Archive for Opinion

warped fields & gravitational theory…

Posted in Opinion, Philosophy, Poetry, thoughtful trips, TWTC with tags , , , , , on September 17, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

& why & why

twisted out straightened lines
tying the asphalt to the dirt,
holding it all back from strangulation.
all kinds of extractions stick
to evening hours already stretched
past endurance final strand. at an
unknown time it’ll break free from
formulaics presupposed by theory
when honest-to-life experience
disembowels already parsed possibilities
spit into discussions held at all the
finest institutions & asylum.

success in the aftermath of birth or
death played as desire for the non-
possessed. it won’t make sense
in time or space. we’ll do it
anyway mostly because of declining

holy shit that’s an ugly hooker…

Posted in Friendship, Ha Ha Funny, Hysterical Romance, JL Stories, Laughter, Opinion, Poetry, TWTC with tags , , , , , , , , on August 29, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

i was gonna ask but didn’t

didn’t take much day-dreaming
to arrive at a suitable explanation
of such sudden desire;
those types are bad credit risks
& walk around with bruised knuckles
without ever knowing why.

still playing a game learned
at the foot of the mountain
under watchful gaze & rotten luck.
i’d say it was sad, but it almost
never is. regardless of the correlations
staring back from a coincidental lion
racing to cash in his meal ticket
by ripping out the throat of
weaker prey, everyone needs a
hobby & we all gotta eat.

back on earth relaxed movements of
momentary possibility surround
copernican predictions about
situational reality. patterns like
this would make mandelbrot blush.
i guess after you see the pin
pulled enough times, you stop asking
why & just get to running.

unfair to blame soft shell turtles
for failing to invent mirrors. at least
naked mole rats have sense enough
to stay blind. then again,
there’s always more under
than over.


Ever seen something & laughed? If not, you should try it. Really soothes the ego & builds confidence.

adherent sensorialists…

Posted in bumper sticker stories, Cigarette, Descartes, Ha Ha Funny, Laughter, One Shot Wednesday, Opinion, Philosophy, Poetry with tags , , , , , , on April 6, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

adherent sensorialists

cigarette smoke with my
benzinated morning coffee over
linoleum lined floors good for
pacing feet. deep thought in
the kitchen while around me only
asinine reality; isaak’s balloons
carried on the wind across the
window over the parking lot
while barking dogs sing the
breeze to sleep.

i’ve got it on the good authority
of a fanciful ground based sky-pilot
there’s a reason for everything
but my faith wanes. an apolitical
sensorialist leads morning congre-
gents in something resembling
prayer without any appeal to
divinity. they’re all dancing similar
steps, echoing the sensorialist
pleading for help from anyone that
might be listening to the gathered

nothing happens. always maybe
later but my faith wanes. after
my cigarette is crushed into the
ashtray & the last dregs of coffee
mix with in an acidified stomach,
skunk plant imprints impose their
own additional demands. thought
drifts from familiar sensorialist
congregations to the sensorialist
himself & the magic he weaves.

temerity in absentia…

Posted in Late Night Silence, Laughter, Opinion, Philosophy, Poetry, TWTC with tags , , , , on March 19, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

temerity in absentia

deep into a sleepless night.
too hot in here.
immediate brow-sweat
response, halfhearted
impression of melting
ice. breathe in, breathe out.
hide from imitation wanna-
be turkey bacon; with
nothing better to do,
that’s all i’ve got.

all the while a
true-believer whispers
high pressure steam.
speaking through cracked
odometers & stalled watches,
dangerously magisterial
tones stroke rambunctious
laughter. dirty jokes
end the day over protest
of the true-believer.

nothing more dangerous
than a true-believer
in heat. say anything,
even as temperatures
rise up until eyes
run red. after the last
tired muscle spasm, the
voice gives up. a battle
in the wider war;
true-believers always

morning sun works through
the window & kicks a
hole in closed eyes.
waking to vague memories
of something someone said
in a well lit dream. too
hot to think; continue
in the same direction
as before. takes almost
no effort to sit here & bake,
easy to think about
teachers & dancers & to
wonder where they


I’m told admitting you have a problem is the first step in getting cured. Here I must strenuously disagree. I’ve got almost zero problems & nothing to admit. Still, I do wonder, even after a shocking accusation that pisses me off even though it was six months past already. Probably a poem in there to write tomorrow, or perhaps later today. Well, matches & lighters aside, it’s all true. There are a million ways to skin a cat.

fawktard… (part 2)

Posted in Fawktard, Fear, Ha Ha Funny, History, Opinion, Philosophy, Poetry, Politics, Series with tags , , , , , , on March 11, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

what can you do?

i went to monticello,
hearing somebody
say i should speak to
jeff. he’s long dead,
or maybe i was just late to
the party. took the tour
anyway so i could stare
at his dumbwaiter &
think back to the time
we weren’t quite as
fucked as we are now.

i wonder how much
longer until one of those
Historic Moments In
Human History comes
along & sweeps
everything away.

denninger has
the math down to a
science; with jeff dead,
bruce stealing mr. joad &
a lack of jacksons
(wait a while, my guess is
there’ll be plenty.)
who knows what comes
after the bankster

no worries though;
we’re all fine.
just repeat after me.
heavy sour is the same
as light sweet,
politicians care about
the citizenry,
Jefferson County Alabama
loves JP Morgan,
& all’s going according
to plan & under

let’s stare into a mirror,
think back to a time
we weren’t quite so…



Dedicated to Phil Ochs. Was it ‘Ringing of the Revolution’ or ‘Rehearsals for Retirement’? All I know is ‘I Ain’t Marchin’ Anymore.’ When the wave hits here, what then? Obvious answers are always the bloodiest.

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.)

globalization easily explained…

Posted in Late Night Silence, Learning About Life, Opinion, Philosophy, Poetry, Politics with tags , , , , , , on February 27, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

reversion to the mean

in the clouds masculine
explosions rattle
once dusted mountains
amidst the groan of a green
town splayed onto the
outskirts of the middle
of nowhere. land eroded by
winds of the colonial breath
wait on lightning from a
creation dream to start
the story over. nothing will
change but we’re thinkin’
more of the same will
be much better next time.

we like our delusions to
be the size of our cocks,
which are obviously bigger
& spit more goo than
those other guys. after
rebuilding everything already
waiting to be destroyed
my cock says we can
knock it right back down
again. could it really
be that simple? i
don’t see why not.


Inspired by Michael Ruppert & the documentary ‘Collapse.’ If you haven’t seen it, check it out. Well worth the time.

cry now & get it out of the way…

Posted in afternoon requiem, Fear, History, Learning About Life, Opinion, Poetry, Politics, thoughtful trips, Unanswered Questions with tags , , , , , on February 24, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

don’t cry

it could be
72 hours ’till
an AAR nobody
will see. every
one is say
ing what was said
jumbled around &
walked into walls.
those are the
lucky ones.

sound without pictures;
a nice fat man on
BBC said all’s well
& nobody asked
why refugee camps
only get built when
everyone is doing
so well.

this isn’t slow
fanaticism at the
spur of the moment
& if you really
wanna know;
there’s nothing
to know, do,
or think. you
can watch on tv.
bullets won’t be
stopped by hands
thousands of miles
away when there’s
so much flesh to
bleed out here.

i hated truncheons
’til i learned about
Kalashnikov dynastics.
marshland uprisings
ending in slaughter &
refugee crises
ending in slaughter &
desperate poverty
ending in slaughter &
endless incursions
ending in slaughter.

i will comfort you
when you need to cry.
i will comfort you
with everything i have
down to hands,
heart & blood.

hopelessness can
make a vicious brew
mixed with a lil’ hunger.
of course, these days
you can buy trigger
fingers at 33 cents
on the dollar.

we’ll learn to eat
trigger finger stew.
it might mean more
than the blood sausage
we’re all about to be

i will comfort you
when you need to cry.
i will remind you
to save the tears;
there’s little clean
water & you’re
gonna be thirsty

i will comfort you
when you need to cry.
i will comfort you
with everything i have.


Lunacy to think that Malthus wasn’t wrong, just early, right? Well, right now all you theists could start backing up what you say about love thy neighbor. So I’m sure there is a good reason innocent people need to get gunned down for another week of meetings and vague pronouncements of no meaning. I’m sure that comforts the wounded & the families of the dead. This is a sick display of humanity. Just sick, without excuse.

what are we doing here?.?.?.

Posted in Opinion, Philosophy, Poetry, Politics, thoughtful trips with tags , , , , , on February 23, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

justified pessimism

license granted to operate
as the usual entropy courses
through all the places it
isn’t supposed to go. hasty
judgment moving so fast before
anyone else knew the game is
up. now everything is working
with a rebuilt starter but i heard
nothing’ll ever break, so we’re
gonna be okay. everyone gives up
yet keeps going absent any
noticeable change.

mulligans are hard to come by
& cost a fortune; even then it’s
impossible to tell if it’s a do-
over or more theatrics. slicked
back cynics would read with a
gamblers eye news of the moment,
dictators, killers, thieves, rapists.
nothing new under the sun.
knowing all is still in good time
with nothing to change the
basic gameplan that shoulda been
tossed years ago.

wanna make love until the end
of time? wanna smash windows
into sand? how else are beaches
gonna get made? wanna run
until there’s nowhere left to run
toward or should we just do it
here? questions are for the
postmortem. easier facts easily
deluded until meaning is another
untended grave without anyone
to dance, spit, piss, shit or
fuck in remembrance.

is this a revolution? i see it on tv.


The boys from the home office want me to reiterate my hope that just once, someone will take the keys away from the disgruntled insane dictator prior to killing his own people. If not now, when? What the fuck does ‘Never Again’ really mean anyway? Oh, that’s right… not supposed to ask that question…

sounds like fun…

Posted in Late Night Silence, Opinion, Poetry, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on February 18, 2011 by Caribbean Fool

a rapaciously good natured villain

no answer once again; why not spend
this night disarticulating exchanges &
trying to pinpoint everything wrong
with this picture? hearts have fractured,
healed, broken & healed again. junkies
learn faster than this.

all this time looking across the table at
no one, i’ve been conversing with walls,
ceiling, getting opinion from the floor
(stepped on repeatedly, last i’d heard.)
they all got real fuckin’ problems & told me
to piss off.

a few surviving members in the last box of
condoms say everything anyone needs to
know about sudden changes in my station
& title. your villain never flies a false flag,
preferring negotiation to bloodshed. i’d let
you invade whenever the mood struck but
didn’t reach out until just after too late.

whatever prompted you to call out to
remind the captain of his freshest defeat,
even demure in tone & word, drove him
up the mainmast. scanning the horizon for
your shadow, issuing orders to the crew
“we move into open visual contact at first
light so that the scientists can study this
most curious situation.”

i’ll be here at the fort practicing my just
right smile & graciousness in temporary
defeat. all the same, if i’m stepping
back, it’s only to take a bigger step in
another direction. they don’t call me
‘fool’ because i’m afraid to be wrong in


Ever stop to wonder if being yourself is everything everyone told you it would be? At least the snozzberries taste like snozzberries. (hahaha. Rotten vermicious knids.) Laughter; the 2nd best medicine.