Archive for Loveable Losers

fighting for air…

Posted in Ha Ha Funny, Laughter, Learning About Life, Loveable Losers, Poetry, Reader Requests with tags , , , , , , , on September 26, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

scratch of razor-claw on a concrete wall

i gave up waiting for the
temperature to melt through
my steel belt & sprinted off
into the densiflora instead.
long live pedicularis the ranger;
he holds the antidote to
purple evenings shaded blood red
where hooks & sharpened metal bits
play the part of judge & executioner
without a second thought. i
never sat on the suicide bed myself,
but i’ve heard strange rumblings
that the world is going to end.
i don’t buy it.

the bears may hold the
reign of temporary control;
i’ll give it time knowing
there is every chance the next
knock on the door will bring
a strange face with bonafide
ideas mated to the red-hot end
of blunted stick. i’ll probably get
the point sometime after it ends;
exit stage left.

i touched the razor-wire to see what
it felt like. not
sure if there’s an explanation for
such repetitious experimentation.


(authors note)

It takes so little to refill my faith in the great microphone of indeterministic decency. Tangible evidence was the only thing that could save the moment. Thank you. You’ll never know what it’s worth to me. Next refill is on me.


Posted in Friendship, Hysterical Romance, Learning About Life, Poetry with tags , on May 3, 2011 by Caribbean Fool


i know they’re ready to
help at a moment’s notice;
the temporary savior machine
demands no supplication or
ceremonial candlelight.
quarters catch the attention
of the people in charge of
that kind of thing; it’s all
there is & all you can expect
kneeling amongst cannibals,
monsters & memories.

all that coincidental bending
at the waist gets us close
enough to the alter. scenery
recognizable by powerful magic
in this age of medical necessity;
it keeps the infected footsteps
from cracking against cold
linoleum floors & echoes off
of deserted hallway walls.

stability at high cost. nerves
will fizzle & an angel sits
on my shoulder, urging me past
ashes of past confidence.
faithful to the fear of desertion
stuck in oncoming headlights,
we keep talking until we trust
each others smile doesn’t hide
a razor blade. there’ll be time for
those kinda games later.


Sorry to have been MIA so long. Sometimes it takes a while to adjust to a new life’s work & a new dream. Apologies, I will be posting more this week.


mirrors in the air…

Posted in afternoon requiem, Learning About Life, love n' luck, Loveable Losers, Poetry with tags , , , , on April 21, 2011 by Caribbean Fool


as usual we were slammed up
against the wall at daybreak.
realistic motion-action hip thrust
logic as spring stormed in through
the window & swept out harsh
winter through the open door.
no replacement for such elocution;
i heard every word, but
can’t do a damn thing about it
for now.

i’d laugh because it’s so ridiculous
but i got one of my razor blades
caught in my throat & talking
blood is getting cold. let’s put
down the knives for a sec; it gets
tiring as an anachronism even if
it is more fun most of the time.

besides, all of us are better
off as ships passing the night on
diagonal courses through a blinding
sun. free-market ready made excuses
for any kind of mistake any of us could
ever make. certainly ain’t worth
fighting over. nobody needs a beach
bum poet but desire feels so good.

we can shuck any responsibility like
clams to the slaughter. gilded
mirrors show us who we aren’t when
worn sunglass-style over wannabe
eyes; throaty gesticulation &
music for the background glare (i
hear it can soothe a savage beast
but never actually saw it.)
i can be your best-friend if you
don’t mind sharing the inspiration;
no promissory notes to get in the
way. if i break the mirrors & accept
any corresponding crumb-bum luck can
you pretend you never saw my
face or heard my voice?

words on the breeze of approaching
movements & original invitations. a
muse bats her blueberry eyes to
make a crowd appear. now i’m
left pleading my case to shards of
glass with a razor-blade throat. great
plan… when do we start?

of course you’ve seen a fool…

Posted in Hysterical Romance, Late Night Silence, Learning About Life, Marisol, Poetry with tags , , , , , , on April 19, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

low dollar dreams

ambrosial taste oncoming
momentary amnesia sets
in. everything will surface
sooner or later; drawn
deeply into a ten finger-
hug laminated with skin
cream smelling like kiwi-
almond texture spread
with the same care with
which one would assign
seats at an office get-

whatever is forgotten
won’t be the more im-
portent fixtures of day
to day living or even
subsistence level farming.
instead we’ll lay down
& compare stars, moons,
planets & asteroids from
the comfort of our bed.

i’m not asking if you see
your beauty reflected in
every photon dashing
around the room; i’m just
sayin’ i can see it clearly &
know those stars & planets
& moons are only background.
from where i sit, i can watch
you lay back to wish on a star,
faintly glowing from todays
light, double-sided stuck to
the ceiling, it’s only waiting on


Inspired by plastic glow-in-the-dark stars & the girls who wish on them.

questions of a pressing nature…

Posted in Laughter, love n' luck, Loveable Losers, Poetry, TWTC with tags , , , , , , on February 20, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

dinner & ink

miraculous the trouble one
tongue can create. if she knew
what i knew, i think she’d be
laughing behind my back &
in front of my back & maybe
even to the side of my back.

that’s if my chances are better
than ‘piss-poor.’ sum of knowledge
gained from past lives & former lovers.

distinction made between a kindred
spirit & a friend is close enough
to require teasing out in a conversation
we’re still waitin’ to be had. by the time
i found out it wasn’t a game, we’d
already played the first two rounds.
first was a draw; the second a loss
for the home team.

so what? i ain’t the first or last to
wonder ’bout part three; like if they’ll
be a part three. i got lousy odds, but
that’s why we play the game.


I know I’m screamin’ out an empty window on this one; don’t care. I’m in way too good a mood. Good dinner, LOST marathon, a whole bunch of other shit that ain’t fit to print… You know, when you’re unemployed, every night is Saturday night. What? It’s Saturday night? No shit? Huh. Who knew?

pirate flags for everyone…

Posted in afternoon requiem, Hysterical Romance, JL Stories, Laughter, Learning About Life, Loveable Losers, Music, Poetry, Reader Requests, sex with tags , , , , , on February 14, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

redecoration day

somebody mentioned something
about this hallmarked holiday. i wasn’t
buyin’ any of it. without changin’
something ’bout today’s waylaid tenor
or acute longing, it’s just business
as usual. i’ve no injury to exacerbate
& my bones are picked clean. cracks
in arctic oscillation spare a taste of
summer peakin’ through winter. the
kid’s okay.

valentina waits on attention from
a hidden lothario n’ i wish her well.
lamentations of the always coming
soon push hard against the touch
of almost anything. underneath
changes in hip position & shivers
of a kissed off transition from sad-
sack story to another onceuponatime,
whateverhappenedto. more i don’t
have an answer (for.)

now a couple of the neighbors are busy
fuckin’ it out. i’m not as amused as
usual. we’re all a bunch of sentimental
romantics here; tiny candles floating
in bowls of fuckin’ water & everything.
dredging up pretense is as easy as
elbow grease & means about as much.
if it really is a holiday, & i still doubt it,
then no explanation is required. either
way, the kid’s okay, if not better.


This whole episode reminds me of the Jesse Winchester song “Freewheeler.” Obviously, he said it about a million times better than I ever could. Well, that’s why you keep trying. Figure I’ll get it right sooner or later. Elegance of consequence continues to lose out to eloquence of contemplation, as it should.

collective vision of extreme psychosis…

Posted in Hysterical Romance, JL Stories, Late Night Silence, Loveable Losers, Music, Opinion, Poetry, sex with tags , , , , , , on December 20, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

same as ever

breathing way too
fast & hearts pounding &
everything is too
hot or cold.
too late to
care now;
don’t sweat giving in.

close enough to
see, even
feel. touched
in salt air
along this,
battered coastline
your hip thrust
is so
much acceptance
i wanna explode.

way too long playing
all-night paranoia games,
chasing chasing chasing
moments of interaction.

i’m diggin’ it.
chase halted contact,
lick me
bite me, dig
those fingernails,
across my back
’till i’m bleeding
& i’ll give it all back
you might trust me;
chase chase chase

i’ll be much better tomorrow.

I was gonna leave the poem untitled but a suggestion from someone who didn’t know I write poems was the perfect answer to the question. I rarely write sexually themed poems but I read a bunch of them on other people’s pages and figured why the fuck not? Throw in some references to torrential substance abuse and this is what you get. I mean, personally, I walk the straight and narrow (I can barely type that without laughing, just so you know.) These days you can never be too careful. (laughing really hard again.) In my defense, this is a LOT of fun.

what sammy said to randy…

Posted in JL Stories, Learning About Life, love n' luck, Loveable Losers, Poetry with tags , , , , on December 10, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

what sammy said to randy

sammy said to randy
“i can think up a million reasons
to get drunk tonight. i like that.
someting nice bout justifiably
tying one on. seems like the
kind of night for it, nothing
wrong with that.”

randy looked at sammy,
laughed without agreeing
n’ said “naw. not a
motherfuckin’ thing. except
for your fucking groundhog
day existence & insistence
of irrational paranoia. do you have
any idea how much that
pisses everyone off except

sammy smiled back at
randy and drowsily said
“yeah, i can sympathize.
but like you said,
i’m gonna forget
about this tomorrow.
guess that’s the way
it goes”

randy nodded gravely,
resigned himself to the
same old arguments,
pulling on a cigarette
for what seemed like
a million years &
blasting smoke into
a cloud above the
counter of the diner.
he thought to himself,
sammy could be a good
guy when he wasn’t
busy being such
a prick.


Guy walks into a diner and sits down. Can anyone drink coffee and smoke anymore? What a bunch of fascist pigs. Characters based on people-watching at the local International House of Pancakes and listening in on discussions I had no business eavesdropping on. Sorry, but lets be honest, none of you eavesdroppees will ever read this, so my compunction is somewhat limited. Just so you know. Fairness and disclosure and whatnot.

no right answer…

Posted in Learning About Life, love n' luck, Poetry with tags , , , , , on December 8, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

better luck next time

awful far away for
words needing proximity
to be closely spoken.
no chance playing
possum, hoping like
hell for reprieve, or
warmth on a
cold night.

cold bed-sheets taunt
a tired body with silence;
mirror-like response to
desire for a partner in crime
who’ll stare at the same
ceiling & see the same show.
i’ve had it explained
hundreds of times; i
still don’t understand.

trying to talk but words
are ice & shatter before
they do any good.
would it matter?
distances heavy enough
are impermeable to language.
cold-sheet messages,
ice-words spelling out
indecipherable clarity,
& nothing desired except
shared HEAT.

for now, it’s just me;
overlapping silence, darkness
& sub-freezing winds
beating on window seals
n’ waiting for morning.
easier to check for damage
& make any needed repairs
in fresh morning light.

ain’t greedy…

Posted in FML, Friendship, Insomnia, Loveable Losers, Opinion, Philosophy, Poetry with tags , , , , on December 7, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

can’t ask for more

you’re good to go.
take what you got,
for fuck’s sake let
it go & no matter
what you think you
done; it won’t matter
for a while. even if true-
fried minds know instinctively
that gone is gone.

blasted for momentary
enjoyment, or at least
pretending like a pro
buys more hours of peace.
what’s in a night that
ain’t part mistaken
identity within
distance or darkness?
bein’ bad is so normal
in comparison, & easy.

nothing to do now
‘cept rock back n’ forth
in late night silence &
deepen crows feet
while music plays.
if there’s any saving
irony, it’s hiding out
of sight waiting on
whatever comes next.

sentimental evening &
falling through life,
knowing a lie is out
of the question.
reaching into a thread-
bare bag of tricks hoping
like hell my fingers
brush-by one more miracle
before time runs out.


A pious declaration of life’s unanswerable questions. We redefine success as often as the carrion is eaten & we’re forced to move on. Oddly, a winning hand in some sense; at least it seems so if Darwin is to be believed.