i just do this now.

i guess tart tuesday has become kind of a thing.
sure,
it's not as if i don't know what i'm getting myself into.
i do something a couple times,
and before too long?
uh-huh.
it's just one more thing that i just do.
or, more aptly,
one more thing i am compelled to keep doing.
the pricetag for participation is not very steep,
but it is very exact.
you want the big action?
word.
then you gotta get big busy.
for serious-
the object, neighbors, is always more.
more fun, more treats, more art, more words, more hugs and kisses;
MORE of ALL of THIS.
and that means finding more time to make more moves;
meager moments made massive to manipulate that expert magic
into the frustratingly finite minutes that each day stingily provides
as a tick-tocking timebomb timetable countdown
for producing maximum activation all the way off the margins,
past the one-to-ten-and-back-agains,
and taking it up to eleven.
yeah.
i keep saying the same sh!t every day, in subtly different ways, y'all,
because that's what i do.
one of those impelled propulsions into competent, if repetitive, communication.
headlong and mouthfirst like a puckered-up kissy-face missile into the world
of words and deeds and worth and merit.
i'm sayin',
i doo-doo what i do in order to have something to talk about.
storytellers without stories are a waste of time, and breath.
*
jeez.
anyway,
i guess tart tuesday really IS kind of a thing, for now.
i baked myself silly again, too.
somehow,
my oatmeal graham cracker cookie crust cups
used way more ingredients in greater amounts,
and only yielded up five more individual treats.
i don't get it either, duders.
i guess i packed in all the extra hottness,
and they're just chock full to the brim with concentrated crispiness?
they sure taste like it, so that's good news.
kids,
check the royal purple reign of these bloobs via teleport:

yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
blueberry-creme custom-blended whipped-up filling?
c'mon.
you know how much i like to make sure it's fancy.
wild blueberry goobieblops on top of each little sexy cup of crusty sweetness?
duh.
a little bit of citrus is the not-so-secret ingredient, too.
for realsies,
a splash of lemony extractives takes the blue in those berries up a notch.
ridiculously delicious results occur immediately.
powdered sugar dust makes sure that if you weren't already getting that
'damn, these look like they came from some serious gourmet-type jauns' vibe,
you might be an A*-hole.
i'm not saying you are definitely an A*-hole,
but, the signs do kinda point towards that.
sorry, friends,
but if you can't hang out with sweet tarts and purple-hued blueberries,
then you can't hang out with me, either.
i do what i do.
i have to.
as a side note,
this post makes #2027- that's the F*ing future;
never quiet, never soft.....

crushed.

i'm bad at girls.
that's a real life truism.
i get crushes sometimes, on girls.
that's real.
it's probably not a great idea to get too optimistic-
i mean,
they all crush you eventually, neighbors.
a crush is a temporary infatuation.
an infatuation is a foolish, unreasoning, and extravagant passion or attraction.
duders,
i doo-doo that kind of self-aggrandized self-destruction...
why?
because i say let cupid forego his arrows, and use a wrench instead.
word.
now,
when i say crush the opposition, i think you know what i really mean.
i find that what i want and what wants me are rarely on the same page;
let alone in the same chapter, or book, or even library.
the idea that there's someone looking for a woodsly goodsly warrior poet
seems absurd from the jump off, y'know?
...
plus,
i've got a problem when it comes to acting natural.
because infinite nature wins over delicately nurtured nuances every time-
seriously,
i lack the poise and good grace to interact like a normal adult-sized
interesting and interested person.
damn.
instead,
it's balls-out bald-faced bare-bones brutal berserker barbarian business,
fresh from the get go, with total let-go reckless wroth wordsmithing,
and admissions that beg admonition almost immediately.
i mean it, kids-
i'm bad at girls like i'm bad at singing and i'm bad at taking it easy.
i go to eleven at being terrible just as loud, fresh, and hard
as everything else.
no jokes.
lucky for me,
i can't really be in a worse place than where i'm starting from.
yikes!
***********
the new postcard stamps are completely more expert than ever.
yuuuuuuuup.
check the teleport:

apples, y'all.
one a day keeps the doctor away,
so long as he writes a prescription for a full mailbox.
heck yeah!
i'm sending you guys some love letters.
unsolicited, unrequited and without a return address, too.
i'm bad at girls,
but i'm good at making treats.
i'll stick to what i do,
and crush, be crushed, and get crushing on the rest;
never quiet, never soft.....

skillsets of the ill.

duders,
i think that having an aptitude for getting expert
in crafts that are normally reserved for mentally ill group-home patients
isn't exactly a bad thing....
it just might mean that i've also got an underlying strain of semi-dormant
cuckoo-crazy-person brain that's stirring out of subconscious coma
and back into the summertime forefront.
ummmm.
what i mean is-
being good at collages is what nutters do.
well,
nutters and also sad teenage girls,
who are widely regarded as being apesh!t bananarama dramabombs anyway.
then again,
maybe i'm not that good.
but, neighbors- postcards, day two?
even weirder than postcards, day one.
it only takes the first try to define the parameters,
and then it's time to freak it off, y'heard?
yep.
i'm taking correlative correspondence and art-makey activation to eleven.
check the teleport:

uh-huh.
no, wait,
i made a few more, too.
c'mon,
take a look:

ummmm,
so, that's real.
and just to make sure:

word up.
now,
do i have your current mailing address?
i'm just sayin',
you wouldn't want to miss out, would you?
make sure.
for your own sake, more than mine.
haha.
yeah.
***********
the other night i ate a hundred pounds of noodles.
well,
i ate a great big bowl of noodles, at any rate.
check the everything in one place-type teleport:

neighbors,
i put too many of too hot of two kinds of peppers in there.
it was just the right amount.
especially considering i wanted to barely sleep and have spicy nightmares
when i finally crashed out.
still,
almonds and asparagus and celery and cilantro and collards and cucumbers
and garlic and habanero oil and jalapenos and kale and mandarine
and meatyish chunks and pea shoots and radishes and shallots and tomatoes
and sauces and spices and sh!t all make for one incredible bucket
of brutal barbarian noodoo bowl.
and i ate it all, y'all.
too much of all of it is all that i want.
the good news is that i am a grown-A*man,
and i can have a ball-out maniac mealtime attack whenever i want.
real time real life adult benefits are strange things, kids.
that's for realsies.
*
this is it.
yeah.
all of this.
that's all there is.
lots of small rad things.
a big picture mosaic of a million mighty miniature moments;
never quiet, never soft.....

father's day.

call your dad, duders.

that's it.

it's F*ing father's day for crying out loud!

it doesn't matter if you want to-

unless you're an A*-hole,

you've gotta phone him up at least a little tiny bit.

do it.

c'mon.

the poor bastard only gets one day to feel special after all.

and he's not gonna even see you.

so ring him, chat for a minute, 

thank him for playing catch with you, or some sh!t, and you're done.

he's waiting, and waiting.

get after it, neighbors.

it's good for you.

...

and that's all there really is to say about that.

in other news,

this is the face i make when it's father's day:

ugh.

that forehead is more closely resembling my dad's every day.

...great.

*

um, 

so, where are my kids?

oh, you know-

having fun with some other dad.

yep.

that's what happens when really-real life teams up with school 

and work and travel and time and distance and circumstance,

and they all collaborate on a group project.

awwwwwwwwwwwwww, man!

absence make the abyss get bigger, after all.

the more you take away from inside of it,

the more impressive a hole appears.

sure, sure,

i'll still get the obligatory call....maybe,

and then we can tell each other how much we love each other,

and miss each other,

and jeez-louise we can't wait to see each other for some family togetherness.

the best part about that is that we really mean every word.

that's also exactly what makes it the worst part, at the same time.

truth tellers can never stop.

however,

we aren't always apart, but we are always involved.

active participation isn't necessarily dependent on proximity.

***********

worthy woodsly goodfellows endure.

that's real.

hard styles and rough situations and tough times and long nights

and empty houses and broken homes and mutha-F*ing father's days

are just the sorts of things that make the magic minutes matter so much more.

there's always more of this, y'all.

it's the parts in between that fuel the hot home fires forever.

without the bitter,

the sweet's not nearly as sweet.

happy father's day.

now call your dad;

never quiet, never soft.....

postcarding

duders,

getting makey on those cut-paper collage-type jauns

isn't exactly the most dynamic of friday night plans.

i know it.

after a disgustingly shark-gluttonous dinner,

and a disgustingly big black stinky doomsday-fuming stump of cigar,

i turned off the self-sabotage,

and instead got poppin' on a little semi-fresh fake-art project.

that's a thing.

staying up well past midnight, 

clipping stray scraps off of pictures torn out of stacks of magazines,

and glue-stick-nubbin rubbin' the backsides of every one of 'em.

i doo-doo that sort of crafty safety-scissored assembly sh!t.

yeah.

each hybrid mutant image is stuck on the perfect background,

(and that's about the only time i ever care about creating background)

and then it all gets affixed to an index card,

which gets lined-up, written on, signed, with x's and o's and hearts an' that,

then sealed-over with clear tape-type protection

and addressed to a not-even-remotely-at-randomly selected active participant.

....and i've already got the stamps, too.

y'know what that means, right?

that's right- 

picture postcards are back on the event calendar

for the woodsly goodsly summertime big-fun activation schedule.

you want a sneak peek?

okay....teleport:

that's all you get for now, guys.

on the realsies, though?

it takes a looooong time to snip and snap all the little pieces.

way longer than it takes to select the individual elements.

i keep a stash of cut-outs in an envelope at all times, just in case.

still,

it consumes time at a ferociously focused pace.

it goes slow, and it takes forever.

too bad about that, because i really could've used my beauty rest.

awwwwwwwwwwwww, man.

i guess i'll stay ugly,

because these new notes i'm dropping are gonna stay dope.

it all costs something, neighbors.

and i was already broken and busted, 

so it's a only a small price for producing some pretty sweet nothings.

anyway,

keep your see-balls peeled on your mailboxes.

you might just be getting a treat.

-

i don't know what made me get back at it, kids.

honestly,

mail art has never gotten me much in the way of reward-reaping.

i think i might be choosing the wrench harder than usual, even.

if every piece is unique and unrepeatable,

then every time i put one in the post,

a little piece of individual artsy hottness disappears 

from the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.

i'm creating and destroying in one short span,

just so you can put a leaf of expertism on your fridge under a magnet.

***********

i'm half-asleep, sort of.

no more so than every other day.

i've been having big-lipped potato heads attacking me in my dreams.

that's no jokes, jerks.

nightmares when i'm out cold in slumberland,

and nightmares when i wake up, 

in hard styles and empty rooms and empty F*ing days.

i'm cutting it up, kids.

i'm cutting it ALL up.

it's the remix Folk Life/empty life edit,

and it's all really happening.

that's the whole point;

never quiet, never soft.....

food.

i can't stop cooking.

and even if it's only because i definitely don't feel like doing it,

i've absolutely gotta.

i mean it.

the extra effort i put into it, and for just own self, even,

means that i'm opting to get busy with my big action busy business 

even though i don't really have any external impetus to.

...and THAT'S exactly why i have to, neighbors.
i do my dirt all by my lonely, whether or not i've got an audience.
(and then i tell you all about it later. that's how storytellers do, duder.)

sure,

i could choke down a quick and easy somethin' or other.

nobody would know. but i would know, yo.
i can't hang out with that sort of cheatery cheap-skate sh!t;
because that's what poor people do,

and that's the kind of shortcut that exempts real worthy warriors

from remaining expert all the dang time.

i'm sayin', 

eleven means eleven.

that's a thing.

you get it.

now check the teleport:

c'mon, kids.

sometimes i just keep putting pieces together until i can't fit any more.

yeah.

radicchio, and radishes, and fried kohlrabi slices, and cucumbers, and shallots?

yes indeed, that'd make a delicious sandwich.

how about seitan, and steak-cut mushrooms, and pea shoots?

mmm-hmmm.

that's be another 'nother good one.

so obviously, the correct answer is:

you fire both of those things into the same place at the same time.

that's activation, duders.

and that's it.

go ahead- look at the fatness, you know you want to:

ooooof-ahhhh!!!

i GOT they!!

and it was so good, guys.

no jokes.

nutrients are necessary.

especially after another long day of bike week weak sauce.

getting home late and making bread?

uh-huh.

nothing says participation like prepping veggies while your dough rises.

yeah.

i'll eat dinner late, and i'll munch up a tart or two for dessert, while i'm there.

i'm not worried.

i've got nowhere else i'd rather be.

the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress;

the woodsly F*ing goodness;

the really-real rural right-side of the world.

it's what's happening, and where.

long days and longer nights and the hardest styles yet.

i know what i'm about, my ninjas.

i doo-doo what i do,

and that's all there ever really is to do-

hard work, and tedious clients, and bad smelling armpits;

late dinners and lonely beds in dark houses;

early mornings and loose moorings and deep F*ing roots....

there is water at the bottom of the ocean; 

never quiet, never soft.....

stuuuuumps.

choosing the wrench?
i doo-doo that.
duders,
i just got a delivery of treats,
and these muth-F*ers are designed to hurt me.
a lot.
and you know i ordered too many.
yeah.
just the right amount for my face.
check the nicotiana tabacum-type teleport:

ugh.
so gross, but so good.
...sorta.
oh, c'mon!
neighbors-
that up there's what very manly activation looks like.
too bad it also stinks like a hundred pounds of hot burnt death.
(which i think is what manliness smells like?)
stumps, y'all.
hand rolled tubes of terror- because summertime fires,
and summertime car rides, and summertime grilling,
and all kinds of hammock lounging and lawn mowing require a very specific
form of nauseating, light-headed, fuming, billowing smoke-stack
stink stick attacking and hot fire spitting.
plus,
it keeps the bugs away.
and the neighbors.
and also every girl i know.
uh-huh.
i've got a system for remaining a hermit,
and those puros are part of it.
how else can i continue to tar-stain and smog-age my weathered
old man of the mountain-style rocky crag of a haggard head?
just look at it:

hard styles are the only ones.
i've got a plan, and the universe has a plan,
and we're scheduling around prior engagements.
i keep it ugly, kids,
and i keep it really real.
...
y'ever point at someone, and call 'em an A*-hole?
mmm-hmmm.
it feels pretty good, huh?
yeah, i know.
now,
try doing it with a giant drug-lord plantation-owner-sized big black cigar,
waving it's cherry red exclamation and trailing a wisp of singed soot...
yuuuuuuuup.
it feels waaaaay flippin' better.
i talk with my toothy hands as much as
my toothy half-horse half-wolf maw.
and i give my propers to props that accentuate and punctuate my gestures.
it's sign language after a fashion,
and it's the way i make myself understood.
smoke rings and hazy clouds of quicksilver-lined mercurial mayhem.
the ghosts that surround me are of my own creation;
never quiet, never soft.....

i'm sure i'll get what i deserve.

duders,
it's another day.
and it's a thursday, at that.
therefore, it should be a good one;
what with all that thor-type thunder implicit in the name an' that.
there aren't any clouds hanging around,
so there won't be any actual thunder,
but the high-concept high-voltage of imaginary thunder
is almost certainly already charging the air around my head.
yeah.
a holy halo of claps and booms,
a crown of lightning.
a circle of superstatic electric spirit and memories,
spiraling outward from my cow-licked ghost of a hairline.
yuuuuup.
today is the day.
and that's for serious.
maybe it was the intensive hang outs yesterday,
or maybe it is just well nigh time to make moves,
or maybe it's just an unsubtle kick in the clankers by the secret universal plan,
but i'm ready for whatever the F* is coming down the tubes today, neighbors.
word up.
i charged up my participation particles yesterday in preparation.
the cucch early a.m. surprise attacked;
austin had wind-chilly outdoor coffee-time with us;
me and my main man visited our homegirl andra for lunch;
ian came over from vermont for dinner;
and thatcher came by to look at my wood.
that's a true story.
also,
i made the dreamiest, creamiest, chocolaty-est, eleventh-level treats,
off the cuff and on the fly.
uh-huh.
check the mutha-flippin' teleport:

c'mon, friends!
it's only ever all about getting expert.
that's a thing.
i make lots of tarts because i like lots of tarts.
what else would i do, right?
cocoa-activated graham cracker crusts,
packed into the cups of a muffin pan,
are more work than you might expect,
but it's what's gotta happen if you want that new hottness.
and i hand-whisked and whipped up some custom doo-doo mousse
with unrivaled poise and aplomb for a duder stirring up some
aerated and underrated magical light brown sh!t.
it's good, too.
like,
dumb stupid crazy good.
i, for one, am completely unsurprised by that.
...you probably are as well, unless of course, you're an A*-hole.
just sayin'.
*
so it's gonna be a stormswept day,
with or without the weather permitting it.
there's a raging berserker kind of fury in my heart, y'know?
it's that kind of whirlpool drain-circling cyclone sh!t that greek poets
wrote epics about as divine punishments.
that's no jokes.
spinning around and around in tighter circles until that's just a bowl-circling
big-flush swirling single-point pivot
on an inescapable axis that bores straight down;
through the bottom beneath the bottom under the bottom-most base-levels
of base behavior and basic instinctual infinite nature,
at the same circumference forever and ever with no room to spread outwards
nor upwards- a dizzy drill into the doomways of the end days.
holy smokes.
that's kind of a hard style.
truth tellers can never stop, y'hear?
you can say goodbye, and wave, and walk away a thousand times,
but until you really mean it, the bigger belief that bests better judgement
is that it's just a silent secret segue in a louder, harder, fresher folio
of more and more and more and more.
....except it's the thing you get to have in order not to have the rest of it.
goodbyes are uneven trades, y'all.
one goodbye is worth everything else,
and that's a skewed ratio of value and price.
ah well,
it all costs something, kids.
nobody rides for free;
never quiet, never soft.....

tart tuesday.

yeah, kids.
it's finally cold and rainy!
y'know what THAT means, right?
uh-huh.
it must be my day off.
and y'know what i do on cold rainy days off?
well, yeah, that....
but y'know what else i do on cold rainy days off?
yuuuuuuuuup.
i get expert in my kitchen.
of course.
today's adventure was tarts in two sizes.
check the teleport:

wordimus prime, neighbors!
mini-mutha-flippin' tartlets.
flaky pastry crust,
thick gooey creme filling,
cinna-toasty vanilla-sweetened roasted almonds and dried cranberries.
it takes a whole lot to bring me up when i'm headed downward,
and the spiral plummets and matched by bakery-fresh corkscrew updrafts.
the wafting aroma of elite treats is exactly what's needed to bring some
bright tightness to a loose, deep, dark butthole of a day.
lucky for us,
i doo-doo that teeny tiny cutesy cooking-type sh!t.
i didn't bother taking a picture of the other size,
as they're just fattie-boombattie versions of the same dang thing.
just use your imagination to make the ones you see a bit bigger.
yeah.
that's it.
***********
i got myself some treats, too, y'all.
treats are good for you, after all.
what's up with paying too much money for not enough soda?

yeah.
of course i'm all about it.
that's up-here-rich-style jauns.
odd-sized ounces of real-life gingery ale;
and it's in a pry-off (not twisty) topped glass bottle?
dope.
it's called fever tree?
c'mon.
i know awesome when i see it.
...like those two super-sexy hand-thrown mugs.
uh huh.
my cabin pottery hottness has arrived, intact,
long-awaited, and super good-looking at the same time.
it's been a little minute since i made moves to supplement the empty spots.
i'm sayin'-
there were a great many major and minor key elemental things i lost recently,
and most of them i will never get back.
like ten years, and my hair, and a good portion of my self-worth.
however,
mugs can be replaced-
it's important to pick your spots, ninjas.
mmmm-hmmmm.
the object is still more;
never quiet, never soft.....

cooler than being cool.

duders,
it's not the sorbet i care about.
y'know?
i mean, sure,
a scoople or two of red and blue berry-flavored iciness,
or fruity frozen freshness,
or whatever the F* else,
is good for a cold lick and a brain freeze headache on a hot day.
ice creamyish sweets are nice like that.
but really?
yeah.
i'm just in it for the sprankles.
true talk.
rainbow magic sugar cylinders are what i need.
the cold cups of sugary unimportance just give 'em something to stick to.
check the summertime-type teleport:

yuuuuuuuuuup.
neighbors,
i'm all about that color-coded full-spectrum texture sh!t.
on the really real?
if y'all ain't got those spranky jauns,
it's not a cone of hottness,
it's just frozen b!tch-sap.
recognize.
rules is rules, kids;
never quiet, never soft.....

treats!

duders,
i totally forgot to mention it for a few,
but,
my friends are better than all the other ones.
that's still a thing.
mike holmes sent me something expert,
as a very special unbirthday present for my face.
and even made sure to address it to the expert doo-doo butter.
(the post office knew who that was,
which is good news, and bad news, y'know?)
and my friend amber went to the cape,
and came home with a purple jangling hands-have-teeth souvenier for me.
neighbors,
i'm pretty lucky to have people who still give a sh!t hanging around,
and i am sure grateful for the times and places and treats they sometimes
supply my dark days and long nights with.
check the teleport:

yeah.
navy flake tobacco.
like smokeable jerky.
you crumble it up yourself to make it the way you like it.
that's active participation,
and that's dope.
also,
last night, stina, james, and rowan, of grim north tattoo,
hung out and had dinner with me.
good times with folks reppin' family togertherness?
yeah.
rad.
and the night before,
my ninja todd came over the mountains for an evening of thai food,
pipe smoke, competent communicative conversation,
and tattoo magic.
i'm usually a lonely fella,
but i'm reminded these days that it's not ALL bad.
there are worthy companions out there.
sure,
it all happens at once, when it all really happens,
but too much is mostly the right amount anyway.
treats, peoples, and times.
i GOT they, today.
tomorrow, probably not so much;
never quiet, never soft.....