Archive for BSC

black smoke chronicles (part who knows)…

Posted in BSC, Insomnia, Late Night Silence, Laughter, Loveable Losers, Poetry, Series, sex, TWTC with tags , , , , on January 31, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

bsc final poem

come with me

seems too easy bein’ overly sober;
with endings already revealed
before anyone can say anything
about a long fuckin’ time ago or
far far fuckin’ away. i’ve spent
enough time guarding darkness
during peripatetic solitude. self-
seduction never seemed so right.

no matter, can’t sleep here anyway.
all night, every night, i’m movin’ even
while motionless & staring into space.
wet-bagged eyes stay comfortable
behind sunglasses. polished correctly,
attention deflects toward inside jokes.
exhaustion without time to sleep, where
insomnia is news & bloody noses are
transmitted via blowjob.

lucky enough to find a bag of flames
held in reserve for midnight moments.
black smoke rescued & im born all over.
i’m feeling better with that razor edged
determinism dulled by vapid righteous
indignation. maybe it’ll even getcha off.
black smoke hides sobriety induced
visions of storytale endings. mystery
again rules supreme; can’t leach all
the fight out of this kid; not when it’s
still fun to bleed on occasion.


Thinking the fun starts tomorrow. Digga digga digga digga do. That chick giving off the girl next door vibe reminds me of a story I heard from a reprobate bastard waiting in line to buy one of those xmas tree angels from a discount retailer. In July. You don’t even want to know what that crazy fucker said he was going to do with it. For the sake of the angel, I hope it was idle chatter but don’t really believe it, much as I’d like to. It is that kind of world in times of crises. Somebody remind me what well rested feels like. That’s a kindness I’m willing to request. Oops. Shirley, you jest.

black smoke chronicles part five…

Posted in BSC, Poetry, TWTC with tags , , on January 2, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

jokers & fools

paradise alley tours
far & wide &
scatters good intentions
into every disaster;
never knowing enough
about how it came to be,
it had to become enough.

let loose a little at a
time & sharpen those
claws. you’ll never draw
blood or get under the
layers of exhaustion.
insomniatic pacing over
wood floors establishes
harmony without

stretched taut
between stars;
whatever rationale i started
with long since discarded.
darkness delights to cover
conversation between
personified evening hours
talkin’ nonsense to
the disenchanted.

only danger is failing to
convince myself sleep-sick
hallucinations are real.
trails follow movement;
living center-stage is
costing me more than
i can afford to pay.

or later it’ll run me down;
runs everyone down.
just what happens
or later.


black smoke chronicles part three…

Posted in BSC, De Quincey, Insomnia, Poetry, thoughtful trips with tags , , , , on December 29, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

gimme light

black coffee sits with
a burning cigarette, both
desperate for attention,
silently competing over
who’ll be drank or smoked

my tiny space expands &
contracts as i play with
my heartbeat; watching
ice melt in an abandoned
cup next to my computer.
takes more than you’d
think to push words
around & i can’t tell
if the ice is watching
me try to write
or i’m watching it

it says right on the
packaging y’ain’t
s’poseda do this. well?
let’s do this. now.
only thing more fun than
not following instructions
is coloring outside the
lines (go ahead &
trust me on this subject,
if nothing else.) coffee’s
pretty good. serious.


Ever write a poem feeling like a total prick & then realizing it about halfway through only to apply slapdash editing to quickly take out that pinch of vitriolic distemper? Yeah, me either. Thanks BMS. Seriously? “okay, Eddie.” Goddamit.

black smoke chronicles part four…

Posted in BSC, Bukowski, Cigarette, De Quincey, Fear, Friendship, Opinion, Poetry, thoughtful trips with tags , , , , on December 29, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

okay eddie.

stalled out this close to
the end, duckin’ too much
thinkin’. honesty can
be a real motherfucker
when it doesn’t go your way.
curled up, knowin’
that fighting two
battles ain’t much
an idea; how ’bout

not that it matters.
everything you want is
gonna come true, but
moving with you like that
almost makes me wanna
want to do it again.
seems dangerous.

if this is acceptance
(maybe i’m reaching?)
no need for anymore
tosses against those sharp
rocks waiting on time & tide
to smooth rough edges. their
patience is infinite where
mine is jest; wannabe
laughter from a
strangled throat.
i can’t speak as you
flee like a ghost
in the breeze.


Dedicated with what I’ll charitably call ironic hipness, and I’m not hip. At all. Trust me. Not real charitable either, but that one can be explained by poverty so fuck it, right? Also, no, I haven’t posted BSC part 3 yet; don’t worry. It will be up soon whomever keeps clicking on part one.

black smoke chronicles part two…

Posted in BSC, Poetry with tags , on December 20, 2010 by Caribbean Fool


i ain’t hidin’ from shit.
(is it even time yet?)
anyone else hear old-
toned salacious laughter
while rotten fuckers
(we can smell our own)
swear & froth something
’bout post-rapture
jokesters avoidin’ judgment?

love-throated voices
imitate greek chorus
warnings; polluted temple-
bodies & nicotine futures
& self-abuse. not like it
matters. paid-in-full
dispensation in my hip-
pocket are gutter rescued
letters of transit. i can
go anywhere i want,
or nowhere.

a group of solitary fools
kindly tip me off;
lok-tite bonding holds
steady a multivariate
universe filled with clowns.
they are us.
we laugh TOGETHER,
departing the closest
of friends.

variability paved pharma-
psychological cosmipolitan
highways in every direction.
walkin’ a while is my
best shot provin’ my
shit-eatin’ grin just a
reflection on reactions.
maybe not.

looking familiar here.
it stones me dumb
in realization.
i’m already home
& i didn’t know.


black smoke chronicles part one…

Posted in BSC, Poetry with tags , on December 10, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

black smoke chronicles
pt. 1

welcome to wherever we are

black smoke screened mind;
that’s where feeling comes
from. tripped up, faked out,
thrashed down, whatever
you want. it makes
everything else so much
easier like forgetting about
being forgotten about &
raging floods while camping
in Key West or walking
I-77 instead of seeing
the Boss play in North Carolina.

it’s working black
smoke like a damn maestro,
pushing all kinds of shit
aside in a vain hope that
forgetting about everything
is the solution & not the
problem. frenzied misunderstanding,
rolled around & studied
from every angle until
parsed passed meaning. amazing
what the right mix will do
to the wrong night. my
mood is improving as we
sit here talking…


A subject I have long ignored is something it is time to confront. The following series of ‘Black Smoke Chronicles” are going to be intensely personal poems sharing an explanation into why and how all of this started and what happens if/when it stops. Some themes/images/symbols have been repeatedly mentioned in past poems, but in the case of BSC, they will be dealt with in a more head on manner. I can’t tell you when the next poem in the series will come out since it will be a slipshod affair with an undetermined amount of poems written for the series. I will also put the standard link up if you wish to follow the series specifically. Thanks for reading, this should be interesting…