Archive for Fear

they come with questions…

Posted in afternoon requiem, Cigarette, Fear, Friendship, Laughter, Poetry, thoughtful trips with tags , , , , , on September 29, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

“fantasy of movement”

i don’t know where we are.
driving through arteries soon enough
to be choked with other travelers
heading back to a lodge in the
crack shack with all the evidence
of arguments & bullet holes.

we are the lovers dancing at the
end of a silver string. all
our games are scripted but no
rules are enforced. willing par-
ticipants; every penalty a bruise
with a purple/yellow story. rampant
is the mistaken belief that
this chemical road turns to dirt
later rather than sooner.

signs of resolved struggle
dash through the afternoon, dancing
through car windows. sunflower
oil & black licorice leftovers
demand no attention; given
time the precursors reconstitute
themselves. we will discover
a new form only afterward.

we ain’t the good guys…

Posted in Fear, Friendship, History, Insomnia, Learning About Life, Never Been, Poetry, thoughtful trips, travelogue with tags , , , , , , on July 13, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

rumor, perception & reaction

must be something ’bout
the kind of folk collecting as
whispers tolls under bridges
& the plans of outlaws running from
trumped-up charges accruing at
a daily rate. the music is okay,
even with their judgment for shite;
all the guts to follow the
story spilling out on floorboards
shot with holes that usually let
light-beams from stars through
since the ceiling fell in.

not much time to wonder when
bullets are flying over
telephone lines until i
strap on kevlar just so i can
let it ring. might-have-been
tourniquet solutions superate
between feasibility studies passed
along to unseen eyes. so rarely
a study in beauty,
the questions never asked,
another fuckin’ street-side
proposition.

safe path is to agree that bore-hole
flooring below the flaming telephone
lines & a joke gone wrong are no
place to hide. the sensorialists
will have a field day with the real-
life research; the possibilities are
endless.

————————————–

For those situations that spiral rapidly out of control due to over-reaction. As always, there is a reason it’s called a ‘passion play.’ Quo vadis?

take it…

Posted in afternoon requiem, bumper sticker stories, Fear, Ha Ha Funny, JL Stories, Learning About Life, Poetry, travel, travelogue with tags , , , , , , on June 19, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

take it

day-night express runs a few times
before a leftover roustabout from the
deep-sleep detox crew rises & shines.
taste the sanity before tidal flows
rush out; another dirty t-shirt
hoping to rise clean, washed out
anywhere but here.

wind & water conspire under a
brimming horizon. gunfighter sun
peeks over the forest line off
in the distance. nobody shoots back
& the planet spins & occasionally
wobbles while gunfighter sun
stands taller & taller. it’s
like that all over the planet;
happens in reverse too.

i want whatever that guy in the
mirror has. he doesn’t need it
like i do. he takes the hit,
same as me, but i swear he’s
forever getting more out of it
than i can take in at once. he
doesn’t need it like i do.

————————————–

gasoline alley…

Posted in Fear, Learning About Life, Opinion, Poetry, Politics, thoughtful trips, travel with tags , , , , , , , on March 9, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

paint thinner revolution on gasoline alley

nobody is coming to
help. complaints don’t reach
government sanctioned office ears;
if he didn’t burn he damn sure
would’ve starved. dead is
dead atf.

Faida stalks
her beat knowing damn well
there’ll be no succor for those
unorganized demons of hunger
& thirst. petty tyrants are
everywhere lately; she wields
a truncheon like a champ.
(imagine for a minute she
was pms’ing on 12/17. let it never
be said real revolution
doesn’t begin in the womb.)

all the same, nobody knows
if it really matters.
billyclubs get swung. be a
waste to forever argue
good from less good.

in a few weeks most of the
planet was screaming for mercy,
a few kilo-calories & a future
for the blastocysts waiting on
their turn to burn down or up
or to one side or the other.
repetitious cellular division bears
the mark of soon-to-arrive children;
what can you hope for
if the food all tastes like burnt skin
& fat & blood while the water is
paint thinner?

i was driving toward the beach on
my own trip
when the man finally left here
somewhere else. i’m told
scorch marks still adorn local court-
house steps though different faces
occupy government offices. another
martyr paid in full & again got
nothing he wanted. written off;
i think it’s in the job description.

i didn’t know the man & now i
never will. i know he took more
shit than he could live with but
how lucky was the man that he
didn’t? dead is dead.
now he’s known from Sidi Bouzid
all the way down gasoline alley
to Washington, DC where
the IMF boys & WTO girls make
mama so proud burning
incense to cover the smell.

————————————————-

Inspired by M. Bouazizi. You got the shit end of the stick in life. All things considered, I suppose it was an odd meeting; maybe that’s what happens when we cross paths in the one dimension that doesn’t rely on geography for proximity. (Though in fairness there are nine others of the M-Theory folk are to be believed. Fuck it; this isn’t about physics, it’s about biology. And physics.)

what was that…

Posted in Cigarette, Extreme Spinal Pain, Fear, Late Night Silence, Learning About Life, Poetry, TWTC with tags , , , , , , on February 23, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

where’d he go?

transient obsessions dependably
move on towards whatever point
in the sky they’re bound for. let
’em go; no reason to hang around
if gravity isn’t getting involved. when
ya wrap my gifts in barbed wire &
forget the band-aids, you don’t have
to say a word.

i’ll stay still, transfixed, staring at a night
sky i can barely see from look-inn point.
a little imagination goes a long way
out here under a wannabe starry
night ripped from canvas to be pasted
overhead. before that it was a girl
who loved anne sexton poems hangin’
around but she’s somewhere in the sky
too. before that; i don’t know. doesn’t
really mean anything.

my mentality of a flesh-wound lifestyle;
nothing serious, ’cause i ain’t gonna
remember anyway. standard treatment
calls for immersion therapy as long as
it takes to convince the patient that
everything is exactly where they’re
supposed to be. i ain’t got the faith for
any of that to work on me.

time
money
identity
purpose

mission creep towards look-inn point
where i’ll rendezvous with my shadow
& be reminded how lucky i can be if i
set my mind to it. dead-set against it
but what can you say? bullets hurt.
i’m told to take credit for parenthetic
victories i know nothing about.
evidence jibes more with defeat. it
looks the same to me but i’m willing to
be convinced i’m wrong.

if it’s easy enough on you, i’m gonna
sleep on it. if it still feels right come
sunrise, all questions will be answered;
just not by me. got a cigarette?

——————————————

Dedicated to the honored dead everywhere. You gonna tell us how it got that way? Inspired by chronic delusions of reality cashing out at the casino knowing it’s time to find a new game to play.

enter the fool (part 2)…

Posted in Enter The Fool, Fear, Insomnia, Laughter, Monday Poetry Potluck, Poetry, TWTC with tags , , , , , , on February 7, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

Part 2

no more apologies

first timer tricks are hiding up sleeves,
or sharin’ pockets with aces n’ deuces.
outside, muffled voices lose themselves
in discussion. talk falls back on current
events; irreducible complexity & six day
exhaustion. in temporary unity raw fear
is surreptitiously replaced with transient
faith in vagabond ponytail philosophy.

days later n; heard i’d been missin’ a while.
only thing i remember are insistent sunset
binges though sunrise turns me on as much
as that beautiful dancer. received wisdom
taken home in a spare pocket highlights
lessons to be learned. even under daytime
starlight i mistake change for progress.

still not sure ’bout what’s lost.

——————————————-

Feels like forever. TWTC & exhausted to boot. That was really bad news yesterday. Guess they can’t all be winners Billy Bob…

whaddya know?.?.?.

Posted in Fear, Music, Poetry with tags , , , on January 12, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

letting go

broken right hand
leftover from a fight
that couldn’t even
generously be called
a draw. jacked-off on
the back end of a
pancake morning that
didn’t hit rejection until
the last possible second.
par for the course; months
prepping with fish-hooks
dragged across skin as i realize
“i’ve been here before.”

harsh contortions maneuver
players into untenable positions
relying on long-shot odds
of eventual recovery. not
sure if imaginary ecstasy
does much for any part
of me still anchored to reality;
torture comes with the territory.

standing alone at center-
stage, i welcome those
tiny voices to shut the fuck
up & hope tonight is the night
they listen. terrible plan of
attack; gonna take a lot
of time to get this wrong mind
right. lights are already on
& here at center-stage i’m
desperate to get my lines out
before they’re forgotten
or prophetic.

————————————

Dedicated to Joe Henry for his song “Tiny Voices.” Inspired by the verse

“I can quit this anytime,
It’s just to help me sleep,
It stops the tiny voices
And strange hours that they keep.
Who wants to hear them bleating on,
And have to answer too?
Better to be dumb when I’m
Falling for you”

(Joe Henry “Tiny Voices” lyrics here.

So what does it mean? Not a goddamned thing. That, and you can always count on hearing the one out of your 100,000 song catalog that twists that knife farther than you ever thought possible. It would be bloody amazing if it went down any other way. Well, on the bright side, tomorrow is a big day. These next 12 hours go fast if I have to get out & push.

tabula rasa

Posted in bumper sticker stories, Fear, Friendship, Philosophy, Poetry, Politics with tags , , , , on December 1, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

tabula rasa

all the same
calm before the storm.
drinking from
absinthe flowers,
watching colors
disassociate from linnaean
classification &
mocking everything
from a distance of thought
that might be miles
wide.

now, i ain’t duck-
walking or anything like
that. there’s deprecating logic;
instead i just laugh
at old scars thrown over
wounds like blankets.
just old jokes really, a
muffled voice tryin’
like hell to tell
a story nboody
wants to hear.

nothing true can
ever be kept quiet. my smile
slips into an unknown number
of accidental revelations.
time will never be
this easy to steal
again, hand-me-
down-stories of
an indolent thief giving
away his rewards make
rounds faster than i could.

confidence won’t
be a problem. holding
so close to the vest
brings the curious onlooker
forward to see, even
without any linga franca. no
desire to save or
take sides on some
fucked up rationalization
regarding how this
world ‘should’ work.

it ain’t my department.
gears grind & i
oil them. lips
tingle as answers dissolve
& enzymes begin
working magic. two
years ago, i helped pick
the man in charge;
that’s all the damage
i’m gonnna do. now on,
it’s languid acceptance
of what i see.

more ‘n enough
anyway I weigh out,
ahead in the end.

stay…

Posted in Fear, JL Stories, Poetry with tags , , on November 6, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

stay

morphine sulfate &
nothing to eat. whatever
dangers keep
you coming back
for more while
hoping to see me
strangle my only
partner in crime
is the only friend
i got.

fighting this losing-
battle over inhalation,
administration, inoculation,
goddamnitall just
shovel the shit my way;
you have no idea
how much i can take.

only loyalty i know
is the poison
backing me up.
hold me down
’cause
the countdown
towards extreme
jaundice continues to
approach &
if i’m gonna
fight let’s hope
you untied
my left hand.

junkie chic &
a wake-up call
from the prettiest girl
at the party;
you know what it’s
worth to have that kind
of morning?
everything.

fall hard ’cause
there’s nothing
to hold onto ‘cept
lather building foam
out of breath & spit.
it has to be your
sulfate to rest here;
don’t plan on leaving
until it’s all
cleared up.

————————————————————

Inspired by what might be the longest morning ever. I’d try to explain but it wouldn’t make any sense, etc., etc. I want to dedicate this but I feel like that would be extremely poor taste. Split the difference I suppose.

the butterfly bitch part 7…

Posted in Fear, Poetry, The Butterfly Bitch with tags , , on October 1, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

36963

we coulda kept fighting; guess
gettin’ far ’nuff apart makes
everythin’ distantly weightless.

miscarriage & rift & so much
learned still not understood; i
can’t get down the difference
between being saved & cursed.
both of us rebuilt an existence
assembled from leftover keepsakes.

i smiled when you married;
you were gonna be his problem,
forever & ever amen, until
everything turned around;
i got lost asking why butterflies
would flap wings if not to fly;
i’m scared Sun Pie was bein’ honest
when he told Dylan all the good
in the world had already been done.

doesn’t seem like a choice
to keep getting up early.
maybe i can get up early enough
& it’ll be yesterday;
everything will still make sense,
everything will still be to come.

better it can’t happen. impossible to
know why a butterfly
would flap its wings if not to fly.

———————————————-

There are times I am convinced the unexamined life is the only life worth living. The closer this project got to completion, the more my life was taken over by things I couldn’t (and still can’t) get any control over. I know everyone has a story, a what-might-have-been or some other torture device locked up in memories and experience. All the same, letting the djinn out its bottle has turned into a decision with severe repercussions. If I had it to do again from the beginning, I would not write a single word of any of these seven poems. Being done is mostly bitter with a pinch of sweet on top now that it is over (again.) I’d like to say I learned something about myself, but all I’m sure of is there’ll always be more questions than answers in everything that happens. Whether it happens for a reason or not doesn’t matter. The meaning is what you make, which only brings us back to the beginning, hoping that there is some trust left somewhere to rely on. The best thing to come out of this whole experience is the hope that Sun Pie is wrong. Dead wrong.

Thanks to all who read & commented on these poems, they are easily the most personal I have ever written. Next project? Either breaking all my fingers with a hammer (so I can’t write anymore, not as a punishment) or another set of poems developed around a new theme. Number 2 is more likely in this case.