Archive for the the lost children of the bokonists Category

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.

almost like menechino…

Posted in Hysterical Romance, Learning About Life, love n' luck, Poetry, the lost children of the bokonists, thoughtful trips with tags , , , , on December 15, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

building permits

you’ll be thanking me.
i was gonna go with
a long,
drawn out,
poor me prose rambling
’bout endings & this
& that. seemed
sensible enough at the
time.

four frigid cigarettes
later i knew there
was no reason
to fall apart
on myself now.
(irony is free,
as always.)

bumps & pot-holes
on the road; nobody
promised an easy ride.
right now,
feelin’ this strong
for a moment,
it’ll be okay.

after all, there are
possibilities &
the perfect
chance to rebuild.

no reason to take
more than needed;
no reason to ruin
a good thing &
right now, i can
use all the good
karma i can get
my hands on.

———————————————

Dedicated to someone who taught me something important tonight. Inspired by Bruce Cockburn, who is always the right man for music when it absolutely positively has to be the right song; ‘Peggy’s Kitchen Wall.’

if you don’t know what to do just drift…

Posted in Fear, Poetry, the lost children of the bokonists with tags , , , on December 8, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

the drifter

nothing can stop the
floodwater march. i
came too damn late
to do any good; it’s sandbag-
living with repercussions
i’d payoff to leave me to a
loosely inspired daydream about
ring fingers & friends
forever.

i know i’m deep red
inside & out without having
to look. less certain is whether
anyone is searching for
me for the same reasons
i’m looking for them. hope
springs eternal even if
busted or broke or floating
or all three.

watching wreckage float
past, a far-off voice asks
if we’re still okay. i’m too
worn down to set ’em straight;
a jesters laugh is my only
reply. hope springs
eternal, but he needs to
figure that out for himself.

biography…

Posted in Loveable Losers, Poetry, the lost children of the bokonists, Unanswered Questions with tags , , on October 18, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

biography

in another life,
my hero was richard blaine
but it cost too much
keeping up with those
white tuxedo jackets.
i had to forgot
about him until
i found a job.

a while later,
i’d gotten hired-
on as a
silent elevator-
accompanyman on the
graveyard shift at one
of those big government
munitions-developer
companies. it paid well
& kept me in tuxedo jackets.
whatever they were
building never did
get off the ground.
didn’t matter near
as i could tell.,
i lived in an important
congressionsal district;
these contracts
were guaranteed all
the way to the president.

during a chance meeting
with a 4 star general
during the graveyard shift,
i’d finally opened
my mouth & got fired
for the effort. he
was on his way up
to a floor higher
than i’d ever gone to;
i greeted him respectfully
(of course
admittedly unprofessional
thing for a silent elevator-
accompanyman) &
told him he was the
first 4 star general
i’d ever had the honor
to silently accompany
on an elevator ride.

the general smiled.
the general said
i looked good,
& we’d be attacking soon;
he could always use recruits
if i was tired of my
present occupation.
looking him square in the eye,
(military guys love
that)
i told him i was already
4-F. to his credit, he
held his 4-star temper.
he wouldn’t
even spit at me;
said i wasn’t worth it.
“live and let live,”
i said
(and shrugged.)

he did say i was looking
good. that’s the only part
of the encounter worth
keeping in mind. gotta
love 4-star general
who won’t deign
to spit on
the unworthy; i wonder
who he was trying to kill?

as for me, i was able
to close out that
life just fine. i picked up
a new one at a
garage sale in Houston &
here we are,
talking about nothing.

not that it’s
any of my business,
but i was wondering;
how’d
you get here
again?

——————————————————————

The suburbs are a weird place full of strangers. Never more true than now, nowhere more true than here. It happens.

sunrise on the potomac…

Posted in Early Morning Silence, Poetry, the lost children of the bokonists with tags , , , , on October 7, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

sunrise on the potomac

slow shuffling indian summer sunrise;
jukebox sounds rescuing soul-windows
from the ink-stain
evening. first light an
unmistakeably welcome sight for those
exhausted night-eyes beginning
to take the color of
the surrounding dark.

uncountable, wind-kissed
gold streamers lengthen &
surround snarling dark dawn;
pockets of brilliant light
grow larger as the planet
turns to meet the sun.

after such an interminable
wait for daylight &
visible calm,
morning clarity boasts lustful
certainty for anything
easily hidden;
warmed & reassured in
one easy motion.

morning
barely broke a sweat
displacing night;
i was happy
to have that kind of power
on my side
if only for a moment.

everything else would
have to come later.

————————————————–
Inspired by watching dawn break for the 4th time in 7 days. Finally think I got it. Dedicated to you know who. (What, you have to be talking to someone to dedicate a poem to them? Who makes these rules?)

’cause someday i wanna be a poet…

Posted in Late Night Silence, Poetry, the lost children of the bokonists, thoughtful trips, Unanswered Questions on September 30, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

the gang’s all here

slept depraved nights
to pellet rifle mornings;
no choice to make. when
fallin’ backward into Bogart
& a whistle
on the summer
drive-in screen;
what else can there be?

gathering dark &
domesticated intuition
submit to the great unknown.
only preparation a
skill-saw education for
one-time humor;
“the northwest-pacific is
no place to be.” yeah…
it might be laughter.

partway back, deleterious
events,
accidents,
impossible elocution.
so much more;
all too human &
out for blood.

tangled lines,
endless laughter,
halfway home; &
this ain’t s’posed to happen;
i’m coppin’ it sweet
while you can’t remind me,
why this a good idea.

calm down ditch-dose-critter;
Trowell made his great escape
from notoriety and
maturity. he’s as fine as always;
we’ll be too. besides,
i heard he sent
apologies to that
blond with an english accent.

too much tellin’ it straight
around here;
if you ask me. even
dancin’ on the bar,
she always wrote & sang
so well.

———————————————-
Too tired to dedicate this to the 1000 people or so who had a hand in inspiring different lines of this poem. Too late to say more than thanks to everyone for the inspiration even if you have no idea what this is about.

dry-foot philosophy…

Posted in Philosophy, Poetry, the lost children of the bokonists with tags , , , on September 26, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

she was not impressed

lascivious is a wet-word
going nowhere.

mistaken judgments
aren’t forbidden.
(the balls on this kid;
admirable.)
fuck,
around here it’s almost
mandatory.

it is a vile philosophy;
it comes with me to bed
six nights a week. you
should give it time
to sort itself out.
it bleeds occasionally?
don’t you?
(i warned you, it’s a vile
philosophy.)

it’s almost true,
admittedly. you won’t
wet your feet;
but neither will i. one
slightly deranged philosophy
is not a good excuse.

i haven’t hurt a
single-person in years;
too much effort
& besides;
it doesn’t mean
what-it-used-to.

——————————————–

Much like this poem was inspired by a visitors picture, the poem you just read was inspired by a comment from someone else a day or two ago (not sure, don’t remember time.) It gave me a good chance to imitate myself, which is supposedly considered flattery by some, and by which I am flattered. On the other hand, just to indemnify myself should it ever become an issue, it’s all part of the same joke. Next you’re gonna tell me this is all real. Then we’ll laugh. Fuck it, I’m not waiting.