Archive for the Sports Category

i am not alone…

Posted in History, Poetry, Sports, Unanswered Questions with tags , , , on September 29, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

about last night

found the usual post-mortem
in black ink but it doesn’t
matter (in detail.) pouring some
music & another cranberry juice/gin
cocktail & i’m laughing
cause that’s what you do when
the last feather is pulled out
& you find out you can still

the interstellar tennis match…

Posted in afternoon requiem, Philosophy, Poetry, Sports with tags , , , , , , on June 27, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

the interstellar tennis match

i wasted another afternoon
speaking to the dead, again.
words & words & words,
& more of the same. time
as mind under the unconquerable

i stopped caring for specifics;
there is a more exculpatory
evidence all the time.
i can live with that, despite
some evidence to the contrary
turning heads as if following an
interstellar tennis match with
extreme equanimity.

whatever is wasted in the strain
of the temporal seeks homeostasis,
same as everything else. peaceful
avenues once held mobs; ask the
de Witt brothers. piss-pot logic
& dime store psychology aside
(if only for a moment) it still
rests easier when it rests.
sacrificial qualities or lust for
blood or slip of the tongue all
seem the same from here.

the interstellar tennis match is


Dedicated to Bento & Russell, with thankfulness as always. “Caute” indeed.

our hero hits the brick wall…

Posted in FML, Funny Morning Stories, Poetry, Sports with tags , , on September 19, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

speed, or animals on parade

by the time i’d slid from
panda to tiger, the
morning had irrevocably changed.
of course, speed ain’t really like me;
usually i’m a turtle. naw, just
on mornings like this; kind of
mispelled, a little off-center or un-
balanced. throw in a little
unmolested time, loosen up my
grip & let me stumble.
acceleration does all the work;

i can sit back in K2 seats
(up in the nosebleeds;) watch the game.
we’re on a shit run right now;
i think ours have minds elsewhere;
as fast as the game moves,
we’re all a step slow.

busted/back in my apartment. broken
into my own place again;
no choice in the matter,
had to get back.
stop laughing; liquid speed
really ain’t my thing even
on such slow mornings,
past hours too fucking tiring
to try n’ count, mysterious blood-
stains & changes in temperature;
nothing to really hang your hat on.
don’t-matter goes by so fast i
barely know what to miss.
i should tough it out, tame damn tiger
might turn out to be
a house-cat.

No dedication on this one. Inspired by the best-worst phone call ever. That was instant classic concerning both timing and subject matter. Too bad nobody is around to see it. Maybe some other morning.