Archive for Music

fortuitous timing…

Posted in afternoon requiem, bumper sticker stories, Laughter, Learning About Life, Leonard Cohen, Music, Poetry, thoughtful trips, TWTC with tags , , , , , , on September 27, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

probably still is

time given over to the past
for momentary subterfuge
on an afternoon shredded to
pieces by the usual assorted
miscreants & vagrant
ideologues fulfilling
all kinds of bloody-nose
fantasies. it’s all the same
to me; i’ve taken worse
(& seen more of it.)

clouds drift across the landscape
trying to cover the holes in
the sky where they usually hang
stars. maybe its too early for
anything but a snort & drag;
petunia fields won’t hold
a candle to the khandahar poppies
but the afternoon grows more
ambivalent all the same.

dotting through violacea,
playing games past tense on shattered
afternoons like a good boy. i
might have grown up a little;
just more likely not.

———————————

Inspired by Leonard Cohen.

atrocious gambles on short odds…

Posted in bumper sticker stories, Ha Ha Funny, Insomnia, Music, Poetry, thoughtful trips with tags , , , , , on August 29, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

fat chance

thinking back & imagining
what it looked like from the
other side of the ocular divide
brought circumscribed attraction
to the fore.

mighta been an atrocious collapse,
barely prevented by slight
variations of entropy rippling out
from anthropocentric principalities,
a lidocaine memory smeared onto
temporal after-effects so
the whole thing lingers
on past closing time & coin
flips.

i’m playing my part with resig-
nation; there is no other
choice. hassling the victorious
would defy terms of peace,
regardless any competing desire
to reassure the faithless.
last of the first hours slip by
between shallow breath &
deep dreams. temporary exhaustion
finds long sought relief from
open eye syndrome between pillow
top mattresses & blankets.

all will move with local-photon
8 minute re-arrival. vitamin d
hangs in the air amongst amended taxes
& remains of mistakes that seemed
partly right at discovery. money-
good doesn’t getcha what it
used to, but it’ll get you enough
as long as a skosh is enough
for a life of plenty.

——————————————

Dedicated to the missing. Dependability is important, but it ain’t the only thing.

musbeok…

Posted in Funny Morning Stories, Joe Henry, Learning About Life, Music, Poetry with tags , , , , on May 24, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

nice to meet me

after a shortly interminable drive
i let myself outta my car on
beachline & drove off to grab at
clouds floating on the surf
& turtles lodged in the sand.

much as i’d rather stare seaward
& decide on possible surprise endings,
there’s no time because i know
i’m already omphaloskeptic & bloody
to boot. maybe an accident
nobody saw coming?

musbeok;
vagrant screams are absent in
my windpipe. i didn’t bother to
warn me that you gotta
slice the bad bits off yourself
when there ain’t a soul around
to do it for you.

found a sunburned sonofabitch
callin’ himself by my name
waiting for a
ride back from the beach.
took the first chance to go along
& get along, he threw down
with a few bars from his favorite
song. i sang backup
so he could sing lead.

this asshole knew
all the hits. by the time we’d gone from
sand to dirt, we’d hit most of the
majors & even a few of the minors.
like i said;
musbeok.

————————————————————–

Music saves the day. Thanks Mr. Henry, you saved my ass AGAIN. (For someone I will never meet, I owe you a shitload man. Pay it forward, right?). And no, the poem isn’t ABOUT Joe Henry, it’s about something else completely. JH is just my idol.

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.

instructions from the setting sun…

Posted in Laughter, love n' luck, Monday Poetry Potluck, Music, Poetry, thoughtful trips, travel, travelogue with tags , , , , , on January 23, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

instructions from the setting sun

i swapped part of my hard won sassafras
luck for one green flash salute to the sun
as it faded from view. transfixed under
splendid emerald refractions, i wandered the
market picking through variously flavored
evening-hour solutions priced to move.

sunset argued convincingly for an immediate
administration of unconstrained-salvation. a
visiting pharmacotherapist told me to “take
what ya get.” he didn’t need to tell me twice.
background scenery changed before my eyes
& behind my back. waking up home in bed was
an expectation fulfilled after that long
conversation with the recently departed sun.

homegrown early-morning hallucinations say
i’m late to hit the road. reports of barricades
blocking sections of pavement between here
& there are yet to be confirmed, but i’ve got
faith in detours. just to be safe, i changed the
setting from ‘innocent-angel’ to ‘easy-wicked’
before gettin’ too far down to give a rational
explanation to any of the uninitiated that might
be waitin’ on me along the way.

good reason to take extra time on prep-work;
small talk banter bordering on gibberish won’t
help matters with a schedule to keep. detailed
instructions from the neighborhood star offers
part of an explanation & a promise to return soon.
another sassafras exchange gets me everything
i need assembled for travel. seven tins of madness,
gasoline & a day-ending emerald flash in the sky.

in a few breaths i’ll wake up somewhere else,
wondering where the fuck i am n’ how i got
there while trying to figure out the fastest way
back to Cayo Hueso. i’ve always wanted to see
that green flash when the sun starts playin’ a
half game of hide & seek behind the horizon.

——————————————

Dedicated to the city of Key West. CoB,O may be long dead and gone but the spirit of Marvin Gardens lives on. Anyone going to MoTM 2011?

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.

fascinate me…

Posted in Music, Poetry with tags , , on January 2, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

get my mind right

it’s coming down from
where it comes down from
again; half answers are
easy enough, no matter
how badly everyone
wants more. who
wouldn’t want more?

if i had as much
to give as there is to
take, i know it still wouldn’t be
enough. cries so desperate &
disproportionate. the timing
sucks; what can
i give away that hasn’t
already been taken?

healthy as psychotic
can be, under circumstance
of disregarded ambiguity;
i got nothing but time…
hours of time.

falling asleep at my keyboard,
dream debating word choice
until shooting pain wakes me.
without a woman’s touch;
nudging me awake. more
stab-wound; maybe not that
different after all. matter
of timing mostly.

all i want for now is sleep.
letting go in favor of a
shattered glass knuckle
untreated. swelling is down,
& so much pain my spinal
cord is jealous.

i toss everything i’ve left
down on the floor
& turn the music up.
ignore a finger,
3 herniated discs
& exhaustion. by my
count we’re only
six hours from
sunrise; anyone care
about one extra day?

———————————-

Someday I wanna meet Joe Henry. That is all.

you comin’ in?.?.?.

Posted in Hysterical Romance, Late Night Silence, Learning About Life, Music, Poetry, Reader Requests, sex, TWTC with tags , , , , , on December 30, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

standard font

i walked a million miles
waiting on someone
to ask me a
damn question i
couldn’t answer.

most of my tangled
history is whatever
it is, but there’s
no answer when i ring
that bell. no more
scrap-books here.

i’m smilin’ heavy,
cause usually it’s
recognized for what it
ain’t; my stereotypical
freak-out along
checkout counters
at a local porn shop.

girl at the counter
seems smart.
first impressions, right?

“hey darlin’ you
got tomorrow off
& wanna come along
with me? i can show
what i know,
if you’ll ask that
question & lemme
see your puzzle piece.

ask that question,
ring that bell, tell
me this ain’t more than
the tip of blinding
sun-style over substance.

i’ll play fox
or hound; don’t
really matter. it’s all some
fantasy of perfection ‘tll
masks fall off. ask that
question & make ’em
fall
for
you & me.

catch me curious,
you don’t have to wait;
doors are locked so
jump the fuckin’ gate.

——————————————————-

For LBTL on what I can only call a dare. Gimme something else, I like this game. Late night hijinks used to be my best face. I can usually get the girl at the counter to blush; can you throw a smile across a room? What a cynical question; of course you can. Inspired by 2 chance conversations with the girl who works the counter at MVC Late Night Video. She said she was impossible to live with and I thought otherwise and told her so. There are some fascinating folk out there.

Dedicated to someone long gone from my world but still in my heart whenever Stabbing Westward comes on. “Yup yup, fuck Mandy.” She was crazy and fuck me do I love crazy. (no, nobody will understand that quote ‘cept my brother in arms, and he’s not reading yet.)

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.

is this london?.?.?.

Posted in Great Big Sea, Poetry, thoughtful trips, travel with tags , , , on November 25, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

is this london?

imported canadian music
plays in the background
as sundown brings on
a cold clear night. somewhat
destitute for fantasy, i’m
laying back against
appalachian mountains
& daydreaming about
london.

pushing off the
mountains, it’s easy
stumblin’ toward the eastern
shore of maryland. amidst
amble, london
drifts back into mind; i’m
laughing, ’cause
anything i know
about london
comes secondhand
from patrick mcgoohan
& he’s as american
as i am.

i don’t have
any information; nobody
is making overly complex
plans aimed at
uncovering my rationale
for retirement, assuming
there is a way to retire
from a career as an
unemployed writer.

waves come & go
off the Eastern shore.
i’ve rambled as far
as i’m able, from
mountains to beaches,
and london is still
hidden behind
the horizon. the
lotus 7 is just gonna
have to wait. besides,
i don’t even have
a passport.
or money.
or any reason to
fear the hearse
with tags reading
TLH 858.

well, maybe someday;
as the saying
goes, “chin up, Potter.”
after all, he was
shining shoes
before harry ever
rode a broomstick.

——————————————————

Inspired by John Drake/#6. I can’t hear Secret Agent Man on the radio
without thinking of you.