i was looking for someone
who’d hold my hand during the
scary parts & i don’t mind being that
close. sometimes it’s all i want.

maybe i’d heard it said by a stranger
someone among everyone was
moving faster than me & seemed
pretty sure (more-or-less) what
was going on. all i knew was
i like girls wearing baseball hats
backwards & laughing at every
bad joke that’s ever been told.

it always never makes sense
that marisol sits on the back porch
while interminable distance fills
the closeness between there &
here. so what if i know about
limitations? impermanence is a
bitch,” i told marisol.

her smile arrives on time,
though not related to any
discussion at hand. nothing
moves in a straight line for
more than a few feet; root
beer barrels are as close to root beer
as we’re likely to get in an age
of rice crispie treats.

all of this is insanity & i want all of it.

hard earned nicknames like flower
petals sit on the floor of a church.
quick cuts to places you never see
& we can stamp this union in blood
smeared on windows.
doors.
walls.
steps.
hands.

i don’t really bruise these days.
had it kicked out of me for awhile
& started doing it on my own for
kicks. most of the time i can see
things in this whole new light;
sometimes i’m wrong but at least
i’ll figure it out later.

anyway,
how the fuck are we gonna put
fucking laces on pink flip-flops?
marisol laughs crystal pure,
& the sun stops in the sky
to listen & look.

one paper dragon…

Posted in afternoon requiem, Friendship, JL Stories, Laughter, Poetry, Reader Requests, thoughtful trips, TWTC with tags , , , , , , on March 11, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

kelly talks paper dragons

green flakes grace her dandelion
invitations & kelly is talkin’ paper
dragons for both of us. purple tails
extend out from apatosaur bodies
with fire streaming from wide spread
jaws. in between all of it is a mink-
pelt spread over a concrete floor.
her conversational warmth speaks
to fervent desire for words, motions,
actions, etc.

minutes pass, tone strengthens into
trust & we talk back of the envelope
calculations. dusky eastern sunlight
is caught in the moment of a smoked
mirror sleight of hand. still no easy
answer; she speaks in disappearing ink
while i miss most of her words looking
for a pen.

smoke extracted from dragons breath
moves through a glass tube for delivery
into a speedball-galactic kind of scene.
details blur & gravitationally bound light
disrupts all of the conventional wisdom.
amidst degraded perception in the dark,
kelly doesn’t know i only wanted to see
the paper dragon; other questions follow
illogical paths to fulfillment of curiosity.

kelly pushes past my questions en route
to closed door territory. i’ve cut myself
too many times on occams fucking blade
to accept anything but re-stitched skin
holding back blood, guts & obvious
answers. somewhere past faith i’d give up
whatever she wanted to tell her
straight up i was lodged in my pocket
& beauty like that wasn’t looking for me.
“you had your reasons but i’ve seen
too many mirrors to accept it prima facie.”

kelly still talks paper dragons while
i have laughter to give away. until she
clues me in, my offer stands. chasing
down a dragon requires backup. gotta
remind her this kid has no excuse for
putting on his most insouciant eyes,
kicking open the door & maybe
gettin’ kelly to talk ’bout some-
thing else. kelly is talkin’ paper
dragons & i wanna know why.

———————————–

Buena suerte you dragon chasers. We will find what we are looking for, regardless of the grist required for the mill. Still, everyone has questions. Not everyone has answers. Dedicated to a friend who asked for a poem. Voila! & sorry I’ve been losing it lately.

drama on the small stage…

Posted in afternoon requiem, bumper sticker stories, Cigarette, Friendship, JL Stories, Laughter, Learning About Life, One Shot Wednesday, Poetry, Reader Requests, travel, TWTC, Unanswered Questions with tags , , , , , , , on March 2, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

empty pockets

never bothered me to wander broke.
i can pick up whatever i need
along footpaths & trails, standin’
just off the side of the road with
a pack of camels for company &
conversation.

never a specific destination in
mind; i own my time n’ not much
else. having plenty of time to ride on
winds & tides pushing clouds of purple
flavored smoke is a stand-alone
victory, end of story.

not quite ownership society style
down here amongst the scumbags &
wannabe’s. i was falsely accused
of starting a juvenile crime-spree,
knocking over trash cans & defacing
construction sites. the first time i
got the charges dropped, the second
time i didn’t. cost me money i didn’t
have, & time that i did.

lemme refill the purple
flavored smoke; there’s enough
left to go around again
& we ain’t out of wind just yet.

staring up at what had been a
tranquil daydream, i know what
all the beautifully-minded people
haven’t yet figured out. ain’t much
reward in declining to ask questions
of relative import. i can only spread
myself so thin; anything else would
be counter-productive. if it’s about
answers, there is an obvious
pre-req.

—————————————-

It has been quite a while since that kind of attention. Feel like even if it’s a joke, at least it’s pretty fucking funny. (This would be why I don’t make promises, at least not specific or detailed promises.)

Remember, if you dislike doing the dishes, break a few of them by dropping them on the floor and I can virtually guarantee nobody will ask you to wash the dishes again. That argument should probably not be extended to child care as kids will not break just because you drop them on the kitchen floor a couple of times. Bottom line; use a dishwasher. It’s just easier that way. Or don’t. Six of one, half dozen of the other. And with that, the subject is satisfactorily closed. Don’t know about any of you, but I’m feeling better already.

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.

from the terrace of a palatial estate…

Posted in Cigarette, Friendship, JL Stories, love n' luck, Poetry, Reader Requests, Sir Marshmellow Trowell, the lost children of the bokonists, TWTC, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on January 25, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

pterodactyls in the sky

ex post facto success & a 3 night score.
only after straightening out came my usual
liberation. dumb-fuck luck seein’ it doled
out liberally & applied fast enough to make
a difference in the dark. got something to
crow about here; if that ain’t worth a few
minutes of prepwork to get makin’s right,
what is? don’t worry about it my friend.
here; lemme get that fer ya.

i need counsel. seemingly none to be found
among oldies from The Leftover Gang; better
luck somewhere else. a voice i’m sure wasn’t
mine narrowed what’d been an abundance of
possibilities into fractional remains. no shot
at help tonight, no matter how badly needed
or honestly expressed.

blame is mine to keep as a signature souvenir
of choices made & fate challenged. it’s my
responsibility to ensure nobody knows the
real name or face of the man in charge. i
change it as often as i can since new names
are free with receipt & 5 proof of purchases
of extra strength bath salts. faces are much
more expensive.

this one way conversation goin’ back & forth
with paint stuck to the walls says only “it’s
your mess, you hafta clean it up.” how the
paint knew about the malfracted Peter Pan
side of me, i couldn’t tell you. the longer i
hashed it out with the paint, less interest
i had findin’ out why the walls were talkin’
tse tse flies while pterodactyls fill the sky.

————————————–

Inspired by three comments and a facebook message that all pointed in the same direction. Dedicated to a hero from my youth whose name is as immaterial as my own.

you comin’ in?.?.?.

Posted in Hysterical Romance, Late Night Silence, Learning About Life, Music, Poetry, Reader Requests, sex, TWTC with tags , , , , , on December 30, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

standard font

i walked a million miles
waiting on someone
to ask me a
damn question i
couldn’t answer.

most of my tangled
history is whatever
it is, but there’s
no answer when i ring
that bell. no more
scrap-books here.

i’m smilin’ heavy,
cause usually it’s
recognized for what it
ain’t; my stereotypical
freak-out along
checkout counters
at a local porn shop.

girl at the counter
seems smart.
first impressions, right?

“hey darlin’ you
got tomorrow off
& wanna come along
with me? i can show
what i know,
if you’ll ask that
question & lemme
see your puzzle piece.

ask that question,
ring that bell, tell
me this ain’t more than
the tip of blinding
sun-style over substance.

i’ll play fox
or hound; don’t
really matter. it’s all some
fantasy of perfection ‘tll
masks fall off. ask that
question & make ’em
fall
for
you & me.

catch me curious,
you don’t have to wait;
doors are locked so
jump the fuckin’ gate.

——————————————————-

For LBTL on what I can only call a dare. Gimme something else, I like this game. Late night hijinks used to be my best face. I can usually get the girl at the counter to blush; can you throw a smile across a room? What a cynical question; of course you can. Inspired by 2 chance conversations with the girl who works the counter at MVC Late Night Video. She said she was impossible to live with and I thought otherwise and told her so. There are some fascinating folk out there.

Dedicated to someone long gone from my world but still in my heart whenever Stabbing Westward comes on. “Yup yup, fuck Mandy.” She was crazy and fuck me do I love crazy. (no, nobody will understand that quote ‘cept my brother in arms, and he’s not reading yet.)

the cigarette edition…

Posted in Cigarette, Opinion, Poetry, Reader Requests with tags , , , on December 23, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

cigarette papers

five minute
end of day;
gotta be
somewhere
we can stop
thinkin’.

drag & exhale.
never mind
what was,
or
will be.
i’ll show you how to
shove everything
outta sight & mind.

notagodamnthing matters
except smoke coming through
white paper. it ain’t
often things get easier,
i’ll take what i can get.

it’s a dirty habit,
& it’ll probably kill ya,
then again,
what won’t these days?

it doesn’t tip any balance,
‘cept warning labels &
sin taxes. some of us know
it doesn’t matter.
if it does, you’re
spendin’ the last
part of today
doin’ something
else entirely.

& i ain’t thinking
of y’all when
i flare nights
with match & fag.
i ain’t thinkin’
at all.

———————————————-

Dedicated to reader Life:Between The Lines. You wanted a cigarette poem, there you go. Anyone else with a theme they would like a poem on is free to put it in the comments. No promises, but if it catches my fancy, you too can get a poem dedicated to you by the fool, i.e. me. Hope you like it L:BTL. Here’s a link to your blog so people can check out your writing as well.

Life: Between The Lines