Archive for The Butterfly Bitch

the butterfly bitch part 7…

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


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.

the butterfly bitch part six…

Posted in Poetry, The Butterfly Bitch with tags , on September 27, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

friday night & the butterfly in bed

me & the butterfly, a darkened tv;
mighta tasted dinner, moved quickly
for a lustful ‘good ‘ol days’ kinda fuck.

my butterfly is back, n’ everything’s
sort of nice, ‘cept not quite. was her
left wing always torn like that? feels
strange, if so safely far from new;
my jewelery is still as cheap as any
of our promises to each other.

laying in bed together, naked. i’m
staring at my ceiling asking
her those same silent questions
again & again expecting no reply;
ms. butterfly sleeps & dreams,
sleep denied me as amidst so many
unknowns; is this a kick-start towards
life with my beautiful butterfly or a
final hip-thrust turn of the screw?

by breakfast i’m no damn good
for conversation, yawning & tired.
not from lack of sleep; that’d
be too easy. i’ve exhausted
too much for a butterfly who
can only be halfheartedly held.

she leaves for coffee with a girlfriend,
& i don’t remember her telling me.
it’s ok; she promised to be back soon.

There might be a sizable break before the final Butterfly Bitch poem is written. If it comes out anything like this one, I’ll be happy to be done thinking about every damn mistake I’ve been a part of over the last decade and a half. Dedicated to a realtor friend who is so much of a better person than I am that it’s not even funny. That she is still a friend speaks far more to her kindness than any tribute of mine. Love ya babe, even if you never see this.

the butterfly bitch part five…

Posted in Hysterical Romance, Poetry, The Butterfly Bitch with tags , , on September 22, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

hysterical romance

“am i supposed to make a science
of knowing what you want?” is
retrogressive dominance still an option?

all the same, its got my blood up;
might say i knew it was coming (lie.)
do you know what bullet-proof means?
(it was roughly here that my plan
of attack fell apart. knew it was a piss-poor
plan; i was dependent upon my invincibility.)

her first fucking tear burnt instantly
through the floor, having made
a mistake by trying to catch it.
(instant decision): keep attacking or back off,
play horrified at that stranger
pulling on my damn vocal cords?
violently-dejected tones ensue. internal
scars be damned, right? at some
point, you gotta commit.

even today, i wouldn’t swear
that’s how it all started, or
ended, depending on your timescale.
it’s less tangible violence; can’t be sure
any one argument starts a war
or shatters a camels back.

with no memory to lean back
on, everything still to come
seems like hysterical romance.


This is what happens post cleanup after an all night session. Fuck, just knowing what is to come in parts 6 & 7 seems like it weighs a thousand pounds. I’d question the sanity of doing this publicly, but I think I’ve made it clear that my faith in sanity is equal to my faith in anything else. Poems wait to be written; that’s just how it is.

the butterfly bitch part 4…

Posted in Funny Morning Stories, Poetry, The Butterfly Bitch with tags , , on September 20, 2010 by Caribbean Fool


we weren’t very good at pretending
to be serious; merely compliant. we could
avoid acknowledging anything anytime.

slipshod as things were, the setup
seemed simple; too obvious to see.
master of theory is only a pretend
challenger to the title; radio silence hit
ground without a word of
explanation. nobody to ask any better.

waking into the second act was
no different than any other trip;
i’ve got sunshine in my pocket,
while all morning winds try to blast
stitches from those protective pockets.
of course it failed; how could
it not? maybe this second act
could be another set of curtains
raised; a clean shot at something new.

radio silence is funny; as much
as any of those two-way chances
are taken as matter-of-course.
waking up with sunshine already
back pocketed, protected
by my vulgar smile & calm/kind eyes.

i wasn’t very good at pretending to be
serious; merely compliant. always easier to
avoid acknowledging anything anytime.


Sometimes going crazy is the best thing you can do for yourself. I would certainly not argue with that. Be on the lookout for The Butterfly Bitch parts five through seven in the next few weeks when we get into the dirty things that we’ve so far ignored. That should be fun.

the butterfly bitch part 3…

Posted in JL Stories, Poetry, The Butterfly Bitch with tags , , on September 6, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

the bitch strikes back”

i know i passed it over to you; i got
one hand holdin’ the phone
the other wrapped around a cigarette.

so before this phone starts ringing
& the new party gets busted up,
shove it to the floor & keep it going.
sheeeit, i’ve said “fuck it” before but
that doesn’t change how badly i

all through the lazy days in the land
of the busted hour and on and on;
feeling like this can’t be legal
(i assure you, it’s legal, for now,
until lawyers & politicians & bankers
fuck it up for the rest of us
once again.)
until then, shove it to the floor;
grind your heart right out.

smells like a museum in here.
i’m lookin’ up; not much
else to do. we long ago passed
any point of exclaiming
“this is the day we discovered
what ‘Industrial Revolution’ really means!”

now my phone is vibrating & this party ‘s dead;
before i can see a name i can hear a voice:
which one are you?


As part of the community valued themes of the as of yet acclaimed Butterfly Bitch series, this is dedicated to that one afternoon about a decade ago when I said “I’m going out” and to my surprise solved an intractable problem with an improbable solution.

(ed. note; Can you dedicate a poem to yourself? Is that allowed? Who regulates questions like that? Fuck it, not like anyone is gonna say anything. Right?)

the butterfly bitch part 2…

Posted in Hysterical Romance, love n' luck, Poetry with tags , , on September 3, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

running joke

by the time the door wasopen,
i’d turned you into Schrodinger’s cat;
took time for youtobecome you again.

our first push took less effort
than a well used & lubricated syringe, &
’bout as much love.
clothes tossed off, even my
windows were breathinghard
after an endless wait on ecstasy.

sweating in-natural heat,
staring at the ceiling tryin’ not to smile,
thinkin’ at you calling myname
right before falling down. a pair
aw ribcages
keeping usseparate while
fingers explore a slick roadway
tracing wet curves
across your spinal-roadmap.

mixed in with slicksweat & coolnight
& hotroom are
maybequestions still waiting on
the same succor i’ve been given;
for what it’s worth i have you now,
subject to change in-discretion.

wet roads & slickback exchanges,
curves & destruction of lineofsight;
yourprescience outshines mine aswe lick leftovers.


Wait till you see where this is going. I know what it looks like so far. If you are into fuckeduprecall, I think you’ll dig it. If not, well, not much I can do about that. Besides, every one-sided ending needs a one-sided beginning. The next five parts will be bloody and absolutely the kind of shit you can get nowhere else but here.

the butterfly bitch part 1…

Posted in Poetry, The Butterfly Bitch with tags , on September 3, 2010 by Caribbean Fool

all of it, or 36963

so for a minute
of unpardoned silence
i had to wait all day.

it wasn’t excruciating,
waiting for a phone to ring
-like wait;
instead dissolving from within,
lusting after certainty;
scared to look.

outside severe fences, homes,
grass is gravel to crunch
underfoot so i know instantly
when your feet pass over.
i can unlock the door; i’d leave it open,
but i know the sound of your feet
as easily as your scent,
i won’t open my mouth
for any other scentsound.

for a moment
of unpardoned silence
i waited all day long.
footfalls never arriving,
except in echoes of my barefoot
pacing polished wood floors.

after a long enough wait,
i’ll give up on your sightsound,
but it won’t be eloquent, or with grace.


Remember when I said that thing about the story of the Incredible Butterfly Bitch? This is part one. Story is too big for one poem, so this will be my first attempt at serialization of my own work. I’m thinking it would only add to the humor if I switched from total free-form to something a little more structured. I’d like to keep the 3-6-9-6-3 and see if maybe six or eight different poems could illustrate the entire story quite nicely. They will all be tagged as part of the “Butterfly Bitch” storyline, and will appear irregularly or randomly until I finish the project.