Archive for the Sir Marshmellow Trowell Category

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.

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.

in which a boy forgets his purpose…

Posted in De Quincey, Extreme Spinal Pain, Hysterical Romance, Sir Marshmellow Trowell with tags , , , on September 14, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

From the Diary of Sir Marshmellow Trowell


This cigarette isn’t going to smoke itself. When I peer at the calendar, the fucking thing assures me a full week has passed since our explosion without any kind of resolution or discussion. Instead, it feels like one of those never ending days comprised of mini-days and nights going on and on, constantly trending towards oblivion but not quite getting there. Any punctuation of this discouraging equilibrium is muted; maybe I’m a balloon, but the pinpricks don’t pop my thin skin. Air doesn’t blast outwards, maybe because our inter-relationship is another empty holster, another empty hand.

We can’t discuss all the fucked up decisions that were labeled “insurance policies,” only to find out it’s still possible to radically alter that old time serotonin high AND pay the price for my intransigence in blood. Insurance my ass. Funny thing is, the blame should go to the dumb asshole who purchased the policy, and that useless fuck is me. I don’t mind bleeding, but with no way to stem the flow, it can only end one way. (We could jump back into that whole mirror thing, but I feel like we covered that already. I don’t know, go find that poem if you really want too. I’m in no damned mood for sentimentality.) More than a granted wish of easy money, I wish only to see my angel rise up the stairs and announce her presence with a voice that could boil a heart and eyes that could still a bolt of lightning.

Back on earth, the song remains the same. Can’t get it off repeat; the button must be jammed & the universe just keeps moving. Seditious history is remembered as a series of moments masking forgotten hours of weighing evidence prior to summary judgment and deep kisses. As the day darkens into evening, my eyes close in protest while the mind keeps building conscious reality composed mainly of “best guesses.” The results, while partially incomprehensible, carry little true meaning. Such is the nature of subjective experience. Like everyone else I’ve ever met, this ignores the weight of reality on such flights of fancy as emotions, pride, and what we might exuberantly call logic. Well, you can’t win ’em all. Hope springs eternal except when all seems lost. That would be folk wisdom, or what passes for such these days. What do I know?

All of this rambling psychological bullshit is as useful as a warm blanket on a cold night. I’ve been hard at work convincing myself that this is The Way Things Are Supposed To Be. The phone doesn’t bother to ring, and when it does it’s never the right voice… if you had any idea of what I needed, would you still be observing radio silence and trying to leave me on my own? Who knows except the empty bed and silent room? I’m fighting back, but the going is slow and as I said earlier, there is no chance to win. I just can’t give up without some kind of fight, no matter how selfish and counter-productive. Denying an urge to completely let go gets hard. Without TDQ’s helpful friendship, I’d be fighting alone. My commitment, my loyalty to de Quincey’s main idea remains as strong as ever, even if the eyes-half-closed contingent won’t give up on needling another momentary escape out from an impossible grasp. Despite being repeatedly told there are limits to everything, I know it’s an excuse to ignore the ignoble truth that escape is not available on demand, rather a method to combat those imprisoned by time & tide against their free will. Freedom is in the locks of hair hanging down from a voltaic beauty above the neck of Athena. At her temple, while sacrificing my busted frame, I keep looking around desperate to lay eyes on Athena’s form. So far… nothing. Continually disheartening to think she’s appearing as someone else’s angel when all I really need is that smile binding me to her.

With all of the concrete markers slowly assuming the shapes and contours of a bricked-in asylum, what used to be smooth skin smelling like an angel or some divine prescience is now a padded room where those locked in must give up their most precious delusions of grandeur or otherwise. This is all in the name of good mental health, a movement nobody could deny without sounding crazy. Amidst these strict sects of classifications and rules, it is never possible to resist the will of the larger movement. I’d just as soon carve off my leg than admit that my hands are tied and there are guns pointed at my chest, but there is no winning in a situation like this. No winning. Fight like a mongrel dog, love like there’s never been anything so important in your life, kick and scream and spit and punch and when the dust settles & the lights go out, my bed is still empty and cold.

Any manner of training distinguishes the torch bearer from the torturer. My own mounting frustration with such a pathetic inability to alter the course of events feels like sticking a hand in boiling fry oil. I’m just another spectator watching some numb fuck get his heart kicked out after innumerable promises to avoid this exact fate. The good Doctor tells me it is the natural inclination of my darling dear is to move in a direction away from this psychotic fool toward safety. The feeling of my angel slipping away is too much to take, yet my hands are still tied and my mouth mutters all the wrong words. Cut me, stab me, shoot me, bleed me out but give me some hope that the hand holding the guns or knives is yours. If that is the only way we can touch, I am ready to bleed on command.

Clambering on the cusp of such a serial rerun, I got a good god-damn idea of what not to do. If only the answer demanded could be found as easily, or applied as briefly to salve everyone that’s been lost and never found. By now, the devolution of such a fine personage hurts doubly; being an unreformed & unrepentant cripple doesn’t leave much room for desire on behalf of an angel, and nobody is searching for my eyes in any kind of crowd. All of this is really to say the ice cubes have melted in the glass; is there any way back? Without analogies to get me through the night, every poem I’ve ever read or written hurls insults in the dark; deep accusations of some kind of base-rate failure to support and maintain the love that dug so deeply below the skin. Everything seems an aggressive cross examination; I have no answer to give you except an apology, no idea on how to proceed into my empty bedroom night after night without sensing the lifeless sheets and uncreased pillowcase. Whatever is left of my confidence wanes, draining out with no support system to help maintain some small supply to be used in an emergency.

A mirror tells me there will be no talking in the end, no time to fix everything broken. I stand on an empty and silent plateau. This isn’t the first time I’ve been left behind; I am a ghost that rides every kind of breeze without any ability to maintain the beautiful, the kind, the love; once so easily found in the movements of a lithe dancing girl and her voice on the phone reaching out to me, surrounding me by the soft feathers of everything I needed.

It’s been a week without my angel’s voice, and knowing there are more weeks and months to come before finally accepting everything has been lost. I only want to wake up to find out it’s all a dream, that Athena is still sleeping peacefully by my side, smiling and keeping me warm. In the cold darkness, everything looks like Athena except the empty half of the bed. The insurance was a fraud, and another crippled wreck tries to walk without support only to find out that it’s impossible to do it on my own.

You were the best, and I’m terribly sorry I let you down. No matter whom Athena finds herself next to, I will go to my grave believing it was me that should have been lying next to her, talking of Persephone and laughing about the hole in Zeus’ head. All of this, and I won’t wake up to see you. Not in the darkness, and not in the light. Pacing the cage is the best I can do, and that won’t bring you back.

If there is a silver lining, it is only this; I’ve been tossed aside so many times, losing everything again and again. Be it the beautiful Athena or the frenetic Hera, I have to play the part of Hephaestus, swinging the hammer under the mountain. For a short time, I knew Athena naked and perfect. For a short time, Athena knew me intimately. Now, I’d give anything for a half hour or even a few minutes to tell her, fac-to-face, that I should have said yes when all I said was no.

I cant fight. I can’t argue. This is what I deserve, even if it ain’t fucking close to what I want. Hey Athena… you were right, and now you’re gone and I am destroyed. Tonight I’m crippled inside and out.

breaking down…

Posted in Descartes, JL Stories, Philosophy, Sir Marshmellow Trowell with tags , , , , on August 31, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

From the Diary of Sir Marshmellow Trowell

Terrible conditions from which to fight against dying tree leaves and shorter days. Desperation might be beautiful if it weren’t for the forced attempts to communicate what I don’t know how to say. Over and over again trying to explain how drowning works or why movement is desired but rarely achieved gets frustrating, alongside so much other debris. I gotta kick the can just to see the floor, that kind of thing. If it weren’t for cigarettes, I might have to revolt. Little can be gained from this whole enterprise, and I’m not sure how to explain it any better than that. Locked in here is staid; having broken my own spirit on the wheel… well, what next?

With the last of what’s to be found hanging out in the doorway and blocking every attempt to leave, everything seems like forever. Most of me is convinced that it’s all some type of coma-dream or narcoleptic state brought on by the collapse of some essential support system. The rest of me knows this is as real as it’s gonna get. Same as a recently killed pack of cigarettes. For most of the day you got backup; now you still got backup but it’s new backup. Nothing really changes and everything always changes. None of that can be true so it has to be.

Past these semantic overlays is the feeling of constant encumbrance. Moves like an ideal stallion, or maybe a bird of some kind with the strength to ignore down-drafts. I keep finding little chips and cracks; pieces of evidence that don’t point in any particular direction. Whaddya do with shit like that? Ask the question, answer the question, propose some kind of derelict reason, dress the whole thing as wisdom and play pretend? Doesn’t it all have to fall apart sooner or later? I can’t claim any kind of authority here. This is the what in taking what you get. Fuck it, right?

Searching for rationality can be a daunting prospect if you consistently look in the wrong places. I used to think advice was harmless until I began to listen to the advice I was handing out. Feeling particularly horrified by monotonous repetition, all the while nobody ever questioned if it was wisdom because of an unspoken yet agreed framework for busting through the seemingly insoluble. Simple in-group inclusion and the deed was done. I couldn’t help but wonder how much trouble I’d caused. Extrapolating from my own experiences with advice didn’t settle any nerves, instead pinching off Descartes greatest achievement (not my characterization, but you get the point) so I could pretend everything was going according to plan (it wasn’t.)

Well, another reason for the cosmic pencil to come equipped with an eraser. After all, the deed was done, all we had now was recognition and as many cigarettes as we could get our dirty hands on. Everything melds together if you wait long enough, so I suppose I could always join with the predestination crowd if my conscience kept throwing up the past until all I had left was stomach acid and a burning sensation.

Things could be worse; at least it didn’t burn to take a piss or any such bullshit. Nowadays, that’s cause for celebration, at least locally. Yet another in a long line of uncredited achievements gained by repetitious breathing and a little luck. That’s the comes in taking what comes. Moving past all of that madness, the constituent parts seem widely displaced. An overwhelming feeling forces me into a prone position on the floor. Faint whiff of dualism; every time I think it ain’t enough, it morphs into too much. Grass is green and the sky is blue. I know, I know. More JL masquerading as something other than what it is. Right now, I couldn’t be farther from caring about any of that shit. Wrap yourself in what you got on cold nights. Remember it’ll be just as dark on the warm nights. Take comfort, assuage hope, repeat as needed.

Yet here we are, on the verge of watching Casablanca play out one more time. Maybe there are a few rusting hooks in me. Like I said, could be worse. The last refuge I can think of is the desperation itself. It would be impossible to be desperate if there wasn’t something worth protecting, even if I don’t know what it is. There are only the barriers we need, and the price of admittance differs in each case. Playing pretend with rationality is a symptom of some hidden sickness or extreme curiosity, and whatever it is that feels like it still needs my protection, I am determined to play my part. The timing is bad and the rewards nonexistent. In other words, you have to sit somewhere, play that cards you’re dealt, insert whatever cliche you find least objectionable. I’m exhausted from trying to convince someone, anyone, that what tastes like blood and looks like blood can still be corn syrup. That is reduced luck and faith, distilled into 2 proof mouthwash that don’t burn or hurt. That’s where I’m going you know. Even Superman needed a place to hide out. I’m as far from him as you can get, so you see how this gives my case a good finish with a touch of gravitas.

Now is a good time to quit for the day. Cigarettes gotta burn if only for the calm nerves and relaxation to be more than a pipe-dream inspired by proto-evangelicals hyped up on speed and preaching like there’s no tomorrow. Careful where the advice comes from. Sorry I can’t do more. Guess we’ll find out if there is a future in oppositional attraction or if the whole thing is mythology. Gotta put your money somewhere. No use fighting for nothing.

when i smile you should ask why…

Posted in bumper sticker stories, Sir Marshmellow Trowell with tags , on August 19, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

From The Diary of Sir Marshmellow Trowell

What started as an interminable morning was easily exchanged for a more pleasant internal psychosis. I didn’t bother to shave, but brushing and flossing and sledgehammering the face smoothed out the rough edges well enough. To get through the next 24.5 hours, it was going to take every last bit of fortitude to push everyone else into the future, then drag my own fucked up form along with them. No gun or knife will be of any use; what we need here is to arm ourselves with the usual cagey luck that shows up only when a true fucker cries out in desperation. That and some great big brass balls to keep the whole movement on the right path. I don’t know what I would do if we somehow strayed and woke up all together yesterday. “Don’t like that sir,” to paraphrase the fat man, or, as you might recall him, Mr. Greenstreet.

After fixing my head and straightening my eyes, I found some music floating right where it had been thoughtfully left to be found as needed. A mango for my growling stomach, a sharp knife for the mango. All this junk in my blood mixes so easily with everything else, I’m wearing my easiest smile, ready to embrace the hours of the day when my more adventurous side splits off and leaves the coward to deal. Until that happens (roughly 18 hours from now if my math is close to correct) I’m pretty sure everything can be managed. Didn’t Lehman say those exact words? Ha! Fuck them, they don’t have my adaptability.

Having slavishly moved through the last four days, I’m ready for freedom. Every time I slither through this maze, the payments get harder to pay. I wish I could explain my willingness to play the game and pay the costs of business despite the giant chunks of flesh required, but all I can say is that I’ve got just enough reasons to tip the scale towards buy now, pay later. The rest of it is just maneuvering myself through the wreckage. Nothing that can’t be shared with the rest of the species. (Keep telling yourself that. Someday, you might even believe it.)

A few more flakes in the bowl to soak up the rest of the milk and a diced mango are fuel to burn up in the course of proving to myself some semblance of normality. You might question why someone like myself would need any part of that insipid game, but we’re all curious about that which we cannot possess. Same goes here. Watching all the weddings and newborns squirting out at an alarming rate makes me queasy. We can only hope they know what they are doing. I don’t, so I stay out of the whole thing on what might be generously termed “epistemological” grounds. Laughter still comes as easy as heartache, but that’s no reason to give up on either.

Maybe it is the same as an indecipherable language long dead. Fragments still exist to puzzle over, but the master key is lost to history and time. Now, that presents a problem to understanding, but an opportunity to ask as many questions as you want without limiting them with answers or those dreadful dualistic judgments. My questions all have to do with celestial navigation during the day or tolerance for pain. Plenty of time to seek out the answers, assuming of course that they exist. There are questions that have no answers, and they scare the shit out of most people. No time for that now.

Nor is it time for false-fronts of any other such clam-bake bravery. I hate dressing up, and for most people, I wouldn’t entertain the thought. (Always some connection between statements and language. Like meme is not the root of mimetic, yet in some ways, it could be. Get me?) Not long now. Mangoes, music, minor miracles considering the geography and poverty of this particular situation. GIGO, right? Perish the thought. It’ll work ’cause that is how these things always seem to go down to the wire. When push comes to shove, step aside. Let some other asshole go down with the ship. Tomorrow we just might be on top of the world. I’d hate to miss it, especially over some tenacious urge to follow protocol. Dumb fucks…. some people never learn. Don’t be one of them.

bring the band…

Posted in Philosophy, Poetry, Sir Marshmellow Trowell, The Marquessa with tags , , on August 6, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

don’t take much

fucking Marquessa,
nowhere to be found. i can’t
work miracles.

if she’s got any sense,
she’s probably running around
with Trowell. (you can
out-think yourself whenever
you’re ready.)

from recent reports,
i’ve heard things have
gone according to
plan, but she ain’t happy
with the results.
ain’t that a pot to piss in?

back from such distances
is like re-emerging from February
into August finding nothing
changed; impossible to believe
anything but what’s here.

i’m sorta rooting for her;
but it seems paternalistic
to think like that. better to
let it go and wait.
still impossible to believe.


Too long gone to explain the specifics. No blame, just bemused personification at the way the world spins.

pulling teeth…

Posted in JL Stories, Philosophy, Sir Marshmellow Trowell with tags , , on April 12, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

once more

it’s dark & finally quiet
in my house.
for few seconds, silence is too much
to handle; music could
push the silence out.

draining poison so
frequently sought out
shakes a thermometer somewhere
while the effects countenance
no dismissal;
this takes
as long as it takes.

as long as it takes.
ain’t nobody ready for that
kinda answer. music continues
in the battle for audio
control; music can’t feel fear &
trepidation. i wanna be music
too. right now, during
days of prayer aimed
right into the sky still don’t
salve; no peace
in spitting out or shitting
raw poison. you know it has
to come out sooner or later.

trowell never changes his mind
on the whole deal. hopping back
and forth between bravery
& stupidity, he takes it on
his chin. he smiles at fever
and he sweats the chills.
his eyes don’t water, so he’s got
no advice on leaking mirrors.

you took the walk; now
it’s time to pay. i’m paying.
when the end of the deal
rolls off your back, completely
restoring freedom
of movement, do you know
what you’ll do?

you’ll slide into the graces
of a woman who will
give you the choice to decline
such a transitive bargain;
nobody ever declines,
don’t blame yourself.
it aint in our blood to say
“no more.” guys like us,
me, you, the superheroes
sister, all of us; we’ll give
her the money, all the while
promising ourselves
it’ll be different.

we don’t seek change.
guys like us don’t go looking
for trouble. just cool
buzz vertical progression.
this is just part of that;
down is part of up,
some things don’t change.

music makes it easier
to bide our sentenced time,
while reminding us that moving
is the same as living. next
month, the month after that,
and the month after that
are already baked in the cake.
all we’re waiting on is the
calendar and a fool.

flattery will get you nowhere…

Posted in bumper sticker stories, JL Stories, Philosophy, Sir Marshmellow Trowell with tags , , , , on April 10, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

Luckily, I’m pretty sure this is nowhere. The morning breaks cool before the sunlight chases those lower temperatures off the mountain into the sea. When it warms up, I can stagger-stand face-to-face with afternoon breezes blowing Westward across the country. All we got is the wind, so be sure to treat it with the same enervating respect as it treats us. Yes my child, that’s a joke. The punchline is the same as for every other joke told about a sunny day. It only lasts as long as the laughter does. Funny, but only provincially. Aim higher. Shoot the shit; that’s what it’s there for.

Playing at being a poet is not really that hard; at least not for me. Playing at being anything else is beyond question impossible; everything comes out poetry, whether a stitch in time or flesh. Being almost totally convinced that none of this really matters makes things less serious somehow. Even if the whole thing is a joke at my expense, I can laugh as easily as anyone else can. We’re all equal here. I can see it now. A calm man with a hand on fire, calmly placing the burning flesh in a vat of water to stop the heat. What’s left is not bone, as it would be in the funny papers, but melted skin and boiled blood. Not a word. Not a word.

So, starting with such imagery on what was not a bad day (at least not in the shared-use sense of the term…) ain’t really a problem. There’s enough other shit going on in the background to consume three minds, but all that shit has to be ignored for a moment while I play around with an old idea turned 59 degrees to the right. The glint is all different in this light; you can thank the sun for that. With the windows all opened and the sliding door slid, the cool winds blow around this place. I can deal with the drop in temperature. I want to blow out the lived in feel of this room and start over. New scents for brand new times, that kind of thing. Getting the picture is ever easier, if ever more fraught with misconception. Too many people talking means nothing gets said, and that is usually the fault of the listener. Decisions have to be made, people cut off from access to the ears and mind. No use in the magnetic attraction of garbage noise.

Besides, the cool cool winds chill the burnt flesh, and like I said, I want to start over. No sense letting all the old feelings get attached to the hips or spine; they’ll just rot and stink up the room. Exactly the opposite of the point of this whole exercise. When I look around, it takes a minute to try and ignore any repetitious images. Whatever is new is probably unrecognizable, so I have to look pretty hard. In the midst of staring, all the moving shadows blown around the room as the wind plays games with whatever is in its way creates hands on the wall reaching out, and legs on the carpet walking away. Figure that one out! I have a few ideas but no reason to share them. Keeping counsel to the self is one of those things I always took to be SOP, but evidently, for most people, that isn’t the case at all. If they are bleeding, they wanna tell you all about it. Unbe-frigging-lievable. No wonder Superman had his Fortress Of Solitude. And if fucking Superman needed a fortress, what chance do the rest of us have?

Batman’s sister still works toward the same idealized romance as ever. You can’t help but share some concern over what will happen when she finds out all that work to be different doesn’t accomplish anything. Drink up little girl, you have a long way to go until you find out you end up about three feet to the left of where you start. Even that movement can be traced back to the movement of the universe around you. Talk about uncomfortable moments! Throw in the Tallman working on raising a whole passel of kids and the Marquessa trying to find reverse on the gearshift so she can get the car out of the driveway and things get more complicated. It is in the midst of such cacophony that peace and quiet has to be found. It ain’t like time is going to slow down or stop. Finding out the reasons things are as they are is more like untangling the Gordian Knot than I would have imagined, but I like to think I have more imagination than Alexander (even if he ran a lot more of the world and slew a lot more people for fun and profit.)

So it’s Harry Nilsson for the win. Not a bad thing, and my mood has improved substantially over the last 48 hours. I can’t claim any active participation in the scene, just better results. I can live with that. Greed of control was something I gave up a decade and a half ago. It kept getting in the way of my enjoyment of this lifelong movie and simultaneous radio broadcast running the duration of existence. The emotional output is staggering, if you stop to think about it at all. Most people don’t seem all that interested, which explains why these little screeds draw so little in the way of discerning attention. And if you think that’s an accident, you obviously don’t know me that well. Laugh, it’s ok… that was a joke after all. Can’t win for losing these days. There are cigarettes and diet coke for lunch (or breakfast. If you eat the first meal of the day at 3 p.m., does it count as lunch or breakfast? I have never been able to solve that riddle. It does give me something to think about during the boring scenes, so it ain’t all bad.)

This is what happens when you keep locating the importance in the journey rather than the destination. If it doesn’t matter where you’re going, why not just move around randomly and with no eye towards conclusion. Fuck me, I forgot, we already do that. Ha! If we were half as evolved as we like to think we are, questions like those wouldn’t be such a problem. Throw it on the pile of other problems; I think there is still some genocide going on in a few spots around the globe. Maybe we should get that stopped first? No? It ain’t our problem? That’s good to hear, but I can’t lie, that really makes it sound like a few of us are right fucked. Sorry about that. It’s not really my fault, but for the moment, it’s the best that I can do. Get me? What this day really needs is a sermon. Perhaps later, for now there are still whales to skin and bunny rabbits to track. Somehow, I have to believe this is all the fault of Trowell. What else is new?

mendacious conversation’s over lunch…

Posted in bumper sticker stories, JL Stories, Philosophy, Sir Marshmellow Trowell with tags , , on March 17, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

From every possible angle confusion descends. There’s nothing wrong with that; I can hear the acceptance in my voice and it feels like a diamond tipped back-scratcher. The scars are going to be beautiful. Even with the confidence of flowing water, a certain fear of mistaken identity pervades the conversation. Maybe such cool-water confidence is the easy part of the game; even the memories that go back far enough to be of some use are just partial pictures from a time before I knew enough to be of any use to anyone, myself included.

It would be savage fiction if I tried to imply that any of the controls made any kind of sense. The labels are all in some language I’ve never seen, and without reference points or landmarks, even the map is useless. Whispered advice and long discussions lean on the phrase “remember when” as if it could be any possible help to remember what it was like to fumble around for words because an answer to a special smile had to be found. Everything in that smile is easy to remember except my reply. That smile said yes to things I’d never seen before. An entire world of pleasurable struggle, of things I’d heard about but never seen, and a few things I’d never even heard of. Such a smile comes along a few times in life, and even though my retort has since vanished, what matters is seeing the smile and walking on down.

With that in mind, this night requires a heavy mixture simply to organize the complex of reactions and tangents knotted together. Peeling footsteps off the sidewalk one after another and staggering towards a wet tongue and hoping it’s warm too. It’s the preferred way to travel if you’ve got any style at all. Laughter and morphine, concentration and skeptical faith keep the discussion at eye level. Internal dissension builds as we tear apart the plan of attack, but it’ll be rebuilt with a stronger foundation eventually. Just feeling the approach of hips and legs sliding past fingertips is enough to arouse an impassioned sense of self-worth. She says she doesn’t know what I think she knows by heart. Endearing.

One thing I do remember is that the buildup is in and of itself more than the soft-sheeted embrace still to come. A few thousand miles from here there is still a white-walled room that was the only witness to a similar scene played out for similar reasons. Being so continuously destroyed and rebuilt in the convex irrationalism of stately sinecure means serving and being served as the natural order of things. Even if it comes down to expressionism symbolized by a glass of water on a hot night, the opportunity arrives only to the extent that defenses remain relaxed. It takes a long time to find your way back to what it was like before thirty tons of responsibilities and bullshit were dumped down to be given out to people in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not so beautiful, at least not in the classical sense.

Perched under the eaves and listening to crickets talk about summertime while thinking back to the original comment. Warm air moves slowly, circulating through the room and in between lips and throats and into lungs. Coming right out and speaking clearly diminishes the romance by removing the mystery. The sweet dependence on keeping you coming back for more while also making sure (or as sure as can be anyway) to protect the image from the light of day is a tough game to play. There is an intrinsic value to finding some small amount of hope in the reflections of light from reversed eyes that see me every time I look out to see. My assumptions would be weighted towards belief, if only because without signs of hope and faith, there is nothing else to go on. Every third word means something other than what it seems to mean; pointless rules to get in the way of finding out if you kiss with your eyes open or closed. I’ve seen both, which is my way of saying I leave them open. Except when they’re closed. Confusing business.

All the same, seemingly insoluble disagreements can find resolution with the passage of time. Hardened dogmatists will simply have to become brittle and crumble rather than remain convinced of the superiority of ideology. They must never think about warmth. Where would they find the time? Quite a theory to stick to rather than revise it based on new evidence. Here I am trying to get a better read on the amount of light reflecting from a pair of really friendly eyes and out in the street they’re reformulating evidence based on theory instead of the other way ’round. At least we won’t have to worry about figuring out why nothing is happening. I’d rather slice my eyelids off; still it remains to be determined where we stand in relation to the summer sun, and how we are gonna get there from here. Evinced confusion is just another layer to peel back before the last answer is given to a purely physical question. Trowell would be proud… he always says I’m too easy on the little bits of the world that don’t fit the spot they’re supposed to occupy. Could be that he’s wrong about that; besides I would never relinquish my addiction to rooting for underdogs. Better to keep plugging along and waiting for a certain smile in a certain light. Patience is a virtue, just not always one of my virtues.

Amidst the fog of confusion there is still a good amount of fun in testing wide ranging theories against what evidence we have. Yeah, you can play the part of a Rubik’s cube. You can double back on yourself, configure the numbers and colors into all kinds of patterns and configurations and hope my arms and hands work better than my legs. That being true, you’ll also get to turn a few times and find out if I look the same from the front, the back, or off to the side of a dimly lit room while music covers the sounds of breathing and smiles cover the confusion of early evening.

finally stumbling in…

Posted in bumper sticker stories, JL Stories, love n' luck, Sir Marshmellow Trowell with tags , , on March 13, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

Whats left of me is pooling out on the rug while the last bits of energy are put towards refining one of those 18 hour marathon bouts of circumspection. Having driven thousands of miles across mostly empty highways, I could feel the dissolution of all the locked gates keeping my imagination from drifting too far from shore. The few cars on the road are all the same color under the night sky, all tracked between lines painted on the asphalt leading to distant ports of call scattered across the landscape. Without even trying, you could absorb the rumbling of the tires as they spun their way though the single digit hours on course for deliverance wherever the road ended. Beauty in motion, aesthetics in flight.

Instead of tossing out whatever poetry came to mind to wander the highway like bastard children, I decided to keep them with me in the side pocket of my favorite pair of ripped up jeans. They were close enough to feel kicking around my pocket and occasionally pulling out leg hairs in some kind of blatant display of arrogant protest. What can you do but put your foot firmly on the accelerator and keep the pressure steady? Passing out disingenuous smiles in exchange for a few more minutes of easy movement was a tricky proposition; the scales weren’t even close to balanced. As the hours piled up, the raindrops and clouds just kept coming. Who knows, maybe I just kept chasing them, desperate for any kind of passionate contact that could lead me back to the safety of friendly faces kindly acquaintances.

Even getting off the road doesn’t really end the journey. My blood is still being propelled through my veins and arteries with some extra force thanks to a strong combination perfectly timed. Perhaps the jagged nature of the experience is in some small part a kick-back in exchange for the chance to think without walls closing in or collapsing in the midst of curious exploration. Too much effort to over-think what is a relatively simple prospect. When breathing gets dull, just reach for some new activity to keep your interest from flagging while imaginary phantoms question the motives of every possible course of action. Whatever it takes to keep the eyes open and peering over the steering wheel is the most luxurious choice. As long as continued existence is something more than a hobby or a theoretical prospect, the rhythm of rolling steel can only take you as far as you can take it. Just like everything else in this world. We’ve come to depend on dissonance and Catch-22’s.

Assuming my former location; after the marathon of daydreams swept up from the dirty corners of everyday experience, it feels good to make it back in one piece, even with a fractured mind too tired to do anything more than react. Even minus the notoriety of the regionally famous, there is still the same need to expound, to keep track of all the bits and pieces and perhaps even make some sense out of the kindness of strangers. The excitement of feeling my way through hyper-realistic conversation with a red rose disguised as a tulip grows in proportion to the thoughts and wishes of undisclosed third parties and the taste of salt. Some things never change.

Before fleeing the sunshine state for the reality of post-winter melting back home, a confession of fear set the stage for fierce negotiations vis a vis expectations for the coming summit. With more time to tease out the semantic differences most responsible for the burgeoning opportunities, I have the confidence of Trowell and high hopes of finding something more valuable than money and harder than diamonds. If we both take what we need, we can split the rest and make out like bandit kings. Romance in the age of fortuitous coincidence. One comment about a throwaway poem and we’re off and running. Barely believable at times, yet here we are on the precipice just waiting for the go-ahead to jump. There isn’t really any unitary experience that can equal such cynical imaginations reformed into curious shapes trying to match up square pegs with square holes. I guess it’s just how these things are done. With any kind of luck, we’ll all know soon enough.

Finally exhaustion is too much to ignore. I’ll be smiling as I sleep off the long drive and the introspection of the coming parlor games. For this mysterious personage inspiring poetry and laudatory fantasies, there’s still the little matter of finding out what made you notice me standing around practicing verbalization strategies using salient fear as a jumping off point. Context being what it is, the phrase was too narrowly defined to be of any use at this distance. Instead, it’s time to get in close and find out if the answers satisfy the same way questions lick around the edges, occasionally darting in, risking a taste of what’s there. Think of it like coming face to face with brilliance or genius waiting to be noticed. The closer we drift, the more lascivious the dream amongst all the possibilities for compromise where everyone gets what they need along with a touch of what they want. Home again, but always moving.