Wednesday, September 30

wake me up,

...when september ends.
did i just quote up on some green day?
what am i,
an A-hole?
i must be coming down with something.
like a sweltering case of the douche-chills.
i should've gone with an Avett Brothers lyric,
but i'm not all the way ready for that much dopeness.
have you heard the newness?
go get it.
right now.
you need it, you really do.

this is it.
the last little bit of september.
time certainly blows by at about a billion bits a second.
october is on it's way.
parts of the world are already there, even.
this week will usher in a pair of important berfdays,
but we'll burn those bridges as we come to 'em.
the very beginning of next week is what's actually worth waiting for.
and once it starts,
the secret stash of cash i've kept locked away is getting broken out.
somebody call the hospital and tell 'em to get the stomach pump ready;
Falafel Week begins in just a few short days.
and when i say short,
i mean it.
early sunsets have been stealthily encroaching on my daylight savings account.
it's pitch black out before dinner's cooked?
at least i can curl up and take 'er easy as she goes,
with a good book, a ganache-glazed barbarian brownie, and a lovely ladyfriend,
all under a toasty flannel blanket,
without the dark and dank leaking in.
new windows are doing it for me these days,
and doing it well.
i've got a lot of optimism for the days ahead.
the right nows aren't exactly epic,
and i'm not exactly livin' it up,
although i'm still living well;
there's a pot of pasta fagioli and escarole on the stove,
there's a comforting comforter on my bed,
there's more of this lessened leanness to learn a lesson from up here,
but still,
it's all really happening,
and the really real reality of a slowed-down season is sinking in.
the weather is ugly over here,
i wish i were beautiful,
as much as i wish you were here,
in the meantimes,
i'll settle for ugly, broke, broken, and dope;
never quiet, never soft....

Tuesday, September 29


a zero day at the tatblasting superstation can put a dirty dent in a decent day off.
no tattoos at all, ya'll.
the lone phone call we got was a wrong number.
i'm serious.
for the last decade,
the iowa heart center has put out a television commercial in the midwest
with OUR toll-free 800 number on it.
instead of theirs.
for ten years.
in a row.
they never corrected it.
and so,
during a station break on 'all my children' or some other serial visual inane A-holery,
old ladies call us to inquire about their cardiopulmonary well-being.
and then the confusion sets in.
imagine the alzheimer's dementia fears when you find yourself talking to ME,
instead of to the representative whom the television just told you
is supposed to be standing by with more information.
that was the big action for the workday.
i thought for sure that i'd be big-ballin' with deep pockets.
instead i'm deep doo-dooin' a 'buttery bag of doo-doo.
new windows are keeping the cold out today.
the ever-present uncle steven-y construction continues.
these diabolical dumbwaiting dongs were hiding in the wells in the walls.
they dildoo-doo that up and down action ya'll.
window counter-weights might be pretty fresh.
one disappeared into the wall,
all mines of moria-type careening, it seems,
but without making too much of an orc-inciting racket on the way down.
of course,
much later in the evening,
it must've slipped loose,
because the crashing cacophony caused some incredible drums in the deep
to hammer out a double-bass double time tempo of destruction.
i'm not even trying to see what kind of wreckage resides within these walls.
if they could talk, ya'll,
they'd probably just laugh and name-call us for trying to fix the place.
a band-aid on a bullethole, yeah?
wrench-choosing knows no limits.
the weather is better.
the temperature is colder.
i don't know if i'm more broken than my home is,
or my house is, for that matter,
but i'm definitely more broke than i was earlier.
new windows.
delicious dinner.
days off with no dinero.
it's all still really happening.
really-real rural pre-winter preparations;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, September 28

broken homes and broken bones.

i've got both, ya'll and i'll tell you what;
the toe-jamboree hurts waaaay less...
the good news?
the garage leak is watertight and out of sight.
of course, that's not the only news...
there's a leaky situation in the back bedroom.
robert hasn't made an important anthroplological breakthrough in my house.
that's a leakey situation.
this is the other kind;
i've got water seeping within from without.
in a whole new other 'nother spot.
spontaneous disintegration, my ninjas.
unnanounced, improvised havoc.
one middle finger plugging up the dam,
and ten more holes popping up.
that's eleven holes all together, kids,
and that's one more problem than i've got the dexterity to deflect.
it's not exactly fun trying to guess where something terrible will spring up next.
it's like that cow poop bingo thing that churches do.
where you 'buy' squares of lawn,
and if the big ugly bovine cudsucker craps on yours,
you win a used pontiac that somebody's grandma left to the church when she died;
except it's my house,
and it's the whole wide world peeing into it,
and all i win the pleasure of fixing it.
so i guess it's really more like wondering where i'm going to lose next.
since i already own all the squares an' that.
there's a little plinking plunking droplet faucet
forming on the other other side of the house, too.
i must be a newly birthed baby goat, because someone is obviously kidding me.
in every life a little rain must fall.
that's cool.
i just hoped it would be outside.
when folks say something's got to give,
i wonder if it should be assumed it will be the roof?
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, September 27


cold, wet, and awful.
no, not my underpants,
the weather.
grossness is pervading the atmosphere.
wet oaks drop branches bigger than babies on my roof.
loud and hard, just the way i like it.
there're acorns rockin' my world up here in a hailstormy deluge of debris.
the Fall fallout free-falling from the boughs is bangin' breakbeats outside the bedroom.
i can't stand the rain, kids, and you know this;
this nasty drippy drab doo-doo is the precursor to big treats, though.
the nights are longer and harder,
and all that chilled-out darkness leads to light bright magnificence.
peak season is headed down the pike, ya'll.
that's autumn foliage color explosions
all over and under the valleys and mountains of the woodsly goodness.
somethin' about cold rain has the secret nutrient combination.
it activates the sugar-changing tint-transformers in the trees.
i'm ready.
i need the hottness of the fiery flame-hued treeline.
it'll help soothe the road-raging berserker fury directed at all the leaf-peepers
out on the rural roads, driving like snail-paced gawkers,
amazed that when you don't pave over 'em to build donut shops and discount retail outlets,
trees are actually pretty flippin' rad.
where's the lorax when you need a lesson to be taught?
i'm just sayin',
it's unfortunate that trees become almost safari-like exotic and rare spectacles
to weak-sauce waterbabyish city-limited sh!t-slickers.
but while the deep doo-doo of elderly lookers-on is lame as F*,
the sparkle magical freshness of Fall is in mutherlickin' full swing.
when the rainy days are over,
the wicky-wacky windy wonderment will kick it up to eleven.
it's a waiting game:
one week until the fair.
one more day until my weekend.
one hour, one minute, one moment at a time....
ma nature is shaking her money-maker, my ninjas,
like a go-go dancing stormswept gypsy stripper,
peeling layers in red, yellow, orange, green and brown;
i'm paying my pre-winter dues in the woodsly hood,
waiting for my all natural lapdance of autumny butt-nastiness;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, September 26

squeaky wheels.

toasted sesame oil is kinda rad.
it's like burnt peanuts mixed with china or some sh!t.
i'm sayin'.
it's good.

i've said it before...
there's kind of a lot of things i don't do.
especially compared to the regular mcburgery sports-fan flag-waver crowd.
more often than not,
i'm more concerned with what i do do. (doo-doo)
because really,
that's much more of an identity to be proud of.
i'm a book-reading, food cooking, barbarian bonfire lighting, dollmaking warrior poet,
who just happens to focus on vegetables, dungeons, dragons, and unclouded mindstates.
in general,
i find that vegans and drug-free-types only yell the loudest,
and get the proudest,
about what they aren't doing.
we don't drink.
we don't eat meat.
we don't watch t.v.
i haven't gotten down on any of those generic waterbaby pastimes in forever and a day.
i don't usually ever even think about it,
unless i'm around other vegan eaters or non-drinkers.
it's the compare and contrast contest.
who's more vegan, who's less drug-free.
you win, nitpickers.
enjoy it.
you're doing the least.
congratulations an' that.
that is some sh!t-salad-tossing weak b!tchbag asstardation.
i'm more psyched on what i'm cooking in my kitchen than what's missing from my fridge;
i care about what i read, and draw, build and burn instead of spending those nights barhopping;
and i'm definitely more into the performance art
of creating uncomfortably comedic situations,
instead of crouching couchbound and down, watching scripted situation comedies.
i mean,
active participation involves gettin' busy with your big bad business, yeah?
so really,
who gives a hot turd what you abstain from gettng all up on?
why am i rehashing all this "alike/unlike" action?
we've got some new vegan straight-edge transplants in town.
there's always someone who points out, in front of the newcomers,
how jess and i are the local elder statesmen of meatless sobriety.
apparently, we've been elected to the welcoming commitee-
they always leave out that we're unfriendly hermits of solitude,
and hard-hearted haters,
and woodsly battle-beasts who shun encounters like the sasquatch.
i promise we have less in common than you'd think.
it just doesn't look good for a comradery connection based solely on similar diets,
or rah-rah-rah music-based subcultural identification.
so while it's only too-true that i won't eat a grilled cheese,
i will still totally kick a dog in it's hairy butthole if it deserves it, broken toe or not;
and while i can appreciate the idealism behind remaining 'nailed to the X',
even after turning 21,
i'm more apt to summon up the really-realism and nail it to XI....
whilst doing a rootin'-tootin' root beer kegstand.
if a vegan eats a salad in the forest and no one is around to make a recycled tote bag with a clever slogan about it,
is the dressing still delicious?
my dudes are the ones who doo-doo what they do,
whatever the F* it is,
without an allegiance-swearing t-shirt announcing it to the world.....
you know the drill,
my worthy warriors of windswept woodsliness,
just be dope, first,
then we'll worry about what's for lunch;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, September 25

foe toe.

that's a bruised, used, and abused footlong foot.
i know all about the bam-bam bat i inherited as a BIG balance digit.
what worries me is the third one in from either side;
i broke my middle toe.
on my ass-kickin' foot, at that.
'this little piggie had roast beef...'
figures that my vegan sensibilities would let the wreck rain down on that guy...
it used to slant about twenty degrees to the right.
now, of course,
every single step i take brings the thunder down.
it's awesome.
did i break that sumb!tch off in a sucka's A-hole?
did i kick the ever-loving livin' sh!t outta something?
did i give 'em the boot and sustain battle-damage whilst booting?
i didn't jump from on high,
i didn't twist it in a cliff-face crevasse;
so how, exactly, did i grape-ape my toe knuckle?
i got up to grab the phone,
and heard an audible crunching crush as i shuffle-stepped into a chair.
F* my A*, ya'll.
right off my body an' that.
happily, my lung capacity is top-notch,
and my vocal chords are functioning just fine, thanks.
i spat the hottest fire and swore the dirtiest dirt-dog doo-doo butter,
up, down, sideways, and diagonally.
none of that made it feel any better.
i got beat up by a chair.
and i wasn't professionally wrestling, either.
hell, it's a flippin' antique, my ninjas.
i can't even get hurt all manly style.

i'm treading lightly,
like it or not,
but i absolutely refuse to watch my step.
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, September 24

thor's thunderous hammer.

maybe my dorkiness is overwhelming me?
i mean,
i just wrapped up a book called
orcs: bad blood.
it's the first book of the second series.
it's about orcs.
i know.
that's some 10th level +5 twenty-sided jackassery;
but what kicks it up to eleven,
is that as soon as i put that mutha-F*er to sleep,
i immediately reached over to the night stand and scoopled up a totally different book,
one that promises even more jacked-up assism;
it's called dwarves.
i swear to god, yo.
take a guess what it's about.
no, not little teapots,
the other other hard metal short and stout boilermakers.
axe-warriors, my ninjas, are pretty flippin' dope,
and that's word.
in an effort to tone down the epic scale of nerdhood involved,
or maybe to turn it up a little,
i feel i should let ya'll know it's written by a real German guy.
and translated from the real German text.
those dudes know what's up when it comes to nordic insanity.
some type of genetic-memory black forest berserker sh!t.
sometimes, i even want to bully myself for my lunch money.
of course,
my supreme fantasy fascination doesn't go unnoticed.
the vanilla sky full of cultivated coincidences was paying attention;
i actually tatblasted a warhammer chaos symbol for hours today.
water finds it's own level, so they say.
'my other car is a space marine predator.'
if you were also into plastic miniature combat bitz,
that would be hilarious.
the big irony for me was that when the chaos heavy metal masterwork was all done,
my client changed OUT of his GWAR shirt afterwards,
to avoid getting his blood on it!
i'm serious.

justification, rationalization, explanation;
i'm not exclusive in my word-nerd dragonlancing-
i do have a second tier of books getting eaten up by my head.
all non-fantasy, occasionally non-fiction;
novels, graphic novels, autobiographies, short stories, miscellaneous reference ....
less dork, more work.
i read 'em on the ground floor of the fortress, just to stay grounded,
and leave the lofty tomes of higher learning
for the higher floors of the homestead, instead.
you gotta climb the steps if you're going to get busy in the dungeon.
oxymoronic? maybe.
regular moronic? probably.

when i've filled up on my Fall word-eating,
and i've satisfied the hungry hole in my head with pages and pages and pages,
i'll be ready to start in on some falafel.
barely more than a week away,
the real damage is set to be dispensed.
never mind women's urine,
i'll stick to chick peas.
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, September 23

cannibus 3.14...

pot pie.

unlike pot brownies,
only the flaky pastry crust gets baked when i make this mighty british treat.
that's comparatively misleading in the nomenclature department, yeah?
neither is made in a pot,
and while both may require some TLC,
only one has THC.
pot pie is pretty innocuous.
but it is also pretty flippin' doooooooooope.
and that's word.

it's Fall, my freaky-diki mutha-flippers,
the jump-off for hearty, rib-stickin' thickness from my kitchen.
and for the record,
it is ON up here.

while my hard-workin' honey went to the studio and zapped it up,
i stoked the homefires hearthside,
and invested the entire afternoon peelin', paring, choppin', roasting, rollin', kneadin'
and so many other culinary kitcheny things,
that it was dark before i realized just how busy i'd been all damn day.
that mutha-uckin' pan of manly mealtime has got it all, too:
poultry-geisted tofu cubes,
hunks and chunks of vegetables,
thick, rich, greasy gooey gravy sauce,
and a golden butteryish crisp pastie-top enclosure.
i used to make moves with paint and pencils and sh!t...
anybody remember arthur?
me neither.
and i'm too full to care!

two kinds of pies in one day?
i doo-doo that pannie-pan pastry-type sh!t.
hell yeah.
apple attack!
another 'nother 3 quarts of gastric destruction.
my oven received a double stuffin' of stuffed-up stuffs, ya'll.
some folks wuss out and only use cinnamon and nutmeg in their apple pie.
that's why theirs is only a lower-than-ten slice of b!tch-sappy weak sauce,
and this nobbly, oaty dutch-crusted malus masterwork goes to eleven.
ginger? cloves? allspice? vanilla? maple syrup?
of course.
when it's complicated, it's just right.

the aftermath.
pounds of hard-pounded hard style scarfing, ya'll.
that's like eating ten dirty diapersfull of delicious.
we brought some serious thunder to the supper table tonight.
i honestly feel like i may burst open,
through my stomach,
out of my torso,
and all over the mutha-uckin' place.
i can't even swallow i'm stuffed so full.
(that's what she said).
cooking food is how i work out the rough spots.
it's a process.
it's a labor of love.
it's how i get busy when i'm otherwise gettin' in my own way.
today was like a marathon therapy session,
with comestible quantities of progress being made.
it all works out the way it's supposed to.
after all,
my wallet may be empty,
but my belly sure is full;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, September 22


today's date is the best way to succinctly sum it up;
the 22nd;
that's all the way to eleven,

what makes a kickass day off kick ass?
no work, obviously, for starters;
add in that it's the inestimable excellence of the equinox;
there's great weather;
scenic views and breathtakingly beautiful woodsly goodness;
and to top it all off, we went apple picking.
score one for the battle-beasts, b!tches.
right out of the gates,
a Perfect Fall Day.
you can maybe try and wrap your brains around beginning to imagine how F*n' amped on this type of Folk Life libertarianism i get.
it's a LOT, ya'll. and that's no foolin'.

a knit cap, savage barbarian beard, and a neil young type flannel?
sometimes even i'm surprised at my own manliness
we kinda came to rock the party today.
and thus far we totally have,
and i haven't even started baking anything yet.
apples and cinnamon and streusel, kids;
i know,
really, i know...
the white mountains.
northern new england.
throwback funtimes and real-life documentation...
this is the kind of stuff that makes me pop the veiniest rager on record!
a little.
always, ya'll....

that's what SHE said?

if you can't get 'em or don't wan't 'em from the grocery store,
and have to handpick some apples,
make sure they've got the right stuff for the job.
namely, some apple trees, for starters.
more importantly, a gallon of gasoline,
and a box of antlers as well,
so you'll have the answers,
and the hot fire,
to ensure your experience is fully-formed.
as much as always,
and maybe more than ever,
i am so super grateful for the times being had.
it's really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

we all fall down.

happy mutha-F*n' Fall.
today's the big one,
the autumnal equinox.
the first day of the best season out of all four of 'em.
it's time for super color-change leaf-peepin',
face-stuffin' harvest-tide feastin',
and the famous fryeburg fair all the falafel i can force into my foodhole.
my favoritest time of year, ya'll.
and it's on.
right now, even as i type this,
it's Fall outside.
it could just be me,
but the air smells even better than it's usual luscious woodsly terrificness.
Fall, ya'll.
i'm sayin';
so good.
we lit stuff on fire last night,
to mark the mighty transfer of quadrant sky power
with a raisin' up of some hottness and some night-light-watchmanship.
as usual,
it rocked my socks right off of my body.
small routines, like the eventide flameblasting we're on about over here,
become traditions before you know it.
if i have to span an hour between dinnertime and before-bedtime
bringing the muotherflippin' heat and hellfire down on my driveway,
then so be it.
the cannonlike funnel of the chiminea makes for some awesome pictures, too.
i mean,
isn't that some sh!t, son?
the flashburn calligraphy laserbeam lightshow?
it's like an ocean of fireflies being blasted out of an undersea volcano.
you know you like it.
we used some wood from a weird tree on the front lawn.
nobody axe-warriored a live tree down for no reason.
part of it was dead,
and uncle steven viking berserker-ed it into little logs of fire food.
days off should all start with excellent nights like this one.
there is absolutely no acceptable substitute for taking time for yourself,
with a greedy grabhanded chokehold, if need be,
and making some moments of magic.
we got it like that up here.
it's poppin',
and not just because the wood is a little wet still;
(that's what she said?)
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, September 21

summer's end.

this is it.
the last lazy, hazy, crazy day of summer.
the closing curtain on three month's worth
of workin', lovin', fightin', and livin'.
and what a season it was;
two epic-scale whole-hog whole house relocations;
a working mini-vacation of sorts in a weird house;
a brand-spankin'-new old busted fortress of hottness;
thousand of hours spanned across long days,
hundreds of tatty-o's administered;
tons of vegan eats prepared;
dozens of cigars;
hours of harmonica harping;
and one fabulous, furious, fearless Folk Life.
talk about reaping what's been sown.

big ups in the form of congratulations go out to
my talented, hardworking, friendly, dedicated
(and in most other ways unlike me) homeboy,
mr. shawn hebrank,
for snagging the coveted, prestigious 'tattoo of the day' award,
on the final day of the first-ever minneapolis tattoo convention.
that flawless victory added yet another 'nother trophy to the boards
for my home away from home, identity tattoo.
so word up to all of those duders.
especially 'mr. my third convention ever'....

i'm waiting on a new beginning.
there's a whole midweek weekend rollin' up and at me over here.
there's no shortage of stuff i could be doing,
or even probably should be doing,
and, if i was wealthy or motivated, probably would be doing,
but all of that responsible adult business seems less than likely.
the first day of fall calls out longingly for apple pickin',
pumpkin patching,
bonfire blazing,
and cinnamon scented something.
i'm sayin',
the grown-up world can make like eddie murphy and nick nolte,
and wait 48 hours,
because the really-real life i'm makin' moves on
has got other plans.
priorities, my ninjas.
...i doo-doo that freaky sh!t;

did somebody say cider doughnuts??
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, September 20

it started like a prison riot.

epic manliness in the face of adversity?
limited in visibility, cold, windswept, and under-prepared,
i still managed to ignite a serious berserker barbarian battle-blaze
on uncle steven's 28 mountain-top acres, ya'll.
without the previously presumed presence of kerosene, newpaper, kindling,
or any other helpful combustion accelerants,
i used some active participation,
and worthy woodsly Folk Lively improvisation,
and got the going, tough and then some, under way to rescue the evening;
using only some drier-than-dust treebark,
a match,
and a roll of old toilet paper from the disused camper on the property as a chimney,
i came to get down, and left the place burnt up to a crisp.
smoldering smugness ensued on my part.
hell yes, mutha-lickers,
never mind the boy scouts,
we were members of the dead warrior poet's society last night.
i guess i'm kind of a real deal expert firestarter,
a real prodigy, even.....except somehow with barely better hair.
(right, smalley?)
i actually used two matches,
but one was mainly to light my way,
and the second one to light my fire completely brought the blaze to bear.
time was spanned exceptionaly well.
jess, uncle steven, jim, olive, and myself made with the campy campground activities.
we shootin-star-gazed,
cuban embargo stump fumed,
(jim rocked a sweet-smellin' mellow yellow-stemmed pipe)
and toasted up our heinies for hours and hours.
even after a whole weak week of zippin' off on armbands and baby names,
a little minute on the mountain reset the hottness back on track.

is that two out of three wise men stacked on top of each other?
a brundlefly teleporter experiment using two handsome arabs?
a witch being burned at the stake?
it's just another picture of me lookin' F*d up.
this is pretty much what happens at night up here,
give or take a hundred pages of nerdy book browsing before bedtime.
it's how we get busy in a laid-back locale.
and it's real life.
unfolding along a predetermined, yet completely unscripted course,
one minute after another.
there's a longer night, every night,
by about two minutes.
we're rubbin' elbows with autumn,
and it's apple pickin' time in the north.
i've got more pies to bake,
i've got more cider and more problems to mull over,
and i've got a whole new season of woodsly goodness
to appreciate, participate, and instigate.
it's all really happening.
the weather is beautiful,
the harvest is bountiful,
this is the time i've been given,
and i'm having a helluva time of it.
i wish you were here;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, September 19

chuggin' along.

couscous is dumb.
it's like eating little crumbs of something bigger and more delicious.
unless it's that big badass moroccan couscous.
the one that looks like beige ball bearings, or ecru-tinted mini-marbles,
and that no supermarkets up here carry.
i guess it's a tried and true stereotype,
despite all the open-mindedness in the whole wide world:
the african version is bigger and thicker and lasts longer than
the mincey, minky little european version.
c'mon now.
mediterranean couscous may share some common ancestors
with that other other othello-type sh!t an' that, ya'll,
and even though you can get it all up and down the big boot-scootin' shores of italy,
just try tellin' that to any sicilians you come across and see what happens.
ah well,
it totally figures that the culturally disadvantaged crevices and counters
of the great white north lean towards the mundane palate;
and so dumb crumbs it is, ya'll.
it's so little and unassuming that i can bully it into submission
and smother it under tasty treats and scooples of mushyroomination.
why use it at all?
because even when a spatula or a spoon would suffice,
i still choose the wrench.
my metaphoric works-wrecking tool is also my favorite kitchen utensil.
with uncle steven here,
i've been spanning more time in the kitchen,
impressing him with the inestimable power of supreme vegan eats.
judging by the coneheads-esque ingesting of mass-quantities,
i'd say it's working.

i mean,
this pie right here,
for those of you who don't know what's poppin'-fresh in the woods,
is pretty much the pumpiest-jumpkiny discus of dopeness
i've had the pleasure and presence of mind to prepare.
for all the b!tch-sap-oozin' pie purists who can't hang out with crumbly toppings;
i feel bad for you, son,
because ya'll are most definitely doo-dooin' some disrespect to your lingual pappillae;
... you're probably the same ones who prefer that little waterbaby couscous,
and don't know about the big b.b. wheat caviar type sh!t.
if i were you,
i'd take some hand-crushed pecans, some raw mexican pumpkin seeds,
flour, sugar, butterish blops, vanilla, cinnamon, and nutmeg,
and get with increasing the curb appeal of your crusty gourd custard.
do it.
fatty-boombattie fresh flavor for your bald belly, blitzle;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, September 18

sweater weather

dang, it's been a chilly penguin festival up here.
windy, cold, and generally crappy,
on the plus side,
i finally get to re-cover myself in seasonally appropriate cladding.
sweater season is in full mutha-F*n' effect.
and that's a damn good thing.
the less of me showing = the more of me that looks good.
clothes may not make the man,
but they sure help disguise him.
and let's all thank the lucky stars for that little tidbit of truth.

with all the low farenheits,
and absence of sufficient british thermal units,
i'm gettin' into hibernation mode, too.
storin' nuts in a hole and that sort of thing.
(that's what SHE said)
that means stockin' up on treats, and getting all swelly around my belly.
i have the sort of physiology that, when fattening up,
lends itself readily to a hybrid visual image of gollumy gauntness
AND a unicef-sponsored little blowpop-bellied brown person
from somewhere sh!tty.
except without the expected flies on or around my mouth.
none of that goes down, thankfully.
could it because my beard is too gross
even for insects that normally eat turds and dead bodies?
or it could be that it looks too much like a whole nest of spiders stuck to my face.
unfortunate, but less likely, i'm sure.
it's a pale, distended stomach, bad hair, the works.
my torso looks like a xylophone on top of a basketball.
and yet, i keep right on consuming.
it's like there's a black hole inside me
like i'm channeling an interracial adult movie in my guts....
oh, c'mon.
but seriously, kinda,
i don't know how much shark-glutton calorie destruction i can handle
before i actually do blimp up, blow out, and battle the bulge,
it's just that i want to always be eating.
until i'm full blown 'hey, hey, HEEEY' sized.
like my namesake and patron saint,
fat albert, ya'll,
playin' my radiator accordion, even, an' all of that other junkyardyness, too.
i'm sayin',
if i could dislodge my bottom jaw at this point,
whole unchewed sandwiches could just get shoveled in.
think how much time i could save, never chewin' and all.
i think i'd like that.
that said,
pecan and pepita streusel topped pumpkin pie is on the menu.
homemade hottness is how i cope with shortening days, and frosty nights.
anything that tastes like cinnamony autumn,
with the consistency of doo-doo and crust,
is just my speed;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, September 17

tonight's the night.

today wasn't super remarkable.
the weather was fair, the temperature was average.
it wasn't profitable. i only did one tattoo all day.
it wasn't really even that enjoyable.
but tonight...
tonight was epic and excellent.
crisp clean night air,
incredible stratospheric ceiling visibility,
shooting stars and fast moving satellites,
and the ever-lovin' warmth of a hot fire.
while i was busy languishing through my hours of unproductive saucery,
our homeboy was helping himself to acres of manliness;
uncle steven cleared all kinds of stumps, sticks, branches, and brush.
he even mowed the sunovab!tchin' lawn.
so nice.
he prepped a whole pile of cedar balusters, posts, and pylons
for the new super woodsly waterproof airtight sap-saturated and sealed deck.
that lefts loads and loads of scrappy wood, scented like pure wizardly radness.
what did we doo-doo with all the leftovers?
we had the best smelling combustible goodness to date.
it was like staying warm with magical incense.
we put the stink to it, ya'll.
that's how it happens up here.
so here's to uncle steven,
with our most sincere appreciation,
and his most active participation.
retaining relatives' relative worth and spanning time, my ninjas;
hot fire and lightning.
this is what every night should be like, ya'll.

is that the flaming ghost of my hair?
a scooby doo disguise?
a rhyming ancient mariner?
a rembrant reproduction?
my guess is it's an approximation of all of the above.
olive spends most of her time hoping that some animal,
any animal, even,
will show up for her to savagely tear and maim.
she goes routinely unrewarded, but her sprits remain high.
like all you democratic voters out there,
maybe magic results will appear if you just hope harder....
jess doing her best headless horror impression yet.
i swear i don't drink.
i just look like nick nolte's arrest photo purely by accident.

free chiminea.
free cedar wood.
livin' free,
or dyin' tryin'.
Folk Life & Liberty.
with the stink on it.
word up.
p.s. today makes 555 blog posts.
unlike in hollywood,
it's not an imaginary prefix,
calling out to nowhere.
it's the number of the beast, or his little brother, more likely,
calling out to all you warriors, poets, berserkers,
and real-life lovers and real-love lifers,
and it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, September 16

peein' on my pannies?

if i had been able to make my own he-man action figurine,
back before the days when after-school cartoon cringer or orko ever existed,
i would've made a flapjack headed monster,
with syrup nozzle arms;
picture man e. faces,
but as a lumberjack breakfast.
i know, it would've sold a milion units.
the name?
what are you, an A-hole?
pan e. caker, obviously.
y'know what i scoopled up today?
three big ol' compilations of calvin and hobbes collected comic strips.
i really love that stuff. hard.
when, before or since, has anyone captured that flavor of freshness?
i'm serious.
never, that's when.
when the get busy brushes were flowin' just right
bill waterston could watercolor his whole ass right off, ya'll.
i'm sayin', remember the dinosaur ones?
i had kind of forgotten about those turbofresh comics,
but i was reminded of 'em after a trip to the supermarket.
i happened to see a 'peeing punk-ass' rear windshield sticker,
wherein the squirt is squirtin' on 'work', (the word work, ya'll, seriously)
while his hat sports lures, and a caption reads: "gone fishin'".
and all this time i thought only shel silverstein could illustrate heartfelt poetry.
think about how epic the flippin' gaytardation must be,
fourteen long years after the strip has ended,
for jockhole redneck bumper-sticker-types to still crack up about a little kid
takin' a hot whiz on whatever vehicle brand or sports team,
just so whomever is behind them on the road will know
where their waterworkin' diaperbaby allegiances lay.
a small comfort can be taken, at least,
that the current incarnation bears little resemblance to the original calvin,
and is moreso a sh!t-salad backwards-ballcapped urbanesque toughlet.
i get it, kinda.
a young boy, vinyl buttcheeks bared,
relieving himself on symbols of tyranny and oppression,
namely ford logos and professional sports teams from new york,
is clearly a form of displaying superior patriotic american ethical values,
and not a thinly veiled nambla recruiting technique.
i mean, he does have his back turned, for decency's sake.
and the time and energy devoted to extrapolating variables!
mathematical physics theorists have got nothin' on these guys.
i mean,
have you seen the one where the red sox kid
is peein' on the yankees kid
who is peein' on the red sox B?
flawless victorious waterfall comeuppance indeed!
the trickle down effect and last laugh revenge,
all in a die-cut public urination affirmation.
that's how you reach out and pluck america's heartstrings.
are you taking notes, hallmark?
chicken soup for the imbecile's urethra, perhaps.....
i'll be sure to stay well hydrated,
just so i can channel the lovable spirit of mschief,
like an italian kokopelli, even,
(kokopellisimo, my ninjas,)
and take a 98.6 degree hilarous dousing on all that displeases me.
don't worry, my hat'll be on backwards.
a super-soakin' imp,
drenching this day all sweet and lovable,
and kinda ammonia-y.
stayin' gold, in shower form;
never quiet, never soft....

Tuesday, September 15

wizards and warriors.

where all ya'll scandalous skanks at?
because i'm over here.
y'know, at the fire.
warm apple cider,
rip-roarin' woodsly flames,
starry night skies,
and crisp season-changing air;
that's what's poppin'.
five nights in a row,
five hot fiery evenings,
all dopeness, all the time.
i'm reppin' the wizardly druidic warrior style.
it goes good with blazing ragers.
and it keeps embers off of my melon
when i'm layin' scant inches from the heart of the heat.
nothing goes worse with a burgeoning blad-spot than a scalded scalp,
burnt bangs and flame-broiled follicles.
what i'm sayin' is:
while i may never turn into a beautiful swan,
ugly ducklings are only ever water-resistant,
regardless of how much hot fire spit they spout.

Folk Life & Liberty.
that's some big action bold business.
rural righteous really real life and freedom to act according to a worthy will.
now add in some hot fire.
heck yeah, kids.
even when it's at it's closest, smallest, and most meager,
the woodsly goodness provides a platform of pure awesome.
i love it when everything is going according to plan.
even when it's mostly a secret one.
if you take a deep breath,
you can smell the gratitude mixed in with the wood smoke.

uncle steven should be rockin' out on the deck all day,
with his dandy little sander machine,
and some linseed sealant an' that;
jess has been strippin' all day,
without a single dollar-dollar bill in her panties to show for it.
it's hard to get in 'em when she's got her business overalls on.
paint strippin' just doesn't get me that hot and bothered,
although the chernobyl-sauce that gets things started might....
scrapin' old paint of older furniture is what's goin' on over here,
wallpaper-displeasure-powered redoo-doo and replacement;
i'm not trying to get in on any of that kind of improvement action.
however, i've been across the state and back again,
with scant results to show for my trouble.
i already rocked an extra-long stink-saturated stump,
crashed out on the warm lawn,
chatted it up well nice with my peoples,
and it's still daylight.
these times are happening, even though not much else is.
a proper day OFF, my ninjas;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, September 14

that's my jam(balaya)

food pictures are important for real-life documentation.
or so i hear.
if i had to choose between tattoo pictures to showcase my art skills,
or food pictures to showcase my fatness skills,
it's not any kind of hard choice at all.
tatblastin' is what i do for work,
but vegan shark-glutton barbarian banquets are what i DO.
proper doo-doo, an' that.
at any rate, i ate more often and in higher quality than i tattooed this week.
when's the last time i snapped a tee-zappity zip for your faces?
word up.
that's some jammie-jam rice 'n' stuff for your face.
even the dedicated omnivorous meat-heads we had over for supper
scarfed, wolfed, and otherwise shoveled
brownish blops, glops, chunks, and hunks down their gizzards.
that's when you know you've brought the noise;
ironically, it's when all the noise straight-up stops,
excepting the mastication sensation of wet-diaper slapping chewface sounds.
do not close your eyes when that happens,
unless you're a dingy perv,
because you'll find yourself imagining moist nasty-ass business.
audible fouls, ninjas.
believe in it.
that's jess's hand game-show prize-modeling the bowlful of

triple threat myconid masterpiece?
that's buttons, chestnuts, and shiitakes;
little strips of meaty, beaty, gills, frills, caps and straps!
the magic number - magic + mushrooms = taste explosions for your facepiece.
with hot-fire-roasted tomato chunks,
and carmelized shallots.
in the interest of to takin' it to eleven, just because:
pureed paste and whole-hog roasty toasted pine nuts, mutha-uckers.
pine nuts?
hell yeah,
that's the taste of luxury, b!tches.
punk-ass pesto it wasn't,
but delicious it most certainly was.
and if you think the nuts are small,
you should see the pine weiners.
oh, c'mon....
when all else fails,
and there's nothing else to say,
a stuffed-face and a fat belly will always carry the day.
there's food on the table,
water in the kettle,
cider on the stove,
and fire in the hearth.
really real, and really happening.
all of it, all the time;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, September 13

sunny sunday.

wedding bells rang loud and hard yesterday.
and while the woodsly goodness enjoyed perfect nearly-autumnal sunny weather,
the city limits of seacoastal shorelines suffered for it.
puddles and puddles, kids.
and piles of pleated plastic pour protection;
seriously mutha-lickin' torrents of nor'easterly liquid spirit-dampening!
it didn't really wash up any waterbabies, though,
and it actually kind of rocked it.
the house it was held in put all other houses to embarrassment.
all of 'em.
and the folks who attended were almost all verrry white,
which meant i didn't have to hold a single solitary conversation;
nobody knew who i was or why i was there,
and they cared even less than that.
there were a few highlights:
-outdoorsy wetness, making for interesting dance moves on the slick dance floor,
-unfriendly drunken NYC bandmate A-tards talkin' music talk
and gettin' hit on gallons of wine.
i mean, wine?
-and a kickass cocoapuffy chocolate labrador named moxie,
who not only munched up a dozen or so of the special-order devil's food cupcakes,
but intermittently sniped snippets of snacks from even the most closely guarded larders,
that smelly wet mess was the real belle of the ball in my eyes.
keepin' it real, and just doo-dooin' what it do.
just be dopeness, indeed.

it's sunday.
normally a day of rest for regular folks.
us IRregulars had moves to make,
tatgrinder zappage to snap off,
and real-life to endure, endear, engender, and incur.
we're poised on the precipice....
the winds are blowin' an' that.
change is the only constant, i've heard,
and apparently, we're constantly catchin' that current.
it seems as if i'm part kite;
preferably the kestrel-kin
and not the diamond-shaped, but not diamond hard, patchwork piece of parchment.
i don't think i'd look good with a ribbon bedazzled eeyore tail, at any rate.
either way,
there's sure to be some glidin' all along the cloudcovered warpaths.
whistle-blower? never.
hornblower? certainly.
and you can bet your bottom-most dollar that when i blow my own horn,
i'm a hard-style blowin' blowhard for certain.
the season's ready to change,
and so am i;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, September 12


sh!t, i guess i forgot.
ah well,
so much for attempts at hardline nationalism.....

it may smell like rain,
but trust me on this one, kids,
that's LOVE in the air.
no foolin',
we're going to a wedding today.
a real maritime new england magical late summer seacoast affair.
for the future mr. & mrs. settle.
you read it right.
yeah, i know, that's some sh!t...
jess's college roommate and her manly man are finally tying the matrimonial knot up
with some gnarly nuptials and all that goes with doo-dooin' that sort of thing.
a wedlock head lock is headed down the altar,
and we're gonna be there to bear witness.
abby and wade are darn good folks, and they deserve all the happiness in the world.
everyone should be so lucky.
and because of their good fortune, i get a free day off from work,
but probably not any cake.
buttercream is oh-so sweet and delightful, i'm just not that into gettin' 'rrhea.
(...unless it's gonnorrhea, and then the gettin' is the only fun part.)
a better way for a non-drinking vegan to spend a saturday there is NOT.
to prepare myself for the ever-anticipated never-original conversations
with the 40+year-olds in the boku big drinkies crowd well in advance,
here's some engaging dialogue i can only hope to include in the day's festivities:
-"heck yes, it hurts. right now, in fact. do you have any vicodin?"
-"why did i do this to myself? to cover the track marks, obviously."
-"you could never? i don't blame you, the inks contain siphyllis,
although, judging by your leopard-print dress, so do you."
-"what do they mean? really? they're symbolic of my transformation from victim to survivor, marking important events in my cathartic awakening......PSYCH! they're just great for starting conversations with drunken old ladies at weddings"
-"what DO i do for work? i'm a full-time lover, part-time janitor. although meghan's law means no schools for me. for either thing. bummer"
it should go over well, i'm sure.
i'll just blame it on the sauce.
of course, only you guys will know i'm referring to weak sauce, not booze.
oh, come on.
warrior poetry in motion is never easy, my ninjas.
it should be great, in any case;
the sun is peekin' out in spite of predicted predicaments of partial pouring,
the sky is blue,
people are in love and participating pretty actively....
it's going to eleven, on the twelfth.
today is the day.
moreso than every day.

i know, ya'll.
i'm kind of an A-hole.
that's why none of you invited me to your weddings, yeah?
truthfully, i'm looking forward to seeing jess all dressed up,
especially since she looks so damn good all the time anyway,
and this time we've got perfectly paired outfits and haircuts as well.
being included in the big action is a good feeling,
even if it's only as an extension of my own better half.
i'll take it.
i put the moans in matrimony;
never quiet, never soft....

Friday, September 11

axe and smash!

better known as demolition, right?
for those of you who had healthy childhoods;
axe and smash were leatherclad s&m fetish-suited professional wrestlers,
more commonly referred to as the tag team duo of devastation
commonly cheered and jeered by mulleted metal-heads and pseudo-urban midwesterners
under the mosh-magical moniker of demolition.
(shhh, listen. can you hear the megadeth playing in the distance?...)
nobody's wrestlin' with anything but pangs of conscience up here,
but plenty of smash-bashin' barbarian heavy-handed
axe-haft hammerin' is happenin'.
who would have guessed that home improvement involves so much home demolition?
i'm wrecking my house under my own volition.
on purpose, an' that.
it's costing us loot, to boot!
the new & better berserker battle platform is gonna rule my jewels off,
and that's totally worth all the power-washed waterboarding
that i'm torturing myself with right now.
i lament the lack of dead bird lovin' in the forests of flavor,
because we've got enough tar here to puritanically punish
even the most unrepentant pilgrim,
all we're missin' is the feathers.
when the last ant kicks the bucket,
and the last square-head screw gets torqued into place,
what should we be expecting:
lantern posts?
i think so.
wrought iron plant hangers?
F* yes, my ninjas.
a kickass spiral-staircase gate with blackened iron hinges?
of course.
what am i? an A-hole?
maybe, but i'm an apehole A-lord with soon-to-be elite deck, too.

i don't just screen my calls,
i screen my doors, and my photos, too.
uncle steven gets busy, ya'll.
and in case you mutha-flippers weren't sure about how it goes;
a sawzall really actually truly saws all.
seriously, i was there. i saw it all.
these days are unfolding.
they're unfolding from incredible unsolvable origami animal shapes.
some kind of geometric capybara or somethin'.
i can't do much but reactively participate,
enjoy the slow striptease of unfurled events,
and follow the clues left behind by the secret universal plan.
it's like a treasure hunt,
and the prize is a fresh Folk Life in the woodsly goodness.
it's all really happening,
and i am pretty mutha-lickin' grateful for the time i have been given;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, September 10


oh man,
sleeping is SO dope.
when you turn in and your brains turn off.
so good.
i especially love sleeping when the nighttimes get chilled up.
long nights,
hard times,
and dew droppin' thermometer poppin' flannel sheetin' snoozefestivals.
rip van winkle could team up with robert van winkle,
and i'd still out-snooze the both of those ice-ice (water)babies.
i think i could probably sleep for two months straight.
i've even done it before
just ask the old turnpike tattoo crew from around the turn of the century.
i managed to do about two consecutive month's worth of couch-surfin',
hangin' ten in forty wink increments.
what's the coolest letter in the alphabet?
i'm already prepped and primed for a pillow fight.
wherein i go ten rounds against a pillow,
seeing who smothers whom first.
my money's on my mighty sandman manatee melon, kids.
i could win with my eyes closed.

i thought of a sure fire recipe for penultimate success in life, love, and whatever else:
excess + suck.
except not in that order.
suck-cess, an' that,
sorta too bad the word cess means 'assess' in crumpet english,
and 'luck' in shamrock english,
and not 'sh!t', like in cesspool.
i don't get it, either, ya'll.
but seriously, though.
it kinda makes sense, yeah?
i've got plenty of all of that stuff,
and tons of resultant great luck in assessing sh!ttiness,
and sh!t-suckin' salad tossery, too.
...metaphorically, i mean.
still, i'm mostly happy with what's happenin',
so who's to say it isn't workin'?

uncle steven has got a whole truckful of tools,
and since i'm the only tool who serves almost no household purpose,
i'm stayin' stashed away in my very own toolbox.
(that's what SHE said)
if you listen closely,
you can almost hear me sawing wood.
in my sleep, i mean.
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, September 9

hit the deck.

manly work is being done over here.
i've got a seventy foot tall german blitzkrieger terrorizing the planks he's walkin'.
proper shivering on the ol' timbers, an' that.
what am i talking about?
uncle steven has arrived from connecticut's sh!t-salad tossin' territory
to raise hell and raze barns.
barnstormtroopin' is on the menu, ninjas.
did we discover some doo-doo buttery buttressing?
how about carpenter ants?
they should be called A-hole F*tard bastardhole ants,
because they don't actually do any carpentry,
they just kinda choke on wood and suck.
(that's what SHE said)
in what i would call a justifiable genocide,
we hit 'em up with a hefty dose of chernobyl-sauce.
well nice, they get proper sawdusted and busted.
F* 'em all, and let god save the queen, since we sure aren't gonna.
is that not very vegan?
caaaaa-aaaare? i didn't smother them in chocolate and eat 'em,
i just offered up a sacrifice to the mighty house spirits.
you'd best believe that hungy hungry house spirits want blood tribute.
i'm pretty sure that's a proven scientific law.
and besides,
uncle steven was quick as lightning,
pulled out a helpful handy can of zyklonic cylon syrup,
and did the dirty deed.
i simply don't feel compelled to be a whiny whingeing waterbaby about it.
i'm just sayin',
more uncle, less ant.
that's my mutha-uckin' word, bleedin' heart baby b!tches.
go easy.
the construction is being conducted in segments,
on the broken segments of these insect inhabiters.
i'm pretty sure that's very patrioticly american.
should i have traded 'em some wampum first?
there's tar and flashy flashing, and shingles and sh!t everywere.
when the dust settles and the insecticide fumes clear
will i have a functional garage?
i sure hope so.

does my ass look big in this carapace?
where's this one think she's flyin' off to?
yeah, right.
not once, not never.
not less than eleven seperate instances today made me so glad i cut my hair off.
i mean,
spiders, cobwebs, sawdust, spiders, ants, fatty boombattie backbottom beetle bizzles,
mosquitoes, spiders, and assorted airborne stickinesses;
that's the kind of stuff that would've made me fully flip the F* out,
most especially if it had gotten into, upside, or around my luxurious samsony locks of old.
turns out,
dangley princess hair and manly environments don't mix that well.
my weekend is over.
it included a whole bunch of eyeball to printed word contact.
i read a LOT.
i'm no smarter for it,
and my house isn't any better prepared for inhabitation,
but it still happened.
it's 5 p.m. wednesday,
do you know where your hottness is?
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, September 8

big breakfasts.

i guess that vegans all kinda celebrate not going to work
by gorging on gorgeous globs of greasy goodness.
we doo-doo that shark-gluttonous freaky-eatie sh!t.
it's a real thing.
i'm sayin',
this delish dish may not be served up in an outre-hip community co-operative urban food spot,
but my kitchen isn't one to shirk sh!t, and not rise to the occasion.
i'm sorry-ish,
all you die-hard earth-nest-grimy bicycle and dreaded head-lock dudes,
but my early morning weekendy hottness is pretty dope all by it's ownsome in the woods.
and that's with or without a side-order panniecake with pinwheel pecans.
some of ya'll may be thinkin':
that's a lot of yellow for one plate.
and normally, i'd agree.
but polenta is just so pleasant,
and that tofu scramble has triumphant turmeric,
and paprika, (think of it as a toner)
to utilize the essential nutrients,
replicating eagle's eggs powers,
and activating the inner 'ness.
as in, hottness.
it also helps it to rock my flippin' socks off my feet.
if you think that's a lot of yellow,
try standing across the street and looking at the giant lemon i call home.
oh, and that's not actually some cedar bark strips on my plate, either, ya'll.
it's pretend bacon.
it can pretty much stop pretending,
and change it's name to tasty construction paper,
because i'll still snack on it when i feel the urge.
word up.
we're fueled up and unfurled out for a big fun day.
i think we're gettin' wall primer or some sh!t.
i'm on some new other other sh!t today.
a little reactive participation, my ninjas.
events unfold, ya'll.
like it or not,
there's times and places for all kinds of stuff.
i'm on a mission,
to stop, look, and listen,
and figure out where and when and how my times are.
word to hour glasses,
i came to crack asses.
oh, c'mon.
how about you mutha-flippers?
is it just good times, like j.j. and florida?
hard times, like really real life and minneapolis bum cafes?
or ALL the mutha-forkin' times?
you know how it goes....
it's all really happening.
acting and reacting,
we're part of it;
never quiet, never soft......

Monday, September 7

labor intensive...

i like how i always make a semi-surprised face when i take my own picture.
one would assume a self-portrait is at least partially prepared for.
i mean,
i'm pointing a camera right into my eyeholes,
so i completely knew what was comin'.
do i seem a bit like a spaniard of old?
i think don quixote might've had the same flavor before he got old and crazy.
i sure could use a right hand man of la mancha to take some photos.
maybe then i could spend a little more time actually being surprised.
the orange glow from the autumnal embers and ciaroscuro focus
seems to help hamper the hard style of lookin' like me all the time.
the darker the better, i guess,
when it comes to the optimal light for catchin' a glimpse of your main ninja, eh?
i figured some duders out there were wondering
about my devastatingly dashing good looks.
i still haven't found any,
i'm slowly inching my way to contentment with my new short and sweet and sour hair.

what a day.
we had howlin' full-moonin' wolfmen and ladies in the studio today.
no, i really mean it;
bayin', sobbin', throbbin' and all that kind of warbled woeful wailing.
it makes for a loud hard work scenario.
leftover baked zitis and little corgi dogs are fillin' out the remains of the day.
tonight may see a replay of our onion-shaped orb of fiery hottness.
the front lawn and garden got a miniature makeover today;
jess yardworked it for all it was worth.
my weekend starts now, my ninjas.
all you sancho panzas had better believe it;
never quiet, never soft.....

glorious. laborious. victorious.

"it feels like it's really fall now. like the season just jumped off"
true enough, and well said, jim.
our buddy came by for dinner and the first fire at the new citadel.
jess's ma delivered us a chiminea,
and with the scaped-up raked-up bark and splinter leavings from the cords of woodsly goodness,
we blazed up a brief respite from the pre-fall fall in temperatures.

those're the solar lights back behind my ladyfriend.
and that view is from the sherlockian study upstairs in the fortress.
times are being had ya'll.
and they're pretty flippin' good ones.
holiday weekends in a vacation town can be pretty sh!tty,
but we live on the opposite side of the traffic jam jamboree,
and there's no place we needed to go.
there's no place like home base, anyway.
all of that was after a nearly nauseating shark-gluttonous feast.
shark gluttony is when you may have actually swallowed the fork,
and the napkin,
in a balls-out barbarian no-chewing allowed brutal noodle gnashin',
sauce bossy blop-bashin' feeding frenzy.
i made my unparalleled 5 pound pantload pannie-pan of italian thunder last night.
you read that right.
and you missed out, hard, on a chance to go insane
all the way from your tongue to your bung!
world-famous it ain't.....yet; but it sure should be.
because it is pretty mutha-uckin' incredible, edible, and unforgettable.
word to gettin' nude,
i came to eat food....
it's like rome gettin' razed by vandals in your mouth.
it's like alderaan gettin' F*d up by the de*th st*r behind your teeth.
it's like eating pornography...?
y'know, kinda awesome, but just so dirty.
okay, O-kay, okay;
it's actually just a big-ass tray of vegan baked ziti.
but it is also all of those other things too.
and i've even got some left over.
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, September 6

the greatest.

i got some new hand-thrown hottness yesterday,
from the tin mountain potteryworks,
and plans to obtain some new other other assorted hottness,
from hurricane mountain pottery today.
i've got that glazed look in my eyes,
all proper raku an' that.
i've got some loot, to cash us some clay.
muhammed ali? what? hold it...
you know, as in, the greatest.
the greatest collection of kickass bowls, mugs, jars, and crocks.
and what a crock it is, kids.
seriously, i've got a pair of 'em, and they're proper fresh, for real.
today's big affair?
i'm buyin' another bowl or two to hold my treats, ninjas.
be easy.
c'mon, can you blame a mutha-ucka?
i got a ragin' rocky top for that handmade stuff.
i mean,
i'm not hatin' on machine made bits and pieces, if they happen to hold some heat,
but there's no comparin' candlepower when up against the crafty crafted creations
of hands-on handmade treats.
that's word.

today's the last real summer day.
and it's already got that autumnal accent liltin' through the leaves;
heck, it's not really even that warm outside.
come tomorrow, it may as well just be apples and sweaters.
labor day is mostly reserved for rednecks to burn burgers over blazin' grills.
and for college-age kidlets to practice getting drunk.
i'm workin' throughout all of that.
better off blastin' tatty-o's and commiserating with run-of-the-mill waterbabies,
than breakin' bread and hearts with the very same liquid infant diaperpants.
i'm sayin',
i've got run-of-the-mill zappin' to scribe up and vibe out.
you know it;
word to wood stoves,
i came to pinch loaves.
...on your life.
that barely even makes sense.
and yet i totally doo-doo that doo-doo,
it's a regular rear-ended three-day weak-end weekend.
so sit on back, have some oogey loogie potato salad,
with extra mayo, (to prove you're a proud american)
and enjoy this long range rovin' on weak-sauce work avoidance....
...and don't forget to stop by and gimme some money.
i'm at the fire, even when i'm not.

yard sales and old people,
traffic jams and elderberry jam,
tattyzips and steam engine restorations;
i'm grateful for the time i've been given.
every day,
not just on holidays;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, September 5

nature wins.

so we've got these hundred-year-old oak trees, yeah?
and we've got this snazzy metal roof.
full-moonshine love shack-style.
and do you know what you get when you combine those things?
pitter-pattery rain drips and drops, for one.
filtered and reflected sunshine, for another.
at 3 a.m., by the light of the silvery moon,
far, far more often than not,
you get the bad dream wake-up call of assault weapons shooting at your face!
acorns, mutha-lickas.
i said it: acorns.
acorns come careening off of the mighty oaken branches like barbarian battle bullets,
ricocheting raucously off the roof.
staccato strafing fire, not sustained attacks, but still....
bumpin' moreso than grindin' my nights,
and things that go bump in the night,
excepting bumpin' uglies,
definitely hurt all my grinds,
except for my teeth, an' that.
no jokin', it's the sound of the devil's pogo stick.
that sh!t is crazy loud in the still of the night.
maybe it's all the woodsly zombie preparedness i think on all the time,
maybe it's the soldier of fortune subscription i've been contemplating,
it could even be my last nerves gettin' frayed by all the steam cleaning goin' on,
but call me paranoid
(i'll answer, ya'll)
you ninjas already know i'm ready for duck-and-cover barrel rolls and return fire.
get busy time, indeed.

busy holiday weekend wonderland.
the second-to-last hurrah.
pottery, farmer's markets, craft fairs, all of that,
is ALL really happening.
i've got a hearty hankerin' for a heapin' helpin' of my favorite sweet 'n' salty treat;
kettle corn is on it, like what's poppin'.
oh, c'mon.
and that big, hot, oily copper cauldron
is cookin' up kernels of crucial crunchiness like you read about.
i'm ON the mutha-ucka, yo.
after all,
what am i, an A-hole?
and you already know how corn treats A-holes:
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, September 4

greyer than gruyere.

holy smokes!!
my little diaper-baby infant youngest sister,
turns 29 today!
that's ridiculous.
i mean, she's the baby of the family,
not some grown-up woman or anything weak-sauce like that.
what the F*, ya'll.
happy berfday, freaky-diki old-ass b!tch!!
jess's lil' broski,
hit the same milestone yesterday.
y'know what that makes your favorite berserker barbarian lawnmower man?
i feel that sh!t in my osseous calcium sticks when i wake up, too.
and when i go to sleep, all early-like an' that.
and especially when i peep a peek at my mirror image in the lookin' glass.
i'll gladly take the gray hairs that're stayin' put
over the ones that're brown and still leaving my scalp for greener pastures.
not to mention, lest i ever forget for a quick second,
i've got hunin and munin sittin' pretty on either side of my facepiece, yo,
or at least their feetprints next to my eyes.
crow-footed squinty smile wrinkles, some would say, look distinguished.
laugh-lines my ass, mutha-uckas.
i think it may be more of a pyrolysis effect.
weathering my wan complexion with each licking tongue of hot fiery spit.
it's better to be bold and let the words, worlds, and worries wear well on my face.
the price of vainglorious narcissism, ya'll.
i can't help but stare.
even when it sucks.
ah well,
you miki-fikin' mutha-lickers aren't gettin' any younger either.
yeah, misery does love company.
it's so true.

okay, i'm really not that old at all.
maybe i'm just feelin' time creepin' up on me
with the nonstop reality that i contnue to age,
in some places more gracefully than others,
i don't worry about having a screw come loose
or about problems with the plumbing.
my jawns is tight, ninjas.
that's yet another 'nother benefit of having the right tools for the job.
just one more reason to always choose the wrench, y'heard?
i live life, ya'll.
it's all really happening,
every single day in every possible way.
careworn and weatherbeaten,
worthy warrior poetry is written all over my face;
never quiet, never soft....