Archive for the sex Category

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

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


Because it’s easier to write than say.


marisol goes to the beach…

Posted in Early Morning Silence, Hysterical Romance, love n' luck, Marisol, Poetry, sex, travel, Unanswered Questions with tags , , , , , , on June 19, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

shadows on the sand

shadow photograph

quick serve pink-berry smoothie
on a spring evening trying
like hell to be summer afternoon.
speedball winds blow hair past
eyes until the sky cleared in a
equatorial tribute to
blue crystalline.

it ain’t exactly our secret if
everybody knows; pushing past
your front gate while you claw
at my back only gets us so far.
pushed forward by every
treasured gust of breath leaking
pressure from under the sky;
lack of laid path doesn’t still
our footsteps, four across.

shadows result from interception
of sunlight by the mass of
our bodies. on sand pictures
won’t give up any ghostly
figures traced on shore; it will
catch them in the shutter
speed of a certain instant when
our hands touched while walking
dunes under the clearest
of skies.


For Marisol. Thinking back to the beach will always be where you can find me.

memetic rhetoric…

Posted in afternoon requiem, BSC, Cigarette, Friendship, Laughter, Poetry, sex with tags , , , , , , on May 18, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

translator’s nightmare

started out as an exhalation
during an argument over the
possibilities of architectural
transcendence. ended with
a blessing & after that nobody
talked about it anymore.

i realized (after taking too long
stranglin’ simple timeline alterations)
the only option left was to try like
hell not to leave anything behind;
identification ain’t my specialty
but i’ve no evidence to give
& nobody to give it too.

it seemed so important to finish
the project even as sight failed
to aid in the hamburger roll. i
was almost alone without a clue
’bout what comes next;
cigarette tips don’t reveal much
about where we are even as
they burn.

letting go of the last breath
taken on purpose by suggestion
of a friend. rationale of the friendly;
by the time an ultra-light was
reconstructed as a silver torch,
semantics were already on the
way out. names of roses enjoyed
Shakespearean freedom while waves
finally grabbed whatever it was
they’d been reaching towards
since being shoved by the moon.

another cigarette. blue-sky
thunder & waitin’ on a storm
i’m sure is coming to pass.
another deep drag on a
cigarette while i concentrate.
everything goes on as it
always does. another deep
drag & nothing moves while
everything changes.


Dedicated to BDS. It takes a lot of intellectual courage to withstand the attacks of the simple-minded. I admire that. Taking it with decency & goodwill shows the true measure of the man. Whether you believe he was right or wrong doesn’t matter. Truly a thinking man’s thinking man.

marisol visits a reclusive poet…

Posted in afternoon requiem, Cigarette, De Quincey, Hysterical Romance, JL Stories, Marisol, Music, Poetry, sex, thoughtful trips with tags , , , , , , , on May 3, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

who do you think i am?

dollar cost averaged into
life; with any luck the music
plays for a few seconds longer
than the dance lasts. that
girl with a pin-up smile topped
with a glowing aura is
running a fever &
needs to sleep it off.

i know that kind of smile;
after the gunfight ‘tween
clinton & those gangs i’m
not surprised she was looking
to escape though nothing is
ever entirely accidental. a man
sees what there is to see
& falls for the scruffy hearts’
club mascot. comes with the
territory. ain’t complaining
’bout my good luck today.

my speedball mentality is a paced
logic without precedence; she’s
sugar-fruit falling from a star tree
in a grove hidden from easy view.
i poured the last ounces of sunshine
from my hip flask into a shot for
both of us. midnight flashed into
brilliant afternoon as marisol
clambered down from the sugar
tree. we practiced healing each
other & settled for lowered
fevers without the aches & pains
of separation. anything else
would have been too much to
ask for under the near-perfection
of midnight afternoon.


For Marisol. Hope you feel better.

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.

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.

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.

elena wishes on a star…

Posted in afternoon requiem, Cigarette, Hysterical Romance, Late Night Silence, Laughter, Learning About Life, Poetry, sex with tags , , , , on April 14, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

elena wishes on a star

first arrival in
goose-flesh heat.
shaking & wet to touch,
elena hasn’t read whats
writlicked in spit inside
her left thigh
& is sure there
are places too far to go
for her smile.
i smile ’cause
she’s wrong & miles
are footsteps under
elena’s smile.

my daydream explication;
she laughs when
i joke. desire stiffens
& i wanna eye-lick
elena’s mystery tattoo.
selfish helix-desire
to see more than
elena’s smile leads me
past her teeth
on the way to
her tongue.

constellations sly skip-twist
at night through easy
aperture of an open window.
elena wishes on the first star
as swiftly darkening sky
is overtaken by streaks of
purple finger-clouds.
disfigured atmospheric
behemoths race through
un-reconnoitered sky
before starlight makes that
first tentative lick
from sky to ground.

a short-timer’s game
plays out; i wait on
the arrival of rapid cycle
logic to clarify why
we need to breathe
together because there
is no other way. matte
tongues against green-
eyed smiles over kiss/bite
goodbyes. nobody moves
when elena wishes on
a star.


Dedicated to the most wonderful woman I have ever met who wishes on the first star she see’s but never tells me what she’s wishing for. My wishes are somewhat more obvious, but then, they always are.

she’s felt my tongue…

Posted in Hysterical Romance, Late Night Silence, Laughter, love n' luck, Poetry, sex with tags , , , , , on April 4, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

she felt my tongue

darkness of predawn hours; i’m
waiting for the sun to illuminate
& warm a world outside my win-
dow. monday morning ticks by &
all i can do is wonder when you’ll
be back. i saw you close my bedroom
door to disappear into the world
of carnivore’s delight. i ain’t
worried about your clean claws;
won’t be easy but you already
know how to fight & win.

you already know we ain’t gonna
fight. my razor blade arms & 9
finger grip seem mostly for show,
a rubber ball bouncing along to a
rhythm nobody but us can hear.
when a shudder hits our horizontal
bodies you gasp & breathe deeply.
our tongues & bodies press together
until i can feel you relax around me.

countdown 96 hours. you like my
hair falling into your eyes so i
untie my pony-tail to let my hair
slide free. we’re sweating in the
late-night heat, moving together,
bedroom grins spread out on our
faces & tongues whispering those
forgotten promise nobody ever
keeps. you talk solemnly & i lick
beaded sweat off of your skin. our
afterglow shows in the dark.

bite, scratch & claw.
i’ve got red marks to stare at while
laying in bed naked & alone.
steam turns skin slick & drips onto
sheets pulled in every direction.
blankets & pillows kicked off the
bed wait to be returned to heaven
above. she felt my tongue wet & dry.

for now, i’m waiting for my
fingernails to grow, drinking iced-
tea in bed & smiling. the ceiling can
see sunlight glinting through
windows, warm & bright. iced-tea
ice melts in the glass. sucking
chips through a straw, tongue
lolling around the cold water.
she’s felt my tongue & i felt hers.
across midriff & tracing down
my busted spine.


For someone who deserves better & might even get it. I live to please. Customer service is really important to the boys back at the home office. You know how all that bureaucratic nonsense goes. Can’t walk two steps without dodging piles of dogshit & red tape. Well, every so often things work out. I can live with that. Like Billy Bragg said, “The boy done good, the girl done better / the season’s turn, we’re still together / the sky is still blue & tomorrow is another day” (TBDG by billy bragg) I just don’t do a very good Brit accent, so use your fucking imagination or youtube the fucker. But seriously, the boy done good…

past lives…

Posted in Friendship, Funny Morning Stories, Ha Ha Funny, Laughter, Learning About Life, Poetry, sex, Sir Marshmellow Trowell, thoughtful trips with tags , , , , , , , , on March 21, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

three twenty ten

when the knife wouldn’t twist
any farther, the job was done.
you wear a teflon swathed
reputation in my memory, so
it’s as much a shock now as it
ever was. if the local customs
seem strange or unforgiving,
call it square with the passage
of time. modern letters don’t
exist, so whatever your holding
onto (& whatever i’m holding onto)
is existence in a lump of

uncounted years of ceremonies,
admissions, loyalty, repatriation,
dance festival commentary &
past due arrivals of soldiers from
faraway lands. there ain’t word,
or any communication to clarify
mystery. a voice in time whispers
“come on home hon’,
you’ve been gone too long.”

now i’m ready to share something
better than those BITD dust-off
decisions. the old stuff can’t
compete with these new powers of
acceleration. siphoning crystalline
salts far past a face i don’t remember
into brain i barely use, i make a quick
count of the days past. too many minor
details that don’t matter; i keep
pushing until something bad is inevitable.

split works both ways; remember
there were those nights BITD
when whatever you wanted could have
been in your back pocket. no more long
past midnight conversations, expectations,
hope. for a brief moment, you kept
wondering while i practiced
falling back into your arms, hoping
recovery wouldn’t involve sharp
metal slicing skin.
(it did.)

i used to follow your trail. after
rereading your favorite psalms,
i’d drive south on route 1 past
the war college where you
almost ran away from home a
long time ago. it sinks in ever
deeper; stupidity knows no
bounds, then or now. i told
trowell the whole story just to
gauge his response & find out
how crazy i really am.

after he finished reaming me out
for three hours, he congratulated me
on not picking up an STD to go
along with the dip-shit stories
’bout past lives made rosy only
through the passage of time.

not that it matters. we were
running late for the poison
shop & we could laugh at me
later. no reason to waste time
defending the right to be ashamed
of yesterdays dip-shit stories;
fuck that noise. let’s
open the factory so we can
make more. after the poison shop
of course.


“Oh crb., you’re such an asshole. It would be poetic justice if nobody ever read shit like this. I think you’re such a scum bag. Drop dead.”

I replied simply, as was my wont. “Charade you are my dear. See above.”

After I got done laughing at all involved, I went to find clean underwear. If even remotely true, it really seems like one of those moments where you think the world is collapsing, but in actuality it’s just gas from a low quality burrito. What can you do? That’s the world we live in. May as well get a little humor in when you can.

should be…

Posted in afternoon requiem, Friendship, Ha Ha Funny, Hysterical Romance, Laughter, Learning About Life, Poetry, sex, Unanswered Questions with tags , , , , on March 16, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

she has no idea he thinks she’s summer

virtuoso performance during
the daydream phenomenon
snap-fastens focus on rapidly
lengthening daylight. onset
of summer is timed out on clocks
reset months before actual
arrival. from incremental distances
beautiful eyes see through mountain
ranges & dig holes in skylights.
seeing is believing.

moving in a determined if
meandering saunter capable of
teasing psychosis from sanity &
it ain’t hot yet. still, less imagination
is required with each passing day
to feel the steady approach of
heat on the wind. light whispers
give voice to sunset visions with
bluegrass overtones. same games
as ever play on advice, restriction,
desire. eyes penetrate & probe
out of line-of-sight. results remain
unknown; how else could
daydreaming be so welcome,
or so easy
for so long?


Refusing to behave has its privileges too ya know. There’s a thin line between silly & stupid and I have no idea which side I’m on. Maybe washing my hair will help? Other than that, I’m all out of ideas; that means subterfuge. Only other way to say what can’t be said.

coming soon…

Posted in Learning About Life, love n' luck, Poetry, sex, thoughtful trips, Unanswered Questions with tags , , , , on February 28, 2011 by Caribbean Fool


she’s cooking with sugar
& heat. imaginary pictures
of late night voices lick
around the tip of a telephone line.
connection & invitation to her
24 hour daydream that’s
never gonna dry.

both our tongues wag in
anticipation of caress.
determined hardening,
beaded sweat dripping down
into the shrinking spaces between
two hips pressed tight.

skin slick with transported moisture
meets muscle infused tongues
exploring, searching, penetrating.
gliding on spit over
shoulders meeting a neck,
backs of teeth,
s-curve hips that torque
against every slight
pressure-push. all i can feel
is want.

laying side by side in
quiet moments afterward,
we discovered both of us
were descended from
similar easy-dreaming
transcendentalists. guess
it’s as good an explanation
as any other why
temptation is second nature
& sometimes first.

it all shows up as
impossibly effortless imagination
of the first lick-traced lines
laid ‘cross caramel skin.
before slipping in,
before moans & gasps leak
through lips, before bodies ache
for satisfaction, each examines
the other in leftover light.


For someone. You were saying?