Wednesday, June 30

doing things.

balsamic barbecue broccoli blops, 'lickers.
chipotle-sweet molasses tempeh hunks,
herb-simmered brown rice w/ kale and chard,
white onion scallion sets,
and flame-kissed bruschetta on sesame toast.
(that's bun-seed bread, ninjas-)
we got those veggie jauns courtesy of cyle and casey's garden.
our peoples supply us with essentials,
and we, in turn, supply them with super-fancy unnecessaries.
that's some Folk Life give and take, for sure.
seems one-sided, you say?
but one-sided in OUR favor.
that's the key.
d'y'all ever do push-ups?
oh man,
they're awful.
it's like pushing your luck,
or an elderly person,
except not as good.
it's all blood rushing to your face, and feelings of epic embarrassment.
and of course, a lot of pushing.
it's like proving to yourself that you really ARE lame.
and that you aren't very strong.
let's all act surprised that my stretch armstrong spindles aren't bulging out,
or that i'm not exactly rockin' the glistening washer-board ripplers.
i'm basically a geriatric zoo ape, with only slightly less hair.
try not to soak through those shorts, ladies,
i'm still spoken for...
but for real,
i couldn't care much less about corded-up flexing pop-outties.
at all.
but i would like to be able to smash a little bit more stuff,
and to do it a little bit quicker.
if this conditioning keeps up-
one day soonish,
i'll be able to swing a mutha-b!tchin' axe
like a treasure-raiding naked norseman:
severely severin' several sorts of sh!t.
part wampa, part viking, all hard-style.
all the time, even.
wreaking wreckage, my ninjas.
it's good for you (like vitamins)
berserker barbarian battle-beasts.
still and all.
there's no moon powers to blame today,
there's no raging hot fire,
no furious lightning storms,
or any tooth-handed natural event.
only just plain ol' not giving a F*...
that's barbarian sh!t, duders.
on the really real.
a day off.
perfect weather.
a birthday shopping agenda.
and not much else.
y'know what'd be pretty fresh?
more guns.
that's most often the case, too.
i think that in honor of the excellent independence magic,
i may need to treat myself to an un-birthday present.
a large caliber, high-capacity, fire-spitting hand-cannon.
americanism is for suckers,
but when it comes to amendment two?
america is for unsuckling, sap-smashing super-hottness;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, June 29

sculpture, sausages, shopping.

it's not raining.
it's not cloudy.
it's not too disgustingly humid.
that can only mean one thing:
it's time to finish up the big head.
that's a real thing.
we've got paint to spray,
eyes to light up,
and danglers to hang about his cranium.
ornament is as important as firmament
in this landscape of woodsly hottness.
once we're clear to build a top-secret nature-ghost hut,
he'll live in there.
doing important stationary stuff,
like watching over all the happenings that're all really happening.
a memory spirit,
all dome and duct tape.

guess who popped up yesterday?
(no pun intended)
ohhhh yeah:
...'The Wiener Guy'.
we zapped up some thigh meat.
i'm sayin', duders.
even in the summer season,
i've still got some time to hook-up a walk-in regular client.
his tatty-o's always have boobs in 'em.
and that's pretty cool.
i'm always grateful for the repeat business, too.
we talked about 'the pleats'-
that's a warrior poet allusion to buttholes,
not your sunday khakis.
y'know, like a coffee filter, post-brewing-
brownish and wrinkled and replete with, well, pleats.
you like it.
no joke,
glen knows what time it is.
usually it's the raging veiny high-noon sundial of dong o'clock.
after all, he IS the wiener guy.
awwwwwww, man.

it's also the kind of day battle-bards spend composing birthday treats.
jess' big berfday blowout is happening all over again.
i've got until saturday to produce a present pile of epic proportions-
that means an all-out over-the-top explosion of
gratitude and generosity
two of my most favoritest things.
in the interest of taking it to eleven,
loud, hard, fresh, an' that,
there needs to be molto molto treats.
useful, thoughtful, and completely excellent.
the biannual brouhaha of hottness.
i am always mindful of those i span time with,
and on some special sparkle-times,
i get to show it.
this is one of those times,
and today is one of those days;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, June 28

ain't no sunshine-

full-lunatic orbital gravitationally-polarized downpouring.
that's moon power.
and that's what kept the sleepy-times away, my ninjas.
cumulonimbus catastrophes,
dumpin' the waterbaby bombs on the metal roofline.
seriously, raindrops the size of blow-pops,
hittin' it like blitzkrieg blops,
in the lightning-striking stormswept woodsly thunderclap-slaps.
as loud and as hard as ever.
graytarded weather, neighbors.
the only sunshine around here today is store-bought-
check the teleport, y'all:
les fleurs, my ninjas.
a little fresh-cut yellow hottness for your face.
sunflowers are sexy.
(sunflower tattoos are not.)
a teensy-weentsy shot of romance,
hangin' out,
brightening-up our kitchen,
and making the magic happen in chlorophyllic flavor.
and they're scented with pollenatious dopeness.
they got that summer stank to 'em.
(in a good way)
monday is what's up.
monday in the up-here is even more what's up.
there're fewer gibbering gawkers, less traffic,
it's friday for us tatty-blasterizers.
one last day of doo-doo buttery drudgery.
six more hours of zappin' crap,
and the following 48 are all ours.
of course, there's sure to be a mad-dash scramble to prepare.
for what?
NOT flag-waving first-world firework fury for the fourth.
even better.
my wife is gonna turn another year older on saturday.
she's 365 days more awesome than one year ago, for sure.
that implies a party weekend  of cake and candlery.
...and then there's fireworks.
i'm just sayin',
mutha-lickers, we live free or die up here, already-
it's just one way we keep it really real-
every day is already independence day,
deal with that;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, June 27

howls and cowls and scowls.

wolfen second-skins, frowns, fuego, fumos puros, and freak-outs.
...that's a good saturday night.
the luminous lunar brainwaves, duders-
they affect all forms of canine, with insane brain stains-
no joke:
olive the dog wanted to eat our friends.
just a little bit, and only at first, but still...
matt and amy came over for some hot fire
on their long weekend up from A*holechussets.
the loafie-dog thought it wise to attempt a teeny-tiny taste-test.
a little gettin'-to-know-you, digestively.
relax, she's a jumper, not a biter.
those duders don't have enough legs to warrant chompin' on.
"> two" is the rule,
which leaves out people, but includes birds?
even more than proto-wolfen bloodline magic,
she really really wanted to munch up
the big, burly, black battle-beast in the backyard.
a bare-assed embarrassed bear, b!tchbags.
out prowlin' with her two little baby just-righters,
trying to munch up on the compost an' that.
adding baby bears to this goldilocks moment is what makes it so good.
the big mama would never try to swat, swipe, smash,
or otherwise maul your weak-sauce interfering A*s.
be easy, worrywarts-
nobody had any problems,
as far as we could tell.
...unless she took her cubs out to
snack on the van-campin' hippie across the way.
(which would be fine with us anyway.)
talking with our out-of-town visitors,
i realized some hard-style sh!t, too.
i may sound like an actual crazy person.
beyond the kinder subjective adjectives, i mean;
y'know: eccentric, passionate, opinionated, etc.
alas, that's the infinite nature of our natures, innit?
we all just do what we do.
worthy warrior poetry is composed primarily in solitude.
hermits and hard-hearted heated haters are the last fluent bards.
i'm sayin',
there aren't a lot of truth-tellers left spitting out that heat, ninjas-
trying to explain the foundational tenets to young folks
is nigh unto impossible.
just be dope?
that's space alien hieroglyph baby-talk to these modern youths.
unconsecrated characters will listen patiently to the loud fresh hardness.
and then resume believing in the exact opposite.
not that it matters all that much-
the furnaces don't stop smoking,
the bass-boosted breaks don't stop beating,
and the miasmal magma still makes the magic happen-
look closely inside that hot fire.
there's a struggling roman numeral.
do you see it?
it's the harder way-
actually, it's the only way-
it goes to eleven;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, June 26

satyr's seder on saturn's cedar?

it's a sunny saturday in the up-here-ness.
the weekends in the woodsly goodness are a special time,
full-up with out-of-staters and local haters of the travel times.
the rivers are stocked,
not with fish, but with drained and discarded beer bottles,
and assorted non-biodegradable jetsam cast off from inebriated tubers.
when i say tubers i mean inner-tubers, not 'taters.
although their relative intellects are very comparable.
too many cars, duders, waaay too many-
the traffic is stacked all the way to the county lines, already,
and gawkers, stalkers, and casual walkers are out in force.
fat families, muta-tards, sportsblasters, sleeveless/shirtless trailer aristocracy,
and eastern europeans.
oh, yeah-
y'all don't even know about what time it is up here.
we hire european weirdies to fill in all the summer jobs...
what a crappy trick that is:
'come to america, see the land of milk, honey, good and plenty...
...from the 'tarded back woods, suckas!'
awwww, man.
cheap gibberish-speaking hairy-lipped labor, duders.
pale '-anian flesh, terrible haircuts, and even worse sneakers-
that's some white mountain white person weak-sauce.
no-fives, y'all, to the dome.
like i just told you,
it's a full-moon lunatic summer weekend, kids.
a hectic, eclectic, apoplectic crowding of our rural reality is really happening.
i hope they're all off the streets by moonrise, ninjas.
get your turd-burgers and minigolf in during the bright-outs, y'all.
i'm just sayin',
my moulted molten berserker battle-beast form is ready.
for howlin' mad stormswept savage gypsy folktale rampage-type sh!t.
look out, touristas,
warrior poetry is sometimes written in blood.
that's crazy talk.
i got all 'heavy metal human sacrifice' for a second there.
actually, i really hate the sight and smell of blood.
hard, too, like pass out and throw up jauns.
so maybe, instead, i'll write a sonnet of suffering
in tears or somethin'.
heck, i'll doo-doo it in barbecue sauce, even.
or crayons.
but not blood.
that sh!t is gross.
the fullest moon on the shortest nights.
that's concentrated craziness, for sure.
the fullest days of foulest functions on top of that, too.
hard styles, hard times, heavy hands, and holy sh!ts.
the natural world?
upside down.
the woodsly goodness?
loud and fresh.
the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress?
hard, my ninjas.
you know how it goes:
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, June 25

wolfen where?

did anyone else notice that milky circle in the sky
these last few nights?
it's big.
real big.
big like a big pizza pie.
the kind that hits-a you eye...
summer seriousness, in full-(moon)-effect.
i'm so tuned-up by this post-solstice waxed-up moon,
i may even be lifting one leg when i pee.
i'm definitely a poco-loco solo-lobo.
yeah. out of control from my scalp to my hole, and then some.
that's lycanthropic jejune in late june.
i'm just sayin', it gives me no nutrients.
no mutha-flippin' way there's not some kind of
ghost circle connection here.
concentric circles, witch balls, smoke rings,
and secret universal nature spirits.
not like we're gonna start l.a.r.p.-ing,
but on the really reals, ninjas-
i've got that full-moon fever,
shed skin, gnashing, bashing, smashing, trashing, slashing,
and all the other 'ashing you can think of.
the woodsly goodness blesses it's bold and worthy ones, y'all.
howled be thy name.
oh, c'mon.
it's friday.
that's somethin'.
not for me,  much,
but for all you regular 9-5ers out there.
so, y'know, good for you.
i'll be blasting the sauce in every direction until tonight,
that's tatty-o sauce, for the record,
not weak- or fertile-,
be easy.
there's plenty of wiener jokes,
and orifice references to be made.
if you're around, and you're 'bout it,
stop over and give up some propers to a duder.
the werewolf fury doesn't arrive until dark,
so you've got time.
it's busy business in the mountainous hottness-
never before have i done so much, so often,
and accomplished so little.
but the true tales told truly keep coming.
battle-bards and scalding, scolding skalds-
can't stop, won't stop;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, June 24


all the plants in the yard are popping huge raging flower boners over here.
it's great.
there are magic crazy surprise plants sprouting up.
all over the place.
wherever, even, like, in random mid-lawn spots and that.
that's nature. winning.
in high-definition real-time Folk Life hottness.
i'm sayin',
seeds may be the answer,
since they are especially blowin' on the wind-
instant garden times, y'all.
pollinate that sh!t, bees!
make those seeds happen.
those little baby specks make whole new other 'nother baby ones.
i know,
it's the same story everywhere,
but nature wins over here. like i said.
seed pods,
floatie seed fluff-dots,
all of that.
a year or two more,
and we'll be positively overrun with botanical hottness.
y'know what THAT means?
no more mowing, ninjas.
word up.
permaculture, muthab!tches.
naturalized landscaping.
wild life, wild flowers, wild woods, wild animals.
you're wild, man...wild.
times get rough and tough around here.
when the roof is wrecked,
and the chimney stacks are cracked and crappy,
there's really only one option.
tears, cookies, and 'nicholas sparks' movies?
no way.
what am i?
an A*-hole?
a gAy-hole?
a less-than-eleven baby b!tch-slap-sapsucker?
no muthaflippin' way, not once, not never.
self-pity and weak sauce are not invited to my make-out party.
you know what IS gonna be there, though?
good eats.
comforting ingestibles.
solace in calories.
heavy handed bun-seeded hard-style cuisine.
where i'm from, there's respect due for shark gluttony.
...but not really so much for the fat kids.
which IS a hard-style, indeed.
i like empty nutritional nurturing way more than i like sweaty exercise. 
fill the hole in my belly, fill the hole in my whole self.
awwwwwww, man.
but really,
foodblasting chewless shark chompa-chomps are what's up.
there won't be time for any thin-skinned 'spairing when the non-stop
eating machine gets up and running.
more swallowing, less sorrow, yesterday, today, and tomorrow.
i think sandwich week is right around the corner, too, kids.
21 different 'guinis in just seven days. (and nights)
that'll make you a maaa-a-a-a-aaaaan;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, June 23

which balls? witch balls!

what's the fastest way to secure a tranquil homestead?
is it having a roof?
(i hope not because mine is pretty F*ed right now)
is it compassionate communication?
(because i'm SO listening...riiight. suckle it)
how about a good night's sleep?
(whatever that mythic lie is supposed to be)
it is decidedly none of that.
it's less about spirited memory and more like superstitious 'sauce;
not so much warrior poetry as bad 60's beat poetry.
all you're gonna need to do?
get busy trappin' those bad vibes, man.
i'm sayin',
you've gotta make sure you only keep the positive waves flowin'.
especially in the woodsly goodness.
that's no joke.
there's bad b!tches out there trying to curse you for the worse.
that's not cool.
they change into toads, they fly around on broomsticks,
heck, they get naked...with goats!
how do we keep those negative nancypants profligators away?
new england's old timers knew what was up:
witch balls.
you know-
those glass kugels-(the big blown-ball jauns, not the jewish glop).
the ones with strands of glass goobieblops in 'em like shiny roots,
for luring in the lurid wicked women;
them who want to F* with your sh!t-,
thereby encasing their sinful selves
inside of the sparkle-magical orbs.
then, i guess, when day breaks, so does their spell-cast suckiness.
that's pretty dope.
why's it gotta be all about awful ladies and not dudes?
because men areusually too busy doing manly stuff,
and girls are bad news.
everybody knows that.
then we'd also need warlock balls.
and those huevos de brujos are totally not the same thing. me.
anyway, where can YOU get some of these tasty talismans,
to warm your windows, free the posi-vibes, and freshify your face,
without making a devil's deal to afford 'em?
why, at the kugel house, of course.
my wifey's berfday treats arrived early,
and i couldn't wait all the way until july 3rd (don't forget it)
to dish out the dopeness.
no, for really real.
that's caramel, for the kitchen.
that there is a great big sphere of sexy in mixed reds and yellows for the living room.
this one? it's called ivy. word up.
it's in the arcane vaults.
y'know, where the magic happens.
you'd know it as a bedroom.
and the new turbo-sexy downstairs bathroom.
you love it, don't you?
it's called 'camouflage', and it's got boogery colors in it.
that's how you know it's good.
you especially like the rembrandt action, huh?
self-portrait, ninja!
take that.
it's small pleasures inside of the big picture, kids.
that's how we get by in the mountain realms.
there are eleven different kinds of hard styles,
waiting in the woods,
just to ensorcel and ensnare the unwary.
eleven hard styles?
at least.
here's just one:
more like the lack thereof-
as a matter of fact, i've got a two-story well instead.
yessir, that's the truth.
a big ol' busted and disgusted, creosote-crusted butthole-gaper,
trailer park tarp and all.
isn't that cool?
especially during an overnight deluge.
go ahead, imagine the dopeness...
   -dear mama nature,
thanks, for setting the record straight-
for just a second there, i thought you were on MY team.
but even though you peed on the bikers, from the sky,
you've kicked it up a notch,
peeing inside my house like that.
good job.
i appreciate the heads up, for sure.
nature wins, y'all.
she makes sure every day is mother's day;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, June 22

F as in Fuego.

burning sh!t.
by way of barbarian traditions,
and the woodsly goodness,
and the hot fire.
that's how we say 'welcome' to summertime.
fiery fountains of freshness...for your face.
hey duders,
y'know why it's so rad at the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress?
because we've got a gray fox out back.
for serious.
actually yes, in fact, you are correct:
the red fox IS more common up here, for sure.
somehow we've been bold and fortunate enough
to rate the rare and more excellent hottness,
and are kicking it like the original early new englanders
with our native gnarly, grizzled, gray homeboy.
last night, he tried to hang out with us by the fire-
i guess times must be tough for ol' urocyon cinereoargenteus,
because he all but flung his whole body,
rough, rugged, raw and uncooked,
into the ever-eager animal-aggressive jaws of olive the dog.
when it comes to my little blockheaded best-friend,
y'all'd better recognize:
if you've got more than two legs, she WILL eat you.
that's the truth.
nobody told our fantastic mister fox about this, i suppose.
i take it as more of a cry for help, or maybe delicious compost,
from our little primitive proto-canid,
as he did run off as soon as the slather and spittle started flying.
(relax, no foxes were harmed in the making of this story)
it's tuesday.
tuesday in the spirited memorybanks and roaring riverbanks.
tuesday in the nestled nooks of the mountains.
there's lots to do.
there always is.
it's getting done,
we're getting busy,
and the Folk Life flavor gets it in.
there's sure to be plenty of daylight to do it in,
although at least a few minutes less than yesterday.
it's all downhill until december.
but until then,
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, June 21


big things.
big things in real life.
in really real life.
that's what happens.
it's the day.
all day, even,
but mostly for a little minute,
at 7-o'somethin' a.m.,
it's the solstice.
for summer.
it's the summer solstice.
y'know what that means?
it's summer today.
it's true.
do you feel it?
i do.
is it the longest day of the year?
it's 24 hours, just like every other one;
it IS brighter out,
for longer than any other day,
in a daytime-trumps-nighttime-style shiny good vs. evil way.
and that's probably pretty fresh, innit?
officially, then:
summer is ON it, duders.
and it seems to me like somebody flipped a switch-
it's a billion and a half degrees outside,
and the sunlight is streaming down onto the mountainsides
in golden and silvered chutes of glorious goodness.
the last remnants of late-spring snowdrifts
are all but melted off the highest peaks,
and all but the lamest schools are out until september.
it's summer.
the big action.
i'm sweaty, already.
now that's how you start a summer season, my ninjas;
...with clammy pits and crevices.
it may as well be spring or autumn-
that's that equinox-type sh!t.
which, as you all know
values a 12-on/12-off split of light and dark.
a one-to-one ratio?
F* all that noise, kids.
we're voting in favor of loud fresh bright bright brightness,
for all our faces.
all the ayes raise your hands up.
it's summer-summer-summertime.
just like that fresh prince song.
get with it,
or else get your A* to the southern hemisphere.
(because it's winter there, waterbabies.)
have you ever heard of someone freaking out with envy
over how dope someone else's chimney is?
yeah, me neither.
i'm still getting both my chimneys recapped this week.
(that's what she said)
because lately,
when it rains outside,
it also rains INside,
thanks mostly to faulty flashing and missing mortar...
chimneys, my ninjas.
now i'm getting new ones.
that's a big stack of necessary dollars,
towards a ne'er-noticed smoke-stack of baked clay blocks..
the upshot?
lots of 160-year-old bricks from the old chimneys.
that's word.
old bricks are sexy.
more than lighthouses and dead birds combined.
now who will help me bake this bread, b!tches?
in my soon-to-be-built outdoor brick bread oven?
sour dough,
sweet success;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, June 20

parenthood + 'nads + 24 hours

= father's day!
...big deal.
a phone call, or two.
that's it.
and then it's all done.
at least no one got me the standard conciliatory necktie.
those cost money, after all.
and i'm pretty sure my not-yet-double-digits daughters
are still too small for gainful employment.
don't get me wrong here,
NO TIE is way better than anything 'thoughtful'...
the absolute worst?
the poem card.
nothing says 'i never loved you' more than a poetic hallmark jammer.
even if (especially if?) you underline the really 'heartfelt' parts...
father's day can suckle it.
i mean,
duders, i'm working on some tattzy-blasto' fury today.
just like every day.
no mowed lawns,
no budweiser for breakfast,
no family fun all-day miniature golfing,
father's day is finished already,
and it has been since 8a.m.
it's really more like father's quarter-hour.
real nice.
i'm just sayin',
it's not like there's a big call out there for a dad's day brunch.
brunch is a commodity only for weak-sauce indecisionaries.
i don't want compromise, my ninjas,
i want breakfast AND lunch.
that's true-life roots-radical shark gluttony.
and since drinking,
and meat are all Off The List,
it looks like it's to be just another 'nother
bloody sunday for the berserker barbarian crowd.
awwwwww, man.
what's the bright and shiny silver lining in today's weak-sorcery?
i'm only fifteen feet away from this:
it always comes down to buttholes.
directly, indirectly, discreetly, and otherwise.
father's day?
suckle it.
butthole's day?!
heck yeah!
that's every day;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, June 19

smash hits.

all i've got is true stories.
i'm sorry, my ninjas.
i mean,
wouldn't it be great to talk about lofty artistic ideas instead?
with pictures of the creative process an' that?
like if i only told stories about creation and inspiration,
and how i find it in common things,
which, through the artistic interpretation of creativity,
magically transforms them into something uncommon...
if you're into that kind of creative writing,
try THIS sexy tidbit of reality on for size:
i think i fell asleep while it was still light outside, yesterday.
it's that sorta slightly solstice sunbeam stuff.
it takes forever and ever to get dark,
and i'm tired, duders.
loud pipes save lives, spend sleep,
and invest every morning and afternoon with hard-style handling.
handles, bars, handlebars, and sadlebags.
i don't get it.
nor do i get much sleep.
there is, after all, only this time we've been given.
i'd hate to have to try and watch it from behind the scenes,
or worse, from behind my eyelids.
i mean, it's all really happening:
long nights, hard times, hot fire, lightning, all of it.
it's just that i need some rest.
not beauty sleep or anything that doo-doo buttery.
we all know that being ugly is pretty dope.
that's the rules, even.
if you're busted-up-looking, y'all'd better bring the thunder
with some confidence, competence, and capability.
that's the worthy warrior way.
hairy, scary, barely bare-bones bearish, and very necessary.
that's criteria, mutha-b!tches;
and we've got them jauns.
if i slept too soon last night,
then it's clearly a stay-up-all-night kind of style i've got to rep tonight.
hot fire, kids.
maybe some stumps.
maybe some company.
it's a small world up here,
but a pretty big life.
it's the content that's lacking,
not the scale;
there will be tattoos.
there will be bikers.
there will be lunch.
like i said,
it's all really happening-
try to contain your effulgently effusive enthusiasm.
c'mon, vinny vocab- look 'em up;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, June 18

hot 'n' wet.

hot and wet.
that's the answer to a very obvious question.
yeah. it IS obvious, huh?
and you guessed it right, kids-
i'm talking about the crotches of bikeblasters in leather pants.
it's supposed to be 90 degrees or some sh!t today,
and the humidity index is bangin' right off the meter,
with environmental armpit atmospheric moisture content at an all-time high.
any higher, and it'd be raining...again.
i don't think it even matters that most chaps have no flaps,
for you A*-bits i mean,
i think that the thigh-meat cow-carcasses still make your minky huevos
fester in a self-basting butt-gravy of swampy syrup.
that's a hard style, my ninjas.
it's the big weekend for the laconia bike rally.
y'all may/may not be missing out-
as it is,
6:30 a.m. had skeedaddlers scootin' past the mountains,
making good time towards their own good times.
loud pipes save lives.
i said it before, and not for the last time do i repeat myself now.
y'know what else they do?
they also wake sleepy duders right up,
with a resounding ricochet of those same scenic mountains.
neither urban nor urbane,
these 'necktards are making sure that anything
that might've been cool about motorcycles
is lost in a haze of sweaty pants and bronx cheer braying.
they've managed to redefine space and time;
half the wheels, but twice the gay,
every single second of the day.
...and that's a lot.
'the road'.
y'know it?
it's a book.
no, not jack kerouac.
i'm talking about something good.
the book/movie about a father and son,
traveling through the post-apocalyptic world
of cannibal rapers and ash and starvation?
have you read/seen 'em?
if not,
you're F*ing up.
get it.
own it.
you need it.
you need both, actually.
do it.
it's the last day of school for my kids.
it's the last weekend of spring.
it's almost father's day.
it's almost summer.
there's not a lot of IS happening.
ends, for sure,
and not-quites, too.
if the best thisday has to offer is bikes, brews, and blasting,
then i'm ready, already,
for some loud fresh hardness.
all the worthy warriors are on the east coast, now.
i can feel the tremors.
must be the volume.
loud pipes save lives, ninjas;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, June 17


loud, fresh, and hard.
(you know it.)
that's the type of day it looks to be turning into.
it's cold. bracing, even. and it's wet, too. sopping wet.
and the metal roof is keeping true to it's name-
with drip-droplets of death metal drumming hammering out
some psychotic wake-up call rhythms from top to bottom.
and there's a loud, fresh hard rain falling down to cause all of that.
bike week?
pedal paddle boat week is more like it.
ma nature just can't hang out with bikers too tough.
that's all i'm sayin'.
in fact,
it seems as if she may be trying to rinse away all traces
of the two-wheeled tourist turdbangers.
that's cool, i suppose.
whatever happened to bikers?
i mean biker bikers.
where are all the david mann art, 1970's easyrider,
iron cross, grease-stained scooter tramp bikers?
they can't ALL be dead by now, can they?
i suppose if they're out there,
they aren't hanging out with the trailered-in hog-smokers.
after all,
i think it used to have something to do
with passion before fashion, duders.
and that's a hard style, for sure.
unless, of course, you're talking about the 'staches.
because everybody knows the only real main ingredient
is proper chin-whisker grooming.
i still can't figure out when the hulk hogan handlebar moustache
became the de rigueur facial hair option for 40+ year-old fat dudes.
say your prayers and eat your vitamins, brothers.
you'll need 'em both this week.
so, anyway,
it's been about six months.
and today's the day.
six long months...
six long months of making due with only two toilets.
but three is the magic mutha-lickin' number, ninjas.
now guess who's poopin' in the downstairs bathroom?
and that's good news.
it doesn't take a whole lot to make each day a win-column statistic.
but still,
a victory is a victory,
even if it's by forfeit,
even if it's pyrrhic,
even if it's a toilet.
we take what we can get,
and give nothing back.
mine all mine all mine;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, June 16

tame wilderness.

it's wednesday!
y'know, wotan's day.
that's odin, if you're nasty (or a viking).
the one-eyed all-father of wisdom and wizardry-
now there was a dude who kept it really real.
poppin' out his own eye, stapling himself to the world tree,
talking to crows, and hard-style pounding giants and goddesses.
that's kind of what's up.
and it's exactly the kind of day i want to have.
thunderstorms are on their way,
so the lightning-striking berserker angle is covered.
now with a little hot fire,
and a whole lot of hard-style pounding,
i think i can make a worthy warrior epic over here.
word up.
wednesday, my ninjas.
i'm sayin'.
never mind all that prince spaghetti crap-
it's barbarian warlord sorcery day.
and you KNOW you like barbarians.
maybe not those conan ones so much.
but the real ones are doooooope.
like those o.g. goths who never ever heard of robert smith?
what's up with axe-chopping, pillaging, gate-storming,
city-sacking savage stormswept fury, all day every day?
i'm just sayin',
we need some more of that, duders.
go outside and break some fragile stuff.
i'm serious.
chop some kind of something up.
with a hatchet.
or better yet, a double-bitted axe.
start a fire.
wear your pet's pelt as a cloak.
i suggest skinning it first.
twelve pounds of p.o'd cat is not the ideal fashion accessory.
eat some weird unidentified wild mushrooms,
and when the diarrhea stops,
get naked and go do some berserking.
it's wednesday, kids.
make it a good one.
some people call it 'hump day'.
and aren't they awfully optimistic?
but i'm married, so i know better.
awwwwwwwwwwwww, man.
it's the day.
today is the day.
smash a jelly jar in the grocery store.
(even after mopping, a sticky legacy remains for days)
urinate in public places.
get busy.
get busy getting busy.
channel some wild mutha-flippin' animal spirits.
run, jump, yell, scream,
be a barbarian.
if it isn't all really happening,
make it happen;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, June 15

dry your eyes & skies.

how about some more of all of this?
i'd hate for there to be tears of mourning every morning, after all.
it's tuesday and it's sunshiny bright and tight outside.
now, take a wild guess at what that means.
it definitely does NOT mean i will enjoy a productive day off.
at all.
it means i'm missing out on accomplishing anything good,
and missing right out on the golden raybeams of celestial glory, too;
all so i can tat-blast the day away inside the workplace, instead.
dollar dollar bills y'all.
c.r.e.a.m., my ninjas.
wu-TANG! an' that.
why would i ruin a perfecty excellent snippet of time for myself?
because i got to get them movie check jauns, my duders;
money doesn't grow in my garden;
and gas for that mower doesn't refine itself
out from the sludge on the gulf coast.
you've got to do work, mutha-b!tches.
that's how it all gets done.
and if i'm really, really lucky,
i'll get to talk to some bike-weak-sauce wranglers.
i'm confident that should be enlightening.
i'll give 'em one little teensy tiny bit of credit, though;
y'know, some propers an' that-
those chap-wearing chaps have one saying i can stand behind:
loud pipes save lives.
word up.
of course,
real warriors would be talking about their windpipes,
but still....
tracheas and vocal chords are made for yelling,
the same way that supersonic brappity-brap exhaust-pipes
are made for letting other people know you're coming... they can avoid you.
i'd prefer words over metallic tubes spewing gas fumes,
but as long as there's righteous volume,
we're saving lives over here, duders.
you know:
loud fresh hardness,
for your face,
and possibly also for your safety.
-because i care.
about you.
at least,
as far as you know, anyway.
it's never all the way easy living far away from everywhere.
not that i'm leaving any time soon,
i'm just remarking on the infinite nature of isolation.
i mean,
i've got some friends that i miss.
i've got some friends that if i missed,
i'd aim and fire at again.
i've got some friends i haven't seen in far too long.
i've got some friends i haven't seen in even longer,
and it hasn't been nearly long enough.
the important part?
i've got some friends.
there's people, and then there's peoples.
and i am counting myself fortunate
for the comradery of my peoples.
now there's a whole summer's worth of time and space,
waiting patiently, but never stopping,
for all of y'all.
if we're friendly but not friends,
then rent a room, b!tches,
and put in some quality time with a duder.
we've got real life,
and it's all really happening.
you should probably come and get some;
never quiet, never soft.....
if you haven't grabbed a shirt from shawn and i yet,
you're obviously F*ng up,
and possibly an A*hole.

Monday, June 14

more nothing.

and to think it all starts with tea and toast.
today is anything but a case of the mondays.
more like a case of whoop-azz or somethin'.
i know that i'm bringing some thunder,
and it's likely the clouds overhead are too.
it kinda feels like vacation over here.
and y'know,
it's not even technically summer yet.
we're still a whole week away.
that's promising, yeah?
it means we've actually still got three more months
of sweetness directly in front of us.
it's unofficially on it, for sure,
but the legit jump-off isn't for a little minute-
not that it changes much but the perspective.
days are what days are,
and in new england that's not a guarantee of much.
except at least a little bit of disappointment.
we're twenty degrees below average,
on average,
every day of the week.
and that's pretty weak.
i'm just sayin'.
it's like the weather, the season, and the woodsly goodness
are all aligned with the warrior wordsmithy i'm reppin'.
below average, kind of cold, certainly uncertain,
and excrutiatingly long.
that's verbose prose, purpler than jimi hendrix and alice walker combined.
purple like prince, AND the revolution.
a lot of words, a little substance.
all leaves, no tree.
what's up.
oh! yeah-
it's monday.
if you've been busy all weekend,
you may have missed out.
here's your chance to get back on track:
click that noise, and get with the program.
mr. shawn hebrank,
the award-winning tattooer/designer/road-warrior/jogger,
and i have made a little something good.
it's not quite magic,
but it is very possibly some kind of screen-printed sorcery.
there's a difference, y'know.
and if you can't hang out,
then all your taste is clearly reserved exclusively for your mouth.
i mean:
recognize the truth of THAT, you mutha-b!tch, for real.
it's all really happening.
and it's not much, now is it?
can't stop.
won't stop;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, June 13

lightning-striking viking

i made this happen on my friend dan.
no, the other friend dan.
it's true.
i don't remember exactly when, but it wasn't too long ago.
he's got icy-spiciness wafting out of his mouthpiece,
and jack-frosty-nipped nose and cheekparts.
it's part of a larger cover-up, and it's not that small, at all.
i figured that some folks may be wondering
if i still know how to do what i used to do.
-i'll let all y'all decide.
berserker barbarian battle-beastly bobotron bard.
that's what's up;
never quiet, never soft.....


hey there.
it's another rainy day in the woodsly goodness.
you know what that means, yeah?
it means that all the bike week weirdies
are wearing garbage bags,
or bright yellow gladwrap crap.
they call it "rain gear".
i call it fruit-blastage.
either way,
it's just not that sexy a look,
even with a handlebar moustache.
you know what IS a pretty sexy look?
the loud fresh hardness that is
that's what's up.
only non-stop rockin',
for your face,
sans plastic waterproofing.
i think it's the 104 luscious degrees of turbo-hottness
that keep the water from sticking for too long.
that's evaporation, baby.
misty mysteries, all secret and spirited.
we got them jauns.
moth art.
moth art?
moth art.
where's all the dirty brown moth art at?
my almost-done spare-time spare bathroom, kids-
it needs some moth art.
where is it?
do you have some?
can you get ahold of some?
can you make some?
i need it.
give it to me.
that's no joke, you worthy warrior poets.
if you've got what i need,
you'd better let me know.
moths, duders.
keeping it realer than really real,
whilst looking remarkably barklike,
in the dark,
evading bats,
top-secretly super ninja,
and dope.
give. give. i need. i need.
make it happen.
do it.
it's mid-june.
y'know what THAT means?
it means:
it's time to start making more woodsly treats.
once it isn't so wet, an' that. (t.w.s.s.)
my very own goodness in the goodness, if you'll follow me.
who's coming over to string up 30' high Folk Life flags?
who's swinging by to tape up some more big ol' spirit heads?
who will help me bake this bread?
you know you really like it...
idol hands.
like those indian-type jauns.
the brown ones, not the red ones.
and moreover usually blue or black in idolatry,
but y'know what i'm sayin': a lot of hands.
like eight of 'em.
two for each member of the band-
that's the name of the bluegrass duders we went and saw last night.
two full sets of toe-tappin', knee-slappin', pants-crappin' fun.
saturday night in the rural rainy ranges of the up-northerly good stuff.
it was pretty rad, too.
it definitely was better'n riding around in zip-lok clothes
on a meathog 'tard-rocket looking for barbecue and souvenir t-shirts.
if you need souvenir t-shirts, y'know for the real hottness-
you don't need a motorcycle, or even bad facial hair,
y'all just need a credit card: neverquietneversoft.
we got you, b;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, June 12

write about what you know.

i know, my ninjas,
i know i know.
now act like you know, too.
somebody knew.
they knew i needed this in my life:
and i DO, duders.
believe me, i doo-doo need this freaky-diki dopeness.
it's pretty much the freshest business in the whole world.
a whole book.
a whole big book.
a whole big BIG book.
...of butts.
the big butt book.
guess what it's about.
g'head, guess.
it IS about butts.
mutha-b!tches, y'all better recognize,
this may be the single most important piece
of real-life documentation ever to grace the inside of the fortress.
three-hundred-seventy-some-odd pages, too.
so no joking about the 'big' part, that's for sure.
dian hanson, whoever you are, wherever you're at:
all good things.
the best part?
the transparent hard plastic dust jacket.
because it has those underpants printed on.
underneath 'em, it's all just acres of immodesty.
no dust flap,
all mud flaps.
awwwww, man.
it's true, too.
that's the first case of intelligent design i've ever heard of.
tonight is a banjo-pickin' bluegrass night.
the 'theater in the woods' is hosting
our very good buddy casey's dad, peter,
and his finger-lickin', boot-stomping,
post-country hootenanny hoedown tonight.
butts in the mornin',
tatzaps in the noontimes,
banjo in the night?
today is the day, my ninjas.
just like every day.
it's all always really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

bike weak.

can y'all feel it?
something b!tchlike is happening...
it's that time of year again.
thousands and thousands of 50-somethings,
with business mullets, in leather chaps,
wearing preformed american flag skullcap bandanas,
listening to southern-fried classic rock,
rippin' beers,
buying lame t-shirts,
and talking about the good ol' days they weren't a part of.
bike weak.
no, i didnt spell it wrong.
the suckiest 8 days of the year for new hampshire.
turdblasters on two wheels,
tearing it up like the world's weakest tourists.
and it smells of dead animal.
in fact,
it's like a cowhide holocaust in the woodsly goodness.
leather pants, leather boots, leather gloves, leather belt, leather wallet.
the perfect image-conscious attire for ultimate A*-holes.
the terminator called for you guys,
he said you're gay,
...and he wants his pants back.
ohhhhhhhh man.
that's that use your illusion type hard-style sh!t.
most of these bikers trailered their hogs up.
i'm pretty sure that's not on the cool kid list;
it's not trailer week, after all.
there is a little bitty speck of good news though, duders:
it's raining!
nothing ruins a perfectly good weekend full of A*lords
on motorcycles like a double drizzle grill sizzle fizzle.
real bikers pedal.
that's word.
and don't forget to check out the new hottness.
if you missed out yesterday,
then don't sleep on the loud fresh hardness today.
you want what we've got
and all you have to do to get it?
click these big big words, ninjas:
choose the wrench,
be a moth, all ugly and dope,
but wear our gear while you're at it.
if you can't hang out,
you might be an A*hole;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, June 11

NQNS online.

it's ready, already.
big works, big deals, big action.
it's all really happening, for really real,
and you can get yourself a little slice of the hottness
just by clicking on these words below:
you need it.
no, really, you do.
there's treats for all y'all duders-
and paypal is accepted, too;
so let's all make a few less excuses,
and click a few more buy now buttons, yeah?
every flavor,
every shape,
only $11-
yep.i said it right:
eleven buxxx.
what are we, after all?
a bunch of A*holes?
no way.
but if you don't get some of these treats,
you might be a wrinkle-dot your own dang self.
and every time you ninjas get some of these tasty bits,
we'll be a baby-step closer to making even more freshness.
new, and different, and exciting.
it's here.
it's happening.
you're part of it.
make some moves,
make the magic happen,
make it loud and hard and for your face.
make it, make up, make out, make some noise;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, June 10

all head, no shoulders.

after almost a whole year in the
Folk Life & Liberty Fortress,
the time has finally arrived.
with box cutters and broadsheets,
the woodsly warrior crew spent the afternoon
creating the first compound-bound obligatory big head:
seven separate corrugated carboard crates,
combined with sixty or so crumpled newspaper-based flesh gobbets,
and about 250 yards of duct tape.
by the time we got this far,
it was dinner time.
and starting to rain a litle tiny bit.
so it stalled out, for the time being,
at the silver surfer stage of assembly.
for those of you (both of you?)
who still remember the big head tree-spirit guardians,
the ones from yesterdays-gone-by,
then you know i've got to get this 4 1/2 ' dome of dominance
up into a tree once it's painted.
it's big.
it's a head.
it's a plenty big head.
and it's hollow.
so it doesn't weigh a ton,
so there's that to be grateful for.
also, that arched glass doorway is SO sexy,
so there's that, too.
more progress than regress,
more elation than deflation,
more and more of this.
maybe not the most beautiful,
but always the biggest.
unless we're talking about Folk Life.
it's just the right size:
never quiet, never soft.....


what a day off!
we did what we wanted,
(which is to say, not very much)
we went wherever we felt like,
(i got a coffee, and some b.b.s for cat-shootin')
we turned off the phones,
(actually, no one calls us, we left 'em on)
we cooked,
we created,
we gardened,
we burned sh!t,
we watched a couple terrible episodes of tremors, the series.
that's a heart-is-full kind of a day.
dawn until dusk so-hottness.
lea and jim both came over for family dinner,
it could've been you.
where are my worthy warrior poets at?
this isolated hermit world hasn't gone anywhere, yet.
you'd better get up here soon, though,
because there's lots of dinners what need eatin'.
and i've got to tell you muthab!tches,
last night's was pretty flippin' doooooope.
grillin', y'all.
vegan barbecue?
you bet your bellybutton, boy.
tempeh steaks in a french herb maple marinade?
your tastebuds are oh so mad you missed out.
cukes, cherry 'matoes, and basil in a lemon soy vinaigrette?
so light, so crunchy, so refreshing.
my salads are crisp, kids.
your bellyholes wanted some.
too bad for all that.
and we roasty-toasted up some zukes,
and for the sake of fancy-pantsing it up,
the grill kissed some radicchio, too.
yeah. radicchio. it's a veg-e-ta-ble.
and it went great with the tempeh on special buns.
special buns.
i got them jauns, in spades.
and just to sweeten up the plates,
we got crazy hawaiian slabs of oil-basted pineapples.
i know, y'all, i know.
it's not just doo-dooin' it i believe in-
it's OVERdoo-dooin' it.
that's kind of my philosophy.
there is also a very spicy salsa fresca in my fridge.
in addition to the jalapenos and the black pepper,
it also has a whole bulb of raw garlic in it.
(ooh baby) i like it raw.
in this instance,
when i talk about a flavor explosion,
it makes certain that if anything is going to get blown off,
like in a gunfight-type scenario,
it will most certainly be my A*-hole.
this salsa, y'all;
it burns your whole life of right out your F*n' mouth.
the only way to make the fuego caliente de lingua stop
is to put more cold wet salsa in your face-
it's a vicious cycle, i realize.
especially during the demolition/digestion portion of the program.
talk about burning the candle at both ends.
more like road flares, duders.
rockets red glares,
bombs bursting in air,
or underwear;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, June 9


japanese painted ferns?

a fern that is at it's healthiest when it's color makes it look like it's dying?
that's so good.
i needed it.
i have it.
i love it.
gardening, kids.
i know how to.
we dug the heck out of all kinds of dirt,
and moved bushes,
divided rhizomes,
uprooted everything,
and then mulched it to high hemlock heaven.
a new bonsai made it home,
and so did some turbo-fresh new plants.
i got a new hat.
jim knitted me a summerweight super-sexy new cap: 
the hottness, yeah?
and that hat's pretty darn good, too.
now i can cruise the forests in style,
without worrying about a hermit/druid/ranger
making snide comments about my Folk Life fashion faux pas.
i got the green-top treat hat now, ninjas.
i noticed something yesterday-
i'm a whaddya guy.
you know: 'what are you',
'what do you',
or 'what have you',
only abbrev'd.
like whaddya mean?
whaddya an A*hole?
whaddya wanna do?
etc. etc. etc.
it's some kind of later-life onset italian-american accent iceholery.
i don't know if it's reversible, either.
it's as if every conversation is dripping olive oil,
and prosciutto,
and mozzerella.
my mouth feels dirty. (t.w.s.s.)
that may just be because of the savage
stink-incursion of inflamed big black donkey-stick
that i chugged last night.
for the record:
old thick slabs of birch bark burn black oil smoggy-
...and so hot.
breathing in that slag heap stink,
and the extra-cloudy crap clots of a cao america stump?
that's guaranteed emphysema, in just one dose.
before i knew it,
i felt just like george jefferson on his wedding night:
i was F*ing weezie.
you like it.
whaddya want from a warrior poet on his day off?
no sonnets, suckas, only sagas-
it's never not happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

garden party.

that's what SHE said?
poppin' poppies an' that.
business time?
every time.
busy busy busy.
shoveling stuff,
and scoopling stuff,
and going over to every other 'nother garden center in the county.
mulch. water. dig. plant. mulch. water.
it seems that dirt under the fingernails,
and grass under the toes is good for you.
i think so, anyway.
we found irises hiding in the backyard.
in the woods, beside the compost.
patiently waiting to be discovered and relocated to the front yardsliness:
we doo-doo that horticultured transplantation sh!t, y'all.
we discovered low bush native blueberries
ripening by the thousands back there too.
y'know what else?
razzle-dazzleberries, ninjas!
looks like nature is winning again.
no contest.
okay duders,
let's talk a second about black flies.
most are the size of a black pepper speck,
with 99% of their body made out of insect teeth.
black flies.
i'm sayin'.
black flies are the legendary north woods scourge.
there are a whole bunch of different species of biting flies.
and they all live in new hampshire.
they help keep the tourists out of all the good spots.
they all want to bite my bodyparts,
all my tenderoni skin spots,
and of course,
almost most of all,
my flippin' face.
oh man.
they are so NOT invited to my french-style kissing party.
no joke,
i look like i've been beaten severely.
lumpy bumps all over my body.
and they're red, inflamed, and furious, too.
bug bites, b!tches.
so hard.
have you ever seen a bullet punch for cigars?
a sharp piercing-needle tube of terror, yeah?
that's what happens to your soft bits.
a pokey stab scoop disappears into their pointy mouth-holes.
i hate 'em,
but i also kind of love 'em.
nature wins, like i said.
if you listen closely,
you can hear those little black monsters chewing.
it's true.
and disgusting;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, June 7


how does one make a long day pass more slowly?
how could the clock's crawl creep more crappily?
how much darker is an indoor space,
on an overcast rainy day,
without lights?
all this and more was answered for me.
the power went out for over an hour in the middle of tattoo-time yesterday.
and that's always good news, yeah?
did i start hand-poking in spite of the lack of juice?
what am i?
an A*hole?
no way am i working harder, and in the dark at that, duders.
so i waited.
-i am a patient boy,- i wait i wait i wait i wait....
what was the problem?
some heart-attack man hit a couple of telephone poles,
snapping 'em BOTH,
just to make sure the repairs were extra suckie,
and the time-out was extra long.
and he died.
which i figure makes us even,
even though he F*ed up the middle of my day an' that.
dying squared us up, y'know.
of course,
now i owe him one.
because he was saved by the paramedics.
he's not dead anymore.
he saw the light,
he came back,
and then the power came back on.
true story.
i'm just sayin',
it's not your fault my day is crap because of the accident you caused,
but only on account of  how you're dead.
but if you come back?
NOW whose fault is it, anyway?

as if to rub it in:
guess who isn't breaking out any colored pigments today?
you betcha.
it's me.
it's black and grey gay day.
shady shaded operations,
in half-toned sections of hard pounded poking.
zapblasting away at all the soft pink bits of body i see:
armback light grey wings, first thing;
black names as an ankleband next;
and a triiiiiibal black spike rework and repair to round out the day.
three times the darkness, three times the doo-doo butter.
everything costs something, y'all.
we're busy, b!tchbags,
but with more of this stuff.
it's tough but it's fair, they say.
it's a good thing that it's my friday-
i don't think i can handle much more of this big fun.
truckloads of dirt,
truckloads of plants,
truckloads of mulch.
it's a great big garden party up here.
i mowed the lawn the once.
it's enough for me.
full-blown all-out flower power,
from the boudoir to the bower.
'needs to be mowed'?
no longer. now it's needs to be mulched.
once a year.
that's better.
the days ahead are growing longer,
and still time remains short.
keep an eye out for friday, mutha-flippers,
because the big new hottness pops off.
until then,
all the rest is still really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, June 6

like bad poetry.

ohhhh, man.
i did it.
it's true.
after months of avoidance, deflection, evasion-
i caved in,
more because of a directionless early-evening energy
than any sense of obligation.
instead of a berfday party,
i got busy by myself...
take it easy,
i used gas-powered machinery.
(that's what she said?)
oh man-o-man-
one step deeper into homo-wnership.
one more concession to the responsible adults.
one last chore, on a saturday, no less, to confirm my old man dadness.
in the suburbs, they'd consider this a success story.
here, though, it's more of a cautionary cervantes tale.
oh, MAN.
it finally happened.
i fought it off for as long as i could, duders.
i let the limbs climb to untold heights.
i kept the criticisms out of my ears,
i even acted like it was supposed to look like that....
but in the end,
on a saturday night,
in the woodsly goodness,
some pre-father's day intuition ignited,
and i mowed my mutha-flippa-b!tchin' lawn.
i said it.
i mowed the lawn.
it's official,
almost one whole year later.
i did it.
and let me tell you ninjas:
it looks real sexy.
on the real real.
not that it should matter much to me,
or, for that matter,
to our single set of shortsighted elderly neighbors-
i'm just sayin',
curb appeal seems silly on a dead end road.
sillier still on an unmarked, dirt dead end road.
how inviting do i really want this little crammed and crannied nook to look?
not very, that's for sure.
i'm on a more "what's inside is what counts" angle up here.
and the inside is taken care of, kids.....kinda.
or at least, mowing won't help what's wrong with all that.
so was it better than cupcakes and candles?
i did treat myself to a swarthy swab of stout stank afterwards.
a kuba kuba maduro.
drew estate acid cigars.
they got that stank sauce added in.
the essence.
the activation, even.
like a muffler on a diesel truck in china,
attached to my throat...
...and by conscious choice at that.
not really so much a party as a punishment for my face.
more like yet another 'nother other  face-punishment, i mean.
besides looking like this already.
acorns are the truth, kids.
one single serving starter kid for the mightiest trees in the forest.
hottness grenades, more like.
last years bumper crop has caused a growth spike in the chipmunk population,
and a dam in the drainage ditch on the road.
little baby oakenshafts, y'all.
poppin' out and about between all the rocks,
in the road, beside the road, everyflippin'where.
crevices, creases, cracks, and culverts.
the stopped rolling and started growing.
...and if they were attempting to sprout it out loud up in my lawn?
well, i'll bet they feel duped, like a bunch of b!tchbags-
all these months of uninterrupted expansion,
and then, lop-loppity pop!
they got their heads chopped off.
last night, all those unlimited systemic seismic synthesis potentials
were rendered obsolete.
if you're in the grass,
then you're not a baby tree-
you're some 'needs to be mowed', like jim says.
potential isn't much but mulch
when faced with a spinning stormswept berserker blade.
there's some truth in THAT, too.
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, June 5


some dudes bequeath, from beneath their seats,
some secret treats when they leave.
it's true.
i've seen it.
it's some candy,
like maybe some dark chocolate-covered raspberries;
(i eats up those globule men. oh, so quick)
other times,
it's ninja self-portraits on your camera, taken when you weren't looking.
i got both of them jauns this week.
see for yourself:
hey, it's THIS guy's big milestone of  irrefutable adulthood today!
thirty mutha-b!tchin' years!
a triple decade destination!
the same roman toga party notation as 'nography and hooch and straight-edge:
say it slowly- therrrrrrdeeeeee.
and with, or without, the man of the hour,
we're having a party tonight!
in the rain, even.
paul c.
the cucch.
thirty years old.
in absentia.
in martha's vineyard.
which is to say, in massholechussetts.
which is to further say:
weak sauce.
rationally, i can understand that not everybody can hang out
forever and ever in the 'goodness, i guess.
some folks feel obligated to rove, roam, range, and wander.
not that time or dates give half-a-sh!t where you are,
not when it's time for a big day.
and today's the day.
6-5, or 5-6,
month/day, or day/month,
whichever continent or country you're in, on, at, or around,
it still all adds up to eleven.
so it's happy berfday to you, buddy.
h.s.p as far as the eye can see.
doo-doo that b-day business.
berfday suits are the perfect attire, and everything.
is it super slow at work, you're asking?
what happened, you'd like to know?
well, so would i.
out of the clear blue busy-bodied business,
the bottom dropped out of the hottness express.
po' people and not-so-dope doo-duders have been the rule,
instead of the exception.
maybe it's been all the nice weather,
and maybe not.
but, my ninjas, on the real, one thing is clear and certain:
somebody is obviously kidding me.
there's a lesson in it somewhere-
the ant and the grasshopper, maybe.
i haven't gotten the planagram presentation from the secret universe, yet,
so it's anyone's guess what's going on.
there is only ever more of this.
my cramped-up hands are turning into beige banyan tree roots;
my wallet has got moths in it instead of moolah,
which isn't all the way the worst thing ever;
and i still look like a half-gay 1930's dockworker,
sans mighty-man muscles.
it's all still happening.
it doesn't ever actually seem to show signs of stopping, either-
broke, broken, ugly, and dope-
all ears, all eyes, all the time;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, June 4

stories. untold and otherwise.

thudding sounds are always dull or heavy,
but never sharp.
it implies a weighted, round-edged mass making a single impact.
blurry, almost, if a sound can be so obscure and indistinct.
it's a huge contrast to the everyday cracks and creaks;
those incisive snaps of a settling old house.
you know the ones that peal and whinge, all whiplike and angular,
the aches and pains of the elderly,
plain-spoken and easily dismissed;
and the other,
the other seems to have the knack for going bump in the night...
what i mean is;
there's no mistaking one for the other,
so when a bass-heavy, percussive, definite, muted-yet-solid thud sounds,
you just know something's amiss.
during the daylight hours, it could be anything,
but it's almost always accepted as innocuous.
(the province of bears and burglars is not the sunshiny afternoon)
not so much so in the dark, however.
every audible instance becomes pervasively sinister...
what fell, and why?
where did the seismic epicenter originate?
in the study?
was it colonel mustard, in the kitchen, with the candlestick?
before you realize you're wide awake,
you've already worked your way through ten
different compositions,
ten composite combinations.
a game of clue, taken in myriad directions
before the sleepy sands even clear out of your head.
it is, of course, standard procedure then,
to sit up for a moment,
secretly hoping to hear the heaviness hit down again-
if you can hear anything over the marching-band drumline of
aortic muscle spasms creeping up your neck,
to take up the beat  behind your eardrums.
awwwwwww, man.
i mean, c'mon,
what was all that about?
sometimes it's a little scary in the woodsly goodness.
...take it easy.
we all already know i will shoot the ever-loving sh!t out of anything
that encroaches critically on the crucial castle of co-operative creativity.
after all,
i AM armed to the teeth,
and even have a few caps busted on those, too.
it's part of my martial, impartial, proactive positive outlook.
dental, and otherwise.
like i've said before,
it's all really happening.
i can't always write about F*ing and A*s and muthab!tchbaggery-
so once in a great while,
we'll change it up with a little refinement,
or just some mundane real-life reality.
truth tellers can never stop.
a girl i know told me that a long, long time ago.
it only gets more accurate as time passes.
and duders, don't worry,
the noise?
it was only the garage door bumping shut-ish in the wind.
that m-F*n' wind, my ninjas-
the answer was blowing in on it,
of course,
it was also what caused the problem,
but that's what wind does, yeah?
that's important to think about...
it just does what it does.
tornadoes and kites and seabreezes and forest fires.
tomorrow, y'all.
we'll return to our regularly scheduled litany of
lethargic illiterate alliteration-
but for today,
let this be a lesson to you:
just because i don't write like a writer doesn't mean i forgot how to;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, June 3

the pit.

ohhhh, man.
a whole day.
it's thursday thor thunder day already.
what about wednesday?
where did it go?
right into my knee pit, i guess.
believe me, duders.
it was the only way.
after two weeks of full-blown hotel status over here,
our house got cleared out.
and to celebrate our return to quaint togetherness?
we left too.
with a disc-changer stocked and stacked with five piebald albums,
and a half-tank of petrol, y'all,
we made moves-
hours and hours of nearly nauseated hard-style pounding were incurred,
without wrath,
but with well-wreaked wreckage in it's wake.
hot and wet and hurtie.
(that's what she said)
portland, maine, y'all.
we hit it up and left it limping...
tattoos, vegan food, good peoples, the works.
we set out upon a serious sojourn of dark, dank, dreary driving,
specifically to get my body's A* kicked right off.
mission accomplished, folks.
i carried it home in a satchel afterwards.
there was a surprise special guest star.
in whole foods of all places.
michael richards was shopping!
y'know, kramer,

or more importantly,
stanley spadowski.
(UHF, mutha-b!tches. represent!)
who'd have thought that a comedian/actor
turned branded-as-racist career ruiner would buy groceries?
or even more incredible, a bowl of soup?
at a store?
craaaaazy, huh?.
i don't all the way get the celebrity starstriking stuff,
but for the record,
UHF was a rad film.
and now,
it's right back to the grind.
after two days of non-stop road warrior riding and rocking,
and a spate of splitsecond hours passing by at breakneck velocity,
the weekend is over.
it was more like a little minute and less like any kind of a respite.
now this is happening:
hummingbird tattoos, my ninjas.
that's my jammie-jam.
matching ones, even.
has has shown it's hand like an invasion.
forced-entry into summertimes.
it's poppin' off,
ready or not;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, June 2


happy preemptive mutha-b!tchin' berfday!
there is no escaping the hottness, y'all.
we will find you,
and you will like it.
that's what happens when would-be
non-celebrater haters try and skip out
before their actual big birth bash-'em-up.
you just can't evade the hearty party over here.
it's like a maximum security Folk Life fortress, yeah?
frosting and candles, duders.
they're coming atcha like a guided missile of munchability.
not that you can tell in these pictures,
at all,
but that's carrot cake
with toasted walnuts
and vegan gummi bears on it.
jess and leah hooked up our special little buddy.
...with treats!
our very bestest man,
vegan chef paul cucchiarelli turns dirt-dirty 30 on saturday.
he's leaving us this afternoon,
for the whole hot sweaty summer. honky-konkulous martha's vineyard.
sooo crackery.
boat shoes and all.
how do you correctly execute a birthday wishmaking?
you start with huffing.
in this case,
it was exhaust fumes from our burly non-girlie pick'em-up truck.
we moved rocks, yall.
-lithic-type sh!t.
manliness incarnate.
stonehenge, caveman, pyramid action.
chest hairs were sprouted, kids.
after all of that,
there comes the great big puffs-
at the campfire, in the drizzles,
it was with a savage stormswept semi-humid stink stump.
what makes cake taste better than black slick'em tar tongues?
not too much, ninjas.
except maybe not having that happen.
good luck with that.
it's ALL really happening.
even the ugly, smelly parts.
then you blow the house down.
as long as the house is made out of candles,
then that big bad werewolfen berserker fury
was totally poppin' off.
delicious cake,
berfday presentations,
dinnertimetable dopeness,
hot fire,
and my homeboy's last night in town.
where did all the full house magic go?
the kids are home,
holly is home,
our up-here peoples have their own spaces,
and tonight,
it'll probl'y be all quiet on the northern front.
empty nesters, y'all.
we got that.
in other news,
mr. phuc tran is gonna ruin my night.
wait, what?
oh, yeah.
lazerbeam linework inside of my knee-pit.
and my under-butt thigh area.
i may actually, in fact, be an A*-hole.
because i'm driving down there willingly.
if you want a tattoo,
you have to get a tattoo, yeah?
the hurtie parts make it worth it,
or some philosophical bullsh!t.
but i'm just throwing this out there:
there is no such thing as necessary evil.
this particular evil,
like a great many of my most favoritest evils,
will undoubtedly be a beautiful scar on my person.
but necessary?
not quite.
i would love to expect, exclusively, the unexpected,
but unfortunately,
i just happen to know better than that.
exactly what i assume is headed my way,
is hurtling down the heated-up hurt hallway,
volcano-scorching it's way to my knee,
like my own personal quebec forest.
hot fire, on my leg,
pre-drumstick, post-rump roast;
well done, but still juicy.
never quiet, never soft.....