that cold north wind.

talking about the weather.
again.
-
there's supposed to be some kind of brutal
east coast heat wave boiling me alive right now.
as i type, i'm supposed to be suffering heat-stroke,
and dehydration,
and probably severe sunburn as well.
except that instead it's flippin' chilly outside.
because the answers are blowin' in on a steady, strong, gusty gale.
cool breezes and cold winds,
and a whole heckuva lotta rustlin' hustle and bustle.
stormswept full-moon full-frontal pressure mechanics.
highs, lows, hots, and colds, colliding against the wall of granite
that borders our idyllic vale,
and buffeting it with berserker barbarian brumal boreality.
it's so windy,
the cloud-coverage is moving along the horizon
helter-skelter and constantly reconfiguring,
almost fast enough to cause vertigo.
big changes are headed our way,
they always are, after big winds.
we'll see, i suppose,
once the boughs stop bending long enough to have a look.
***********
it's all tribal.
huh?
i mean, tattoos of solid black, tedious, gaysplosive spikes.
i know, i know-
you'd NEVER get any of that stuff.
but some people still do.
even armbands. ...and it hasn't been the eighties,
even the late ones, in twenty-something years.
(and it won't be the eighties again for seventy more, either)
tribal armbands with the obligatory kid's name snuck in?
that's taking it eleven, on a scale of bad to worse...
for the third day, in a row, i'm taking it to the limits.
the limits of good sense. good taste. and endurance.
black spikes are, yet again, the order of the day.
my menu only has one thing on it.
today's special?
black spikes of sh!t-salad, slappy-crappy, bandy-armed armbands.
big ones, too.
i'm still on it, though;
those winds aren't blowin' in any movie checks, y'heard?
i've still got to provide the full-service skin/self-esteem attack
in exchange for those pieces of eight.
doubloons, mutha-b!tches!
the rocks may be 'appropriated',
but those plants still cost loot.
wu-TANG! 'lickers.
i definitely doo-doo that capitalist sh!t.
triiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-iiiIIIIIIiiiiiii-iiiiiiiiiiiibal!
(make sure to read that with a deep southern accent)
you like it.
***********
it's the weekend for us woodsly good ones.
tomorrow is another road trip,
to asscrackachussetts,
to scoople up harvest and maple.
and then it's country stores and garden centers all the way home.
it's summer time.
that's what's good.
even in the leering, jeering face of black spikes,
it's good;
never quiet, never soft.....