Archive for De Quincey

marisol visits a reclusive poet…

Posted in afternoon requiem, Cigarette, De Quincey, Hysterical Romance, JL Stories, Marisol, Music, Poetry, sex, thoughtful trips with tags , , , , , , , on May 3, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

who do you think i am?

dollar cost averaged into
life; with any luck the music
plays for a few seconds longer
than the dance lasts. that
girl with a pin-up smile topped
with a glowing aura is
running a fever &
needs to sleep it off.

i know that kind of smile;
after the gunfight ‘tween
clinton & those gangs i’m
not surprised she was looking
to escape though nothing is
ever entirely accidental. a man
sees what there is to see
& falls for the scruffy hearts’
club mascot. comes with the
territory. ain’t complaining
’bout my good luck today.

my speedball mentality is a paced
logic without precedence; she’s
sugar-fruit falling from a star tree
in a grove hidden from easy view.
i poured the last ounces of sunshine
from my hip flask into a shot for
both of us. midnight flashed into
brilliant afternoon as marisol
clambered down from the sugar
tree. we practiced healing each
other & settled for lowered
fevers without the aches & pains
of separation. anything else
would have been too much to
ask for under the near-perfection
of midnight afternoon.

————————————-

For Marisol. Hope you feel better.

i can smile so good…

Posted in afternoon requiem, Cigarette, De Quincey, Poetry, TWTC, Unanswered Questions with tags , , , , , , on January 11, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

breathing easy watching snow fall

got more’n enough of
everything i might need to
watch snow drop from clouds
too high to see. outside,
disregarding any semblance
of sober sanity, frozen rain
falls through air & slams into
ground; it’s a long journey
for a hard landing.

previously bagged comfort
& support fuels a peaceful
enjoyment of the snow show.
the dissonance in beauty inscribed
on each bit of ice taking its
own silent death-trip would
stagger Aristotle. flakes plunging
beautifully like dancers in high
wind all the way down requiring
nothing from me save observation.

with my slick gearshift movement
kinda luck, there’s nothing left for
worry; everyone coming is still
coming & everyone leaving has
left. why worry ’bout every
snowflake? it’s enough to read
curves in the wind doubling back
into whirls & eddies, guessing
flight-plans built on variable
probabilities. i’m gonna sit back &
watch the snow fall, not thinking
about anything.

—————————————-

Bruce Cockburn once said ‘All I ever thought was, ‘I’m going to do this as long as I can, and if I can’t get paid at it, I’ll be a bum doing it.’ And so, here I am.’ Nothing quite so thrilling as meeting one of those that have been there before. Even his crazy demagoguery seems less crazy after reading him saying that.

skillsaw education…

Posted in De Quincey, Opinion, Poetry, TWTC with tags , , , on January 7, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

buckshot

remember.
it ain’t
everyone
or
anyone
or
no one
at all;
it’s just
you &
that can
be a lot
or a
little.

you’ll
answer
your own
questions
if you
insist on
answers. you’ll
play your own
games if you
insist on rules.

who else
can find you
a safe place
to drop the
other foot?

lost in self-
conversation,
who knows when
to fast-
forward & when
to stop?
puzzle pieces
look like they
might fit together,
but none do.

whatever is next
waits on the
brave ignorance
of accepting
whatever shows
in the mirror
behind the blood,
flesh & shaving
cream

might be laughter,
could be lunacy.

——————————

Dedicated to the tow truck driver from Wednesday night. Just proves there is a certain kind of wisdom that can’t be found until the right person arrives to deliver it. It didn’t solve any problems but it has clarified what needs to be done to solve the problems, which is the next best thing. You’re a good man charlie brown.

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
first.

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
melting.

it says right on the
packaging y’ain’t
s’poseda do this. well?
BRING ME A FUCKING LIGHTER.
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.

order’s up…

Posted in afternoon requiem, Friendship, Intervention, Learning About Life, Philosophy, Poetry with tags , , , , , on December 17, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

order-up

pop-tarts & jelly beans
on a homemade buffet-
line. grabbed a paper
plate & a handful of
jelly-belly tropical mix
then ate my meal.

polishing off a small snack
more appetizer than entree
barely even bothers the
pre-teen anorexics. i gotta
take the blame; shoulda made
more. i ain’t close
to full.

too hungry to quit, i punished
a bowl of apple jacks for insurance
against having to find more food
later. nothing artificial so far;
i’m enjoyin’ this sugar-
rush immensely.

the last sour patch kids
sit waiting for death by
digestion. they don’t
know when hunger pangs
return, waiting’ll end.
after all, when hungry,
you gotta eat.

————————————–

It ain’t quite heaven & my eyes are open to whatever is left of the day. You never know; the answer could be just a few minutes away bonded to circular invitations to a hot shower and a clean start on the evening’s activities, whatever the fuck that means. Casablanca on Blu-Ray again? Perhaps, after another long hot shower and perhaps more poetry. (Side note; you know Rick doesn’t go with Ilsa. Victor gets to do that.)

so long…

Posted in De Quincey, Descartes, Music, Philosophy, Poetry, thoughtful trips with tags , , , , , on December 16, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

so long

didn’t take so long
to slide into a pair
of eyes that smiled
without knowing why.

intonation of inclination
(far short of
Orwellian by any means);
gettin’ informally expatriated
without ceremony can
sneak up on anyone.
my first reaction was a
sardonic laugh. right now,
plenty to laugh about.

televised music pushes
steadycool air around
retro-eyes; clears any
tears scratched
by smoke from falling.
a sugarsmile easily
covers up any
out-of-sync visual
effects.

with requisite new eyes,
(old eyes saw the same,
though sometimes reached
alternate conclusions) the
volume of music increases,
covering up sight
from new eyes vying for
attention from the
change in perspective,
so long until the road
bends around.

it’ll get comfortable,
one of these days. changed
perspective counts for
something; even if none
of us knows quite what it
is.

welcome to tomorrow…

Posted in JL Stories, Late Night Silence, Learning About Life, Poetry with tags , , , , on December 14, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

coming soon

the clocks are
of screaming;
day had come n’ gone,
here it is tomorrow,
good news
to the extreme;
whatever’s been lost
is now officially part
something called yesterday.
it can’t touch us now
& we’re not really sure
what it is.

you don’t have to
understand anything to find
salvation.
impossible to guess the change,
all we know is gone is gone so
you can’t lose the same game
twice. formulaic relief is
better than nothin’;
time passes, &
yesterday’s burns are
today’s scars, then gone
tomorrow.

friends pledged hopeful hospitliians
& whatever help can be spared;
kindness from every corner
helps me back to my feel
in ways only a friends grasp
can. gratitude is no theory
for me & my friends.

every clock in the apartment
swears it’s tomorrow.
my first day back workin’ solo,
& i’m done fearing
that guy in the mirror.
by tomorrow, time
to re-roll & ya can’t
lose twice.
ain’t nothing to fear/
can’t ask
for more than that,

—————————————————

Dedicated to clocks, sleeping, and recovery. Inspired by the cat across the street hoping to be let in the house with no luck. Wish i could help him but all I can do is extend sympathies and toss snacks his way, which he ignores due to lack of trust. Still, I root for the cat. I am a total sucker for underdogs of every type & stripe.

persuasion…

Posted in Poetry with tags , on December 9, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

hustler

sometimes you run out
of places to panhandle,
looking for back-up free of charge.

never too late to rerun the highway;
just piss poor timing, as usual.
if i wasn’t part fingers, i’d be all ears.

another day to conquer the world…

Posted in De Quincey, Early Morning Silence, Funny Morning Stories, Poetry, thoughtful trips, travel with tags , , , , on December 8, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

another day to conquer the world

nixon’s left foot;
rest of the mans been
coated in stickers to
hide the grin. stiff
commentary on strange
coincidences; reflections
finding mirrors & shit
like that. must have
been a good dream to
wake up laughing ’bout
glass hanging off trees &
not th’other way round.

full of fuel, taken on
enough seasonable
incredulity with cold
coffee. last of the
accidental fires are
out, or soon ’nuff
will be. wearing
locust gloves & moving
along the morning spine,
cup to lips & slake.
it’s time to buy a
fragment of paradise,
sit back & wait.

palliative remedy…

Posted in De Quincey, Friendship, Hysterical Romance, Poetry with tags , , , , on December 1, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

palliative remedy

there’s nothing
untoward in her
display of ubiquitous
self-aggrandizement. i’m
feeling expectations
inflate as her
arrival closes in,
along with the attendant
circus & bread,
gradually closed in
from potentiality
to prescient desire.

she smiles, &
her peacock feather
shit-eatin’ grin
breaks locks, realigns
rubix cube complexity,
& wrecks havoc on gravity. all
this & i couldn’t help
staring while her eyes
flashed shooting stars.
they slowed & stopped;
gave up their light
for amusement alongside
warmth for comfort.

waiting to touch such
ecstatic heat, i’m already
melting. too easy to imagine
the small of her back resting
against against me as
we sit together talking
about just how bad
we needed the touch & taste
that could slake our thirst.

later,
crouched
in front of a full length
mirror, i’m begging the
polished glass to apparate
a dancer over my shoulder.
with nothing but silence
answering back across the
the long distances between
greeting and love.

whatever the timeline,
there’s no choice save
waiting; she’s already
dancing & moving like
she’s made of rhythm;
distances can be covered
faster than imagined
but when she stops
dancing there’s only one
place to stand;
at her side.

hoping
i can give her back something
equal to the treasure
of her time. if she falls,
i’ll help her up, & when
she dances, it’ll be
beautiful.

—————————————————————

Dedicated & inspired by someone special with an uncanny talent Something for someone who has always been there for me. I can never repay everything you have done for me, but if you give me the time, maybe we can figure something out. You my dear, are the bees- knees, and anytime you need me, you know where I am. Thanks for everything, I owe you a thousand times. Always yours.

crb.