Archive for Descartes

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.

more than 48…

Posted in Cigarette, Descartes, Hysterical Romance, Insomnia, Late Night Silence, love n' luck, Poetry, thoughtful trips, Unanswered Questions, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on May 21, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

more than 48

it was only our 56th day & i knew
i’d hurt her by chance as well
as i knew she’d never admit feeling any
pain. we’re too far gone for any kindness
to soften the harder edges of what
used to be; i’m already bleeding
at the edge of tears knowing i let
a princess down.

i couldn’t take her where we shoulda
been; my car wouldn’t start & i for-
got my wallet in the coldest bedroom,
collecting silence like souvenirs,
(poems are free to the public)
i can’t sleep on this lonely night.

i told the mirror it was bad luck &
piss-poor timing. i shaved off more
than 48 hours of stubble at 3 a.m.
lookin’ for a smile that had disappeared
hoping it would dramatically reveal itself.
i ain’t angry, just disappointed in a
smile i couldn’t coax out of hiding.
been more than 48 hours on high alert,

she has no interest in Cartesian
dilemmas, even if she worries about
it without knowing what she’s worried
about. forget that fucking Gordian
knot; whether alex cut through it
or not, 56 days have passed & the sun
shines down as the earth rotates. all
that’s wrecked will be fixed with
sleep & the days last cigarette
smoked down to the nub.


Thomas Paine once wrote “These are the times that try mens souls.” I’d always taken him at his word, but lately it would seem to be far more of a metaphysical than metaphorical comment on the trials of life. Ah well, you do the best you can & hope for the best, just like everything else in life. Off to bed; two days in a row is a real killer & tomorrow is already here…

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

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

smile baby, it’s only me…

Posted in Descartes, Philosophy, Poetry with tags , , on October 18, 2010 by Caribbean Fool


every smile
flashes recognition
that anything
is possible;
mouse lives to fight another day
the alley cat
has dinner.

breaking down…

Posted in Descartes, JL Stories, Philosophy, Sir Marshmellow Trowell with tags , , , , on August 31, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

From the Diary of Sir Marshmellow Trowell

Terrible conditions from which to fight against dying tree leaves and shorter days. Desperation might be beautiful if it weren’t for the forced attempts to communicate what I don’t know how to say. Over and over again trying to explain how drowning works or why movement is desired but rarely achieved gets frustrating, alongside so much other debris. I gotta kick the can just to see the floor, that kind of thing. If it weren’t for cigarettes, I might have to revolt. Little can be gained from this whole enterprise, and I’m not sure how to explain it any better than that. Locked in here is staid; having broken my own spirit on the wheel… well, what next?

With the last of what’s to be found hanging out in the doorway and blocking every attempt to leave, everything seems like forever. Most of me is convinced that it’s all some type of coma-dream or narcoleptic state brought on by the collapse of some essential support system. The rest of me knows this is as real as it’s gonna get. Same as a recently killed pack of cigarettes. For most of the day you got backup; now you still got backup but it’s new backup. Nothing really changes and everything always changes. None of that can be true so it has to be.

Past these semantic overlays is the feeling of constant encumbrance. Moves like an ideal stallion, or maybe a bird of some kind with the strength to ignore down-drafts. I keep finding little chips and cracks; pieces of evidence that don’t point in any particular direction. Whaddya do with shit like that? Ask the question, answer the question, propose some kind of derelict reason, dress the whole thing as wisdom and play pretend? Doesn’t it all have to fall apart sooner or later? I can’t claim any kind of authority here. This is the what in taking what you get. Fuck it, right?

Searching for rationality can be a daunting prospect if you consistently look in the wrong places. I used to think advice was harmless until I began to listen to the advice I was handing out. Feeling particularly horrified by monotonous repetition, all the while nobody ever questioned if it was wisdom because of an unspoken yet agreed framework for busting through the seemingly insoluble. Simple in-group inclusion and the deed was done. I couldn’t help but wonder how much trouble I’d caused. Extrapolating from my own experiences with advice didn’t settle any nerves, instead pinching off Descartes greatest achievement (not my characterization, but you get the point) so I could pretend everything was going according to plan (it wasn’t.)

Well, another reason for the cosmic pencil to come equipped with an eraser. After all, the deed was done, all we had now was recognition and as many cigarettes as we could get our dirty hands on. Everything melds together if you wait long enough, so I suppose I could always join with the predestination crowd if my conscience kept throwing up the past until all I had left was stomach acid and a burning sensation.

Things could be worse; at least it didn’t burn to take a piss or any such bullshit. Nowadays, that’s cause for celebration, at least locally. Yet another in a long line of uncredited achievements gained by repetitious breathing and a little luck. That’s the comes in taking what comes. Moving past all of that madness, the constituent parts seem widely displaced. An overwhelming feeling forces me into a prone position on the floor. Faint whiff of dualism; every time I think it ain’t enough, it morphs into too much. Grass is green and the sky is blue. I know, I know. More JL masquerading as something other than what it is. Right now, I couldn’t be farther from caring about any of that shit. Wrap yourself in what you got on cold nights. Remember it’ll be just as dark on the warm nights. Take comfort, assuage hope, repeat as needed.

Yet here we are, on the verge of watching Casablanca play out one more time. Maybe there are a few rusting hooks in me. Like I said, could be worse. The last refuge I can think of is the desperation itself. It would be impossible to be desperate if there wasn’t something worth protecting, even if I don’t know what it is. There are only the barriers we need, and the price of admittance differs in each case. Playing pretend with rationality is a symptom of some hidden sickness or extreme curiosity, and whatever it is that feels like it still needs my protection, I am determined to play my part. The timing is bad and the rewards nonexistent. In other words, you have to sit somewhere, play that cards you’re dealt, insert whatever cliche you find least objectionable. I’m exhausted from trying to convince someone, anyone, that what tastes like blood and looks like blood can still be corn syrup. That is reduced luck and faith, distilled into 2 proof mouthwash that don’t burn or hurt. That’s where I’m going you know. Even Superman needed a place to hide out. I’m as far from him as you can get, so you see how this gives my case a good finish with a touch of gravitas.

Now is a good time to quit for the day. Cigarettes gotta burn if only for the calm nerves and relaxation to be more than a pipe-dream inspired by proto-evangelicals hyped up on speed and preaching like there’s no tomorrow. Careful where the advice comes from. Sorry I can’t do more. Guess we’ll find out if there is a future in oppositional attraction or if the whole thing is mythology. Gotta put your money somewhere. No use fighting for nothing.

ms. __________ want’s her afternoon back…

Posted in Descartes, Poetry, Scott Kirby, thoughtful trips with tags , , , on May 10, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

holler down

just after three and i’m beyond
caring how good i feel. tying
a stranger’s glove around
my throat, tightly wound makes
breathing difficult, but what should
i expect in this swamp? all by my own
volition chained to hand grenades
swapping vertical for horizontal.
certainly movement;
by now uncontrolled.

i finished kicking around purgatory
in the flash of an off chance phone call.
planned meetings and such,
exchanges. the execution of business.
finally something i know how to do.
today we’re in the business
of feeling better, avoiding
citi bank in the clouds
and pigs on the streets. i swear,
i hadn’t any clue
it would be so simple.
only the logic of De Quincey
is to blame.

acidic aftertaste aside, there’s cuban music
like Scott Kirby heard on his teak-boat trip
for purposes of mood. shifty light,
flashing LED’s, textures for feeling
sentience and invincibility. no need
for a “next move.” this one’s
doing fine by me.

i rescued my friend from behind
thick glass via a strangers
cool grasp. liberation from Descartes
feeding synergy within the experience.
i found a savior because i needed to;
extrapolate the afternoon search for meaning
based on that.

later on i’ll shuffle back
to the sunlight and watch
shadows dance on asphalt.
if the show ain’t inside,
by process of elimination,
it’s gotta be outside.
happiness is such simplicity.
even afternoon saviors
arrive in small bottles.
reinforcements turned the tide.
simple as that.


Words don’t exist to explicate mornings like this. Dedicated to my afternoon savior. The least I can do is use the gifts I have been given to thank you for giving me back some semblance of sanity. I’d say I owe you one, but we both know one wouldn’t even begin to cover it.