Archive for Cigarette

late in the day considerations…

Posted in Cigarette, Descartes, Opinion, Philosophy, Poetry, thoughtful trips, travel, TWTC, Unanswered Questions with tags , , , , , , , , on September 23, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

& what are you, anyway?

if i laugh too openly whenever
the razor closes in on one of
those mainline highway tours
it’s only because i’m holding
out hope that someday i’ll
grow up & be a cigar-store indian.
i test myself for sanity every
time i wake-up having watching
myself catch river-water in a net
under semi-dark skies.
everything is plural here.

next to the impossibly blooming
cigarette flower were palm trees
lining a riverbank illustrating a
pretense toward chalice duty
had the the sky not been so cloudy.
forgetting such experiences is
one of my chief preoccupations
& the way i spend most of my
starting into space time.

it fades to a regress of half
captured images memorable only
for the gaping holes in each frame;
the rest is mist, something about
the sun god apollo, maybe a
pattern in the camel smoke drifting
past my eyes. everything dissipates
into the same extirpated landscapes
& actions as actual rainfall
weighs on everything trying to stand
straighter tomorrow than was
possible today. cigar-store indian
training continues apace.


Dedicated to normality. It’s more unique (at times) than one might think or expect.


what happens next…

Posted in afternoon requiem, Cigarette, Poetry, TWTC with tags , , , on September 15, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

stuck in the middle

far too early for anything
as democratic as breakfast. our
cigarette cornucopia verified
by a single burning tip showing
through momentary darkness
hiding anything certain like
whether we’d been up for days
or needed to wipe the sleep
from eyes barely open,
then & now.

formally paranoid aluminum
men swear allegiance to an
indeterminate theory of
causality found in an
out-of-date textbook they
can’t read. a few of us
fence-squatters decided it
was easier to sway with
the breath of wind;
never having to push
harder than some minimum
effort against crowds
of delirium on both
sides endeavoring to plead
a case we few didn’t care
to hear.

enticements of experience,
expositions of the possible
& every soft animal pelt
running around the forest
keeping winter freeze at
bay; it all meant nothing
against decisionless paradise.
without anything said or
or done or planned.

enticement to momentary adulation…

Posted in bumper sticker stories, Cigarette, Funny Morning Stories, History, Laughter, Philosophy, Poetry, TWTC with tags , , , , on September 9, 2011 by Caribbean Fool


it got easier when i realized
not every problem requires a
solution; substitute ephemera
watchin’ a cherry smoldering
in a soon to be stolen ashtray
straightens out my evening hours
faster than pacing back forth.

holding my breath in a pocket
without a reason while my faithful
incendiary waits on my hand
to descend & bring the smoke
right up to the pearly gates.

neither of us has the countersign
& the wrong one knows our
schedule. sitting one-to-a-booth
with enough time to notice a
high-watermark stain reaching
for the top of a leased coffee cup,
i wonder if any of us are
washed frequently enough to
get any kind of close to clean.

no solution to the moment.
trying to share some sense
of a saving grace during
consultations with all
involved; it’s easier to
pawn off neverending nights
knowing there’s always
another hiding behind

too much going on to worry
about the coffee tasting
like cigarettes. waiting
on an explanation is out of the
question; even a complaint
would take too long. looking
around the booth, around a
mostly empty restaurant, at
a mostly empty pack of
cigarettes wondering what to
do when the last one burns out.


Got a cigarette?

marisol dreams & i dream too…

Posted in Cigarette, Friendship, Hysterical Romance, Late Night Silence, Laughter, love n' luck, Marisol, Poetry with tags , , , , , , on August 30, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

intensity under marisols constellation

without a need for explanation,
i could already identify a
strange certainty that we’d already
traveled deeper into this dream-
laden evening than the clock would
say or the calendar could prove.
pasting 150 nights to the ceiling
only strengthens my desire
to paste 151 on the same
canvas. marisol simultaneously
shines & reflects her dreams;
i hold on to my front row seat
with no intention of ever
letting go.

assigning numbers to such evening hours
would only distract from
the dreamer & dream. her deep
respirations rhythmically assure
me of a dream i come closest
to fulfilling only when awakened
amidst her light of day with our
familiar moment of recognition.

not even the shaking ground
beneath our feet under threat
of worsening wind & rain,
there is a quiet heartbeat
reminder of a dream, a face,
a voice.

marisol perfects her smile
sleeping off the after-effects of
accidental indifference to
sensational connection. it
keeps us breathing each others air
until we light mismatched cigarettes,
admiring the reddish glow reflected
in each others eyes under our post-
sunset skyscape.


Sometimes I dream of you when I’m awake. We’ve been a long time coming darling & you are everything I imagined you to be.

directional madness in a pseudo frame…

Posted in afternoon requiem, bumper sticker stories, Cigarette, Extreme Spinal Pain, Friendship, Ha Ha Funny, Poetry, thoughtful trips with tags , , , , , on July 13, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

blue surfer shorts

slash the mesh &
turn a swimsuit into
shorts. they’ve been with me
ever since,
over a decade for a
five dollar
lifetime commitment.

the burn marks were
once red cigarette cherries
hanging from my red smiling
lips. sometime while driving
they fell & burnt holes in the
synthetic fiber, if not my
skin or subconscious, &
certainly not my dick.

gentlemanly mis-management
espouses cheerful exhaustion.
you gotta get ready for the next
Big Thing. “always ready”
reply the surf-shorts,
“we’ve been here for years.”
some of that smoke-scent still
whispers stories all drunken &


From a comment a few minutes ago. Good thoughts, but down.

sometimes the crows they come…

Posted in bumper sticker stories, Fear, Friendship, Hysterical Romance, Late Night Silence, Laughter, Learning About Life, Peter Singer, Poetry, thoughtful trips with tags , , , , , , , , on July 7, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

first timer

up until now, i never
kicked the last breath
out of a hand-wrap to feel
the night close around me,
etc., fade to black. blowing
balloons in the oxygen
spiked air of a late evening
in springfield without rationale;
i wanna fuck my fiance while
she works tagging photographs
with biographical information.

my eyes are tired
but i can still laugh when
the meaning of this quiet
evening spills out of the
sky like spaghetti & present
something less than expected
& more than desired.

life with dark hair falling
across eyes colored to the tune
of the day played on a wind
instrument tied inside the case.
there are no expectations to
abuse as she moves a finger
across the screen. the last title
is omphaloskepsis & the picture
came out perfect.


For someone special. You have no idea what you mean to me.

thinking of the time…

Posted in Cigarette, Early Morning Silence, JL Stories, Learning About Life, Opinion, Poetry with tags , , , , , on June 22, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

“playin’ possum”

lightning threatened,
steeped behind furnace quality
heat. i was
sweating serrated ninja stars
& scared of what probably
wouldn’t happen post flood,
music & all.

normality is an everyday
commitment. well
intentioned cloud cover
joins us on the surface of
the sphere; important pitches
will be thrown, just not
the kind that’ll put the game
out of reach one way
or the other.
not yet anyway.

i haven’t got any proper
identification & nobody
believes a word i say.
metaphysical capitalism turns
all the stories about ridin’ the
pine into something fiercely heroic
& occasionally beautiful.
the whole picture is one of
disillusionment with aesthetics.

feed the prayers to the
hungry, divine the water
from the rock; following along
a shoreline half of something
& partially somewhere else,
the only constant is my repetitious
drags on cigarettes that all
taste the same & arrive in
the same box.

sometimes the smoke makes
pictures in the wind. some-
times not, & it dissipates easily
either way. free agent
destiny inks a secret deal;
somehow we raised up with
all the righteousness we could
assemble & smiled under weak light
from a cigarette lighter giving
everything it had to pass
along the flame.

it was time to move.


Just something I’ve been toying with for a while. More later, for now off to impersonate Nick Drake & see where the day takes me. I would guess big box store, but there is always hope. To the cigarette man, and of course mt