Thursday, September 30

cold and rainy?

missed me, huh?
an actual day off happened.
and here's the thing:
when we bounced from the woodsly goodness,
there were clouds, and rain,
and see-your-breath coldness,
and a holy sh!tload of nastiness abounding.
then we got to the bridge that bourne named.
or vice versa.
or whatever.
and it was eighty mutha-b!tchin' degrees, ninjas.
that's pretty toasty when you've dressed for
cold, windy, ferocious and atrocious....
flannels aren't exactly made for the
somehow still-somewhat-summer season.
i'm just sayin'.
sweaty times for your face.
incorrectly packed is how we doo-doo it,
when we bring the vacation thunder.
by the time we crossed the channel,
and got off the raging, windswept whitecaps,
the cucch was waiting to pick us up
and start our big mutha-'ucking funtimes.
me and my ace homeboy,
and my peoples,
all at once,
same place and time,
like worthy warriors of atlantic hottness.
i think it showed.
especially with the amount of stares we garnered...
that's probably why, without requesting it,
we stayed in room 11.
for reals, kids.
non-stop fresh dopeness went down:
we saw six lighthouses.
we pet some soon-to-be-chops pigs,
we hung out on a couple farms,
we visited an earth oven bakery,
we walked all over the place.
we made moves.
we made magic.
we martha'd the whole vineyard,
from vineyard haven to aquinna....
and all the cedar shake shingled crackery whitewashed
waterside affluential influences in-between.
plus, we ate too much,
saw a bunch of dead fish from some fishing derby,
watched t.v. which is always a treat,
and had family/friend times from the jump off.
sea shells an' that.
good things.
island living, i'll miss you,
but woodsly goodness,
i'm happy to be home.
it all happened.
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, September 28


rainy wet cold island,
here we come.
ready or not.
ocean boat rides are mandatory.
and that part is pretty good.
i'm sure there are some sexy lighthouses, too.
and there will be no tatzappin',
or other other 'nother bits of my usual life.
it's vacation, ninjas.
it's like a prison riot,
with a little less burning toilet paper,
and hopefully waaay less shankin'....
for real.
although trapping me on an island of crackers,
in massholechussetts,
could be bad for their health...
watch the news, duders,
for anything live and/or late-breaking
about berserkers, barbarians, or battle-beasts,
and the unwelcome seaside savagery contained therein.
viking raids or sightseeing.
anything could happen.
what? say what? say what?
you know it.
and not just because of the stormy skies;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, September 27

estar bunny?

sentimental mutha-uckas like to doo-doo
some other other sh!t.
me too.
and you can't have sentimentals
without the mental...
that's just my size.
i had one of those folks all up in my day,
bringing the righteous thunder.
it went pretty smooth-
i was all like:
so, you want your first tattoo?
sure thing.
you want it to be composed of an amalgam of images?
no problem.
amalgamated images your kid drew?
eleven years ago?
even better.
i give you
'a estar bunny, by ashley':
this bunny is mad?
word up.
albie rock does tattoos, my ninjas.
AND takes flashburnt pictures, too.
a psychologist might interpret this jekyll & hyde transformation
via an alternate title...
'my daddy drinks', maybe?
never mind the career-minded hottness,
i'm all about that loud fresh hardness.
heck yes.
happy estar, neighbors;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, September 26

spare ribs.

pooped-up skwackers,
geared-up weirdies,
biscotio bizarre-o's.
it's another 'nother full day at the tattoo shop.
and for the first time this week,
it's busy.
i've got a full day of zappin' on the schedule.
with ribs aplenty.
ribs, y'all.
burning hate-lasers shot straight out
of the devil's corkscrew weiner
directly into the short baby backs.
duders gettin' doo-doo'ed by the ribbler zaps
get so mutha-flippin' sweaty, y'all.
beyond clammy, even.
straight up soggy.
and it's gross.
these kids'll want lots of straight lines
all up and along their xylophone bones.
good luck with that big business...
i don't DO straight lines, neighbors;
only gay ones.
awwwwwwwww, man.
and maybe a little bi-curious crooked one here and there, too.
and some blowouts, probably, too.
(those are super-gay. think about it)
ribs, ninjas.
there's just today and tomorrow ahead,
until the weekend of island magic starts.
martha's vineyard, duders.
crackery, y'all.
visits with my ace homeboy, the cucch.
(if he doesn't work the whole time)
don't worry,
it's supposed to rain the duration of our entire stay.
and it's cold out mostly, too.
my in-laws are attending as well.
that means best behavior time, all the time.
respect your elders, as long as they're not suckie ones.
jess' dad and his wife are decidedly NOT suckie.
to recap:
rainy cold island?
friend with a crucial work schedule?
parents present?
and let's not forget what those license plates read,
island or not: 'assachussetts.
check and mate.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, September 25

pretend radness...

responsible adulthood.
i still hate it.
remember being broke?
remember being broke and not caring?
that was something.
y'know the line:
i may live poorly, but at least i don't have to work to do it.
where did all those old sentiments disappear to?
i used to trade tattoos for diapers, ninjas.
that's my word.
and when i had a couple of bucks,
i made sure to spend 'em quicker than i made 'em.
these days,
all my duders out there work hard for the money.
and have savings, too.
not always in accounts an' that.
i'm sure there's still a healthy punk rock distrust in some of y'all.
i'm talking about buried shoeboxes,
hidden envelopes,
false-bottom cabinets,
and all those other sweet stash spots for your loot.
but still....
most of my main dudes work too much.
no jokes.
and i'm just sayin';
a grand don't come for free,
i get it, i got it, i feel you...
but all of this getting old isn't that dope.
don't get me wrong, neighbors-
i am sure we're all grateful for all the radness
that comes with rewards for responsible behavior,
i just want something for nothing.
that's all.
freebies, ninjas.
some extra scooples an' that.
everything else is just a tug and cuddle;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, September 24

dark and stormy.

nothing puts the kibosh on hot fire
like cold water.
last night seemed especially dismal.
what with a cloudily concealed moon,
and a sky filled with drips and drops.
so much for a tasty druid-infused depredation
of ley lines and cosmic potency.
awwwww, man.
instead, it was apple crisp and cuddly pajamas,
and a roasty-toasty magic-blanket reading night.
that's what constitutes a date up here, neighbors...
one tasty flame-kissed evening thwarted
by the drizzling whims of ma nature,
and replaced with novels and bakery-fresh fruit treats.
hard styles. kids.
for sure.
but it's still Fall,
and it's still raining.
maybe a little busy business is bound to begin?
i sure hope so.
september is nearly finshed already.
just a weak little week away from over.
that's somethin'.
and then, my ninjas,
it's october.
hands down the hottest sh!t in the bowl.
and so soon.
that means i'm staring down the barrel of another 'nother
monsoon of madness.
the fair, and it's constituent elements.
the visitors.
the leaves.
the mutha-uckin' falafels.
and on the 21st,
i'll be the proud parent of a sonuvagunnin' 10 year old.
and it'll mark 11 years of tattyblastifying, too.
times are flyin', y'all.
i'm grateful for the ones i have been given.
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, September 23

equinox my sox off.

do you feel it?
the tingles of a double feature lunatic fringe...
it's finally officially Fall.
AND it's a full moon.
somewhere out there,
probably in meth labs and porn stores,
wiccan gayblasters are totally F*n' losing it.
and what about the druids?
just like that,
i'm opening up your eyes to the
viking side of this whole lunar calendar seasonal change-up.
don't forget to give out some propers to those
woodsly burlap henge-clippers, too.
wolf-eyed nature duders, make some noise.
it's a big deal high-tide autumnal equinox,
and the wolfman powers are flowing.
directly into my brain.
spirits and memories, y'all.
harvest moon stuff.
...for your reaping relief.
all you reapists out there,
keep your reapers a little less grim.
i'm sayin',
it's the big day.
fire needs burnin',
moon needs howlin'.
the sleepless starry hottness of a folksy fuego festival
is in mutha-lickin' full effect.
if you own any neil young albums,
today is SO the day to have 'im be the soundtrack.
harvest. harvest moon. prairie wind. hawks and doves.
get some, and turn it up.
everybody knows this is nowhere.
whoah, be easy...the album, duders.
the woodsly goodness isn't just somewhere;
it's right here.
where it's supposed to be.
so where you at?
i'm spread thin.
for real.
a couple of pumpkins and a bag of apples,
and i'm back to work again.
it's Fall already.
there's work what needs doin'.
and there's a whole thick slab of real life
all over this mountainous realm.
the equinox.
the full moon.
the change of season.
smoke rings blowin' like answers,
winds blowin' like change,
and the sights and smells of
the worthy real-time life we've got goin' up here.
happy F*ing Fall, neighbors.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

keeping the doctor away...

red and green and so rad.
perfect Fall day sh!t,
with or without weather comparable to yesterday.
a little rain?
who cares?
we went and hit up ward's orchards, ninjas.
up a dirt road, on a hill, out behind everything.
the sun shone out from the clouds,
and a little secret universal hottness warmed up the orchards.
see that dad and his kid?
great news;
his ol' lady and their other kid were there too.
family day for them an' that.
the better part?
other 'nother kid was screaming her ever-lickin' little lungs off.
like a little symphony of suckiness,
just to remind all y'all.
about the bitter and the sweet.
country times are good times,
and my best side is the countryside.
word up.
y'know what you do with a half a peck of apples?
peel, slice, simmer, spice, and bake those b!tches.
oaty, knobbly, buttery, dope.
apple mutha-flippin' crumble.
and all a la mode for your A*s,
pairing the steaming cinnamony sliced up apples
with a perfectly counterbalanced
chilly-cold little scoople of tofutti?
that makes the sun shine in my bellyhole, anyway.
september, neighbors.
the best part of the end of summer,
and the introduction to the best season
for new englandy rural reality,
and for us.
Folk Life & Liberty,
all autumn long;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, September 22

that's what she said.

oh, c'mon.
you like it.
never quiet, never soft.....

pump' it.

the equinox may not be until tomorrow,
but the Perfect Fall Day is today.
believe it.
perfect temperatures,
perfect skies,
perfect everything.
especially, but not limited to, all this hottness:
nothing says fall harder and louder than
orange gourd grenades.
the dopest, duders.
sheep's nose deformity.
oh, it's when underhydrated pumpkins don't bulge out all the way.
not enough juice an' that.
it makes 'em look like hard-shelled strawberries, though: a heart with a stem.
i heart fall days.
oh, stop it
we got the chrysanthemum hottness, too.
for our FACE.
no, for really real:
fresh to death, huh?
i know.
it's that time of year.
we actually hit up a couple of different patches.
you have to, if you're doo-dooin' it right.
and we always do our fall days perfectly.
did we drink hot cider before dusk at a waterfall?
after all,
what are we?
look at that mountainous magic, kids.
worthy real life;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, September 21

out of site, out of (my) mind.

out of site?
the mutha-b!tchin' job site, y'all.
tractors, an' that.
the boulders are set up to get rolled,
and the gravel is well-crushed and ready, too.
site work, my ninjas.
real manly construction action, all up in here.
check the teleport:
bobcat thunder!!!!
trees were fallin',
chainsaws were rippin',
and whole hunks of earth got pushed and powered around.
earth works, duders.
hills and ditches and scraped-over stumps.
a couple days worth, even.
i mean,
we've got equipment parked outside.
that's some homeowner hottness.
the wide woodsly shed is gonna sit right over here:
with the sexy big boulder border?
it IS sexy.
that's alongside the house,
as it's very own windbreak.
new englandy wood burning, outbuilding freshness.
we doo-doo that,
with the help of mr. tony harmon.
one man and his semi-heavy equipment has done more
in one day,
than me and my duders with some shovels have in months.
power, kids.
diesel power.
there're northwoods accents abounding.
both on site and linguistically.
that means yeah in old new england speak.
i've heard it spoken true to the old days.
today, even.
the good old days are happening as we speak.
and we wouldn't want to miss out,
now would we?
planning and powering.
all. really. happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, September 19


avast me hardies!
today's fit to be 'talk like a pirate day'.
that means swashbuckling.
and the mark o' the pirate.
i'm off to do a bit of privateering,
taking pieces of eight and dirty dubloons
from the worst of the barnacled bilge pumpers.
hook hands?
peg legs?
takin' sea-duders sh!t?
takin' a dose of their skullduggery?
takin' what rightfully belongs to 'em?
arrrrrrrr! heck yes.
salty dogs an' that.
i'm so glad i remembered,
and i'm so sad for all my co-workers.
striped frilly open-front shirts and floppy hats are in effect.
i can't just TALK about it,
i've gotta BE about it.
floggin', groggin', hard-tack seabiscuit keel-haulery, kids.
maybe i'll just speak some african gibberish,
and talk like a somali pirate.
or some southeast asian bandana and machete speak.
or maybe a steam-escaping lispy turbo-fem affect;
talk like a butt-pirate.
ya'll know i'm not scared to tap into my showtunes side.
talk like a pirate.
today's the day.
all day.
modern major general, indeed;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, September 18

extra credit.

don't do it yet.
that's the command decision.
when almost nothing but food and sleep has been between
the hours since real life was last documented.
almost nothing.
it's brutally cold outside the extra magic blankets,
of which we added another 'nother one onto the pile.
a whole house with no insulation.
that's not real, is it?
 it is real.
real mutha-F*ing cold, b!tches.
10:25 p.m. e.s.t.
and i just got in from tatblasting a whole day away.
it's freezin',
there's no reason to bother with eating dinner,
and my hands feel like boiled potatoes.
starchy, son. recognize.
real life getting documented takes a back seat
to pajamas and magic blankets.
long nights,
hard times,
and everything that makes you feel tired;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, September 17


extra blankets on the bed.
i like it when the sheets an' that are all heavy.
lots of 'em, in burly blocks of blankets.
so that your comforter is kinda more of a semi-suffocator.
that's nice.
it makes sleeping an imperative option,
the only means of escaping out from the restraining
weight of high thread counts and thick batting.
if i have to sleep,
i want comatose oblivion, my ninjas.
eyes shut, brain turned off, barely breathing.
carbonite freezing type action.
that's word.
overcast skies make for shoulder-season suckery.
shoulder season, duders.
that's a thing.
the curved corners of the busy times.
and it's that season.
mixed in with off-times and down-times,
it's hard-styles and wet times, too.
pre-peepin', leaf-lookers don't hang out under the raincover.
and so we're sitting around up in the woodsly goodness.
for something or other.
we've got blown insulation guys coming to blow insulation,
we've got bobcats and caterpillars in our environment.
not the natural ones, the diesel metal earth-movin' ones.
it all takes a lot of it.
and we're waiting.
i could use a sweet blanket of insular sleepiness right around now.
true stories.
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, September 16


all the sit-ups and crunches in the whole world
can't save a ninja from the hard-style realities
of a fat belly filled with baked goods.
baked GOODs.
the name says it all.
i mean,
it's not baked BADs, y'know?
i'm just sayin',
it's mid-september, mutha-b!tches.
the perfect season for munching up on some elite treats.
apples are local, and ripe.
not to mention hand-selected from the P.Y.O. orchards-
as in: Pick Your Own, ninjas.
and that means pies, crisps, and cobblers.
what do you hippopotamuses of hunger
know about grunts and slumps?
blops and glops of basted pastries, kids.
...for your face.
we're makin' 'em.
sugar pumpkins are all up in the area, too.
what am i?
a skinny A*-hole?
apparently not,
because my maple-syrupy sugary sweet tooth,
and his 31 well-polished neighbors,
are ALL ready to get busy on some oven-fresh dopeness.
fresh-picked, fresh-baked, fresh-to-death.
shout-outs to my spicy homeboys:
nutmeg, cinnamon, ginger, mace, allspice, cloves.
brown, light brown, tan, and assorted earth-tone shades-
that's the culinary color palette of autumnal Folk Life bakery sh!t.
 we're preheated over here, friends,
and if the oven isn't warm enough,
we'll have to spray some hot fire over the tops of those slumps.
we doo-doo that flaming frenzy of freshness business.
believe it.
the whole house smells good.
the cold air holds onto the perfumes of fall.
leaves, cut spruces, and woodsmoke.
the month is halfway done.
time has a way of making major moves.
i guess i'll have to make some right back.
but not today, kids.
today's the day.
for working, and spanning time,
slowly, but surely.
that's what's happening.
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, September 15


pumpkin scented candles.
my actual olfactory nodes will totally explode.
i love the different kinds of amazing aromas.
every single one of 'em is different.
pumpkin spice, spiced pumpkin, pumpkin hollow,
pumpkin pie, pumpkin vanilla, pumpkin patch...
we've got all those,
and more.
once the leaves are down on the ground
in any appreciable quantity of underfoot crunchiness,
then we spark up the wicks, my ninjas.
and that's not all.
when it comes to precisely paired puppets
who complement the luscious breeze of spice and gourds,
i'm so on it, neighbors.
a quick trip to the colonial freshness of our local americana shop,
and a trio of dope little duders live at the fortress from now on.
checks these time-traveling teleporters:
that's a picture perfect new england primitive display.
you likey?
us too.
check the big picture out:
and that's our new cabinet.
we needed something uber-hottness infused,
and we found just the right mustard-colored one.
that's what Folk Life looks like.
(it's filled with all kinds of fancy linens, duders.)
it smells like pumpkins and spices,
and sort of like waffles, too.
that's that countryside style stankin' fresh dopeness.
little things make all the difference.
like cabinets and candles...
goodness, in the woodsliness.
we doo-doo that.
who loves wednesdays?
i do.
they call it hump day,
but i find that description unreliable at best.
whoever they are,
they've got more game than i do, i'm sure.
it's most definitely a good day though.
we've had authentic north country weather all dang day.
all of that.
real deal september stuffs.
a whole day.
hump day.
why not hump night?
then at least it'd be more believable;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, September 14

more bears.

i was wondering how i'd wake up in time
for an early-shirley dentist's appointment this morning.
turns out, ma nature had me covered.
with a double black butt bear blitz!
looking outside of my overcast, early a.m.,
second story bedroom window,
a pair of baby bears scooted their hairy heinies
right past our point of view,
up a great big oak tree.
that's not what i expect to see when i look out of my windows.
and definitely not all upside the trunk of a mighty rough-barked pillar
of towering, tremoring, bough-breaking arborism.
arboreal bears, b!tches.
i mean it,
they were forty or fifty feet up,
snapping off acorns,
and shimmy-shimmy-ya-ya-ing their way
into my wifey's heart,
my dog's red-eyed angst,
and my dental outlook.
that's the woodsly goodness' alarm clock, kids.
their big fat mama was there, too,
but without the high-wire acrobatics.
she stayed downstairs at the compost pile buffet...
the three bears, my ninjas.
but no papa.
hard styles for us,
but no more than standard operating procedure
for our friendly neighborhood furred-up forest foragers.
and i didn't shoot any of 'em, either.
i mean it, y'all.
there are a couple moms i would put on blast,
even if they had their seedlings present,
but black betty and her burly bamalamas
are safe from us for now and always.
i'm just sayin',
nature was here first.
and speaking on dentistry;
i got some corrections done this mornin'.
now i've got a swollen, sullen set of lips,
and a lopsided jawline.
but very necessary.
i just can't hang out with up-here teeth.
that kind of thing isn't cool.
i've already got enough of a busted grill piece
in the eyes-nose-cheeks region
that having rickety pickets on the fences of my mouth
would take me to the limits of vomitous visagery.
y'heard me?
that's no good.
i've got a hollowed-out shell of a well,
enameled and ultra-violet inoculated,
on the top, AND the bottom, of my wisdom spots.
dental outlook?
that IS wise.
keeping my molars in shape for all that hot fire spit.
...for your face,
from right out of mine;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, September 13

bears, just barely.

F*n' bears.
F*n' bears, who munch up on our birdfeeders.
not squirrel-,
not chipmunk-,
and definitely not bears.
until last night.
F*n' bears...
for over a year,
our seedy cedar-shingled cyclinder
hung out, unmolested, high above the temptations
of all the wingless woodsly animals.
but now the big blackness is finally big enough
to reach up and touch something.
that's word, duders.
a seven-and-a-half foot reach to our dangling, dazzling,
cedar-house of seeds?
any hungry-hungry goldilocks-destroyer that huge
would most probably make the best rug ever...
...and it SO would have,
if i hadn't scared it away by barreling down the stairs,
bare-assed and brewing a brouhaha,
before i brought the big bore blasters to bear on that bear.
i know. i know, kids-
my wifey would never have let me take the shot.
even though it was frightening to have an
actual assault on the Fortress.
i'm just sayin',
that barbarian battle-beast was making an awful racket,
like zombie burglars without arms bumping into the walls.
pretty scary.
makes me glad for all the mutha-b!tchin' bullets up in here.
and that's for real.
a near miss on my mission for matted, meatless maws, and manacles,
mounted by the mantle.
maybe tonight, though.
i'll catch my ZzZz's outside,
in a sleeping bag smothered in peanut butter and millet,
and see where that greasy grub-suit takes me.
probably to rabies-town,
or ants-in-my-pantsville,
or the chipmunk monastery,
or some other unwelcome nuisance of nancy-saucery.
and why?
because of the bears, y'all.
the F*n' bears.
big black ones.
i've got socks on.
(i'm sure that's interesting to you.)
but for really real,
they're on my feet.
that's how i know that regardless of what my calendar says,
summer took off and left us in the lurch.
cold toes, ninjas.
after a whole season of summer feet,
my argyles are encasing my ankles again,
like coffins of cotton interring my insteps.
hard styles.
little things that mark the passing of time,
more than leaves, and raking,
and failing, faltering, lingering twilights.
i span my time unshod,
in a barefoot-due-to-non-stop-rockin' scenario.
i rock socks OFF, neighbors.
but these days,
my bare feet are trumped by bear's feet,
and the in-between times are covered in slippers.
the slippery slopes of summer's cease-
more and moreso every day.
it's all really happening,
and if not right now,
then when?
day in, day out;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, September 12

& Liberty...

guess who inked up some new imagery over here?
me, kids.
otherwise, i probably wouldn't even have mentioned it.
i can't help but think:
shouldn't the woodsly goodness
get it's due and propers up here?
sure it should.
so here you go, neighbors:
Folk Life & Liberty.
rural, righteous, real.
acorns are the truth, duders,
and the goodness that is woodsly is too.
it's got lots of woodsly goods contained therein, yeah?
oak leaves,
wheaty bits,
starry night,
forest-dwelling dwellings,
and a trio of sunbursty puffs.
they POM-POMs, b!tch!!
we doo-doo that freaky sh!t.
screened prints will be available in a little minute.
you like it.
sunday is here.
and so are we.
tattooing is bound and determined to ruin my afternoon,
and rain is set to wreak wreck on my night.
indoors is where we are.
and where we're likely to stay.
i've got my new pens,
i've got a ream of toothless tablet paper,
and two full sets of wisdom molars.
one in my mouth,
and one in my hands.
wu-TANG, miki-flippers.
arthur-makey hottness?
it's inevitable;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, September 11

never forget.

something, something.
i forgot.
oh, wait.
now i remember:
it's the eleventh.
that's right.
neverquietneversoft has news for your A*s.
that could've been embarrassing.
lucky for all our faces,
the loud fresh hardness jogs memories
like a ground zero memorial.
boo-ya, b!tches.
so good.
it's the crispest day of this year so far.
the air is sharp, ninjas.
like a sword of sexiness for my skin,
and my nostrils.
color-change-up leaves, acorns, cut grass, mountain breezes;
it smells like woodland forest wizardry.
...and also a lot like dead snake.
the former because of the earth's rotation,
and circumnavigation of the sun result in a gradual cooling
of surface temperatures and the ensuing change of seasons.
the latter because we have a smelly dead snake carcass,
with a crushed skull and a blown-out bellyhole,
rotting on top of the compost pile.
woodsly whiffs like goodness,
and dead things stink.
let me ask ya'll somethin':
do racist united states patriots have qu'rans handy?
i mean it.
the big bonfire of religious intolerance has been cancelled.
...but before it was called off,
(somehow, in no way whatsoever due to it's horrifying idiocy)
thousands of folks supposedly sent qu'rans
in to get barbecued by america, via jesus, in florida, naturally.
now either those same bigot rednecks are secretly
reading the prophet's testaments to Allah,
or there has been a major spike in qu'ran sales this last week.
i'm just sayin'.
it's probably the first book these d*-blasters have purchased
that didn't have boobs or tractors in it.
book burning,
AND funding the publishing arm of the muslim world?
irony? where?
and i wonder what they're gonna do with all those books now?
do i have firefighter tattoos to doo-doo today?
does 9-11 have eagles crying red, white, and blue tears?
you betcha.
the woods has a powerful aroma of america, today.
or maybe it's just that snake i mentioned earlier;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, September 10

rock rockin' rocks.

hand-split granite plinths.
heaviness incarnate.
the other day, when wayne was over here,
with the aid of a deep wheelbarrow,
we moved three enormous monoliths.
from the foundations of the Fortress,
where a little bit of sweet stonework
was left over from back in the days of yore.
as the decades rolled by,
they'd settled into the earth over all that time;
our excavations proved worthy,
and now the garden has a pair
of proudly presented powerful pylons.
we even made one of 'em into a little fireside loveseat.
a burly bench for baking barbarian buttocks beside the blaze.
hard hot heated heinies, homies.
we doo-doo that slab-happy seating jauns...
for those of you who know about making some arthur,
or art-making as those more familiar are known to call it,
let me tell y'all-
i've been on that sh!t so hard for a few weeks.
which doesn't necessarily mean anything major.
i've heard artists do that sort of thing all the time.
not me, though.
i save and savor that stuff for special events.
special, as in: september.
the fall.
autumnal equinox full-harvest-moon werewolf/battle-beast action.
and Folk Life.
& Liberty.
and acorns.
a.k.a the truth.
speaking of truth-
let me tell you miki-fikis about 'specialty printing'.
by virtue of being special,
it apparently never takes the 'guaranteed' time limits
you've been assured of.
which, in turn,
makes me look like an A*-hole.
which, in it's own turn,
makes me act like an A*-hole.
so tomorrow is the eleventh.
and for some reason,
i seem to vaguely recall that i'm supposed to
NEVER FORGET somethin',
but i can't exactly remember what...
i do remember that i made a whole heaping helping of hottness,
and it isn't ready yet.
what. the. mutha. flipping. F*. ?. !.
i don't give a flip about excuses.
i don't want reasons,
i want results.
tomorrow's a big day over at neverquietneversoft.
but when i say big,
i really mean 'just right';
which, as every woman already knows,
actually means 'little'
awwwwwwwww, man.
hard styles,
harder times,
and longer than longest nights,
and some acorns.
ain't that the truth;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, September 9

thor and his thunder.

lightning-striking vikings.
they show up flippin' the mutha-F* right out,
they hit hard on your stuffs and take all your treats,
they axe-chop and torch-burn and weiner-pork everything,
and then they disappear.
that's what i'm talkin' about, duders...
it's all the thursday around me.
thor's day.
the hammer, y'all.
part blacksmith brawn and part warrior poetry-
droppin' it down,
and ringing out the doo-doo din
and calamitous, cacophonous mutha-b!tchin' thunder.
that means yellin'. and yellin'. and yellin'.
and some ferocious battle-beastly tatzappin',
and whatever other 'nother other modes of expression
cross my path and make themselves readily at hand.
and then,
a hasty departure.
a smoke-ring-on-the-wind-type dissipation.
as in: into thin air, neighbors, y'heard?
...right around closing time.
shallow drafts, neighbors.
that's always been the key.
to navigate otherwise impassable waterways.
i've got drafts and drafts and drafts, too.
rough drafts, leaky windows, root beers.
and as for shallowness.
the depths of my surface values are unplumbable.
add in these cloudy skies, these cool breezes,
and the fiery forge of fury in my chest,
and that's colliding opposite pressure fronts.
here comes the lightning.
and not just from the static electricity of my
massive brass clankers clack-a-lackin' together.
from ALL the friction.
because you know what happens when you're confronted
with abrasiveness for long enough, don't you?
everything else gets smoother.
that's word.
i'm paving the way with brazen brass balls and bugles blaring.
staying rough all this time has it's advantages.
everytthing'll all get polished...
polished up and shiny,
or polished off and over.
one way or another,
it's all bound and determined to keep really happening.
listen closely.
there're hammers hitting and sparks flying,
bellows blowing and furnaces raging,
horns blasting and trumpets heralding.
that's thunder.
two short steps behind me.
by the time you hear it, i'll be gone.
lightning-striking viking, ninjas,
hitting hard and getting the F* out;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, September 8

lumbering jackers.

ohhhhhhh sh!t, mutha-b!tches!
you know what this right here means?
for starters,
it means that my shark-like gluttony couldn't wait
for a photo opportunity to arrive
before a big bite into the best panniecakes yet.
and just why were panniecakes on the munch-up list this morning?
because lumberjacks always eat a hearty meal of pan-style cakes
before engaging in epic, heroic, masculine deforestation.
if long beards denote wisdom (or alcoholism),
then thick beards indicate manliness.
and let me tell all y'all,
wayne's beard is the thickest.
and by virtue of free-association,
his manliness knows no rivals.
you guys know about wayne?
you should.
he pierces bodies,
he eats pancakes,
he saws wood.
he's a man, duders.
a real one, i mean.
after trying to fix my chainsaw, with tools,
and a lighter (it's true),  to no avail...
he whipped out a spare,
(i assume woodsly tree-fellin' fellas always have one handy)
and did a whole bunch of this:
are you checking your teleport?
like i said before;
ohhhhhh sh!t!!
for the record,
i mostly just scoopled up the brush and branches.
(my beard is very well groomed, but not nearly as dense)
we puffed on some stumps (of rolled-up leafy stench)
and carved up some other 'nother stumps (of sappy spruce),
and ate lunch,
and moved huuuuuuge rocks,
and pretty much increased the atmospheric testosterone quotient
by at least 111%.
word the F* up.
that's a lot of action for a rainyish wednesday.
i'm tellin' you guys.
now that the treeline is leaner,
the living roof woodshed is only
a little tiny bulldozer away from happening.
and it's ALL really happening, neighbors.
it's a new moon tonight.
the blackest night, even.
darker darkness,
brighter stars.
or at least,
they would be brighter if the clouds weren't peeing on us.
there just had to be rain, huh?
instead of sitting on my newly erected stone bench,
i'm indoors,
beside a candle or three,
basking in the miniature glow of a slightly less hot fire.
it smells like pumpkins, though, and white pines.
so it could be a lot worse.
tomorrow night is only 24 short hours away,
and the sliver of moony whiteness won't be much
in the way of muting the orange blaze that's sure to happen.
days off?
over and done with.
days on?
yeah, they sure are;
never quiet, never soft.....

big fun. supplies.
that's the big news.
i got a whole new set of pens, ninjas.
microns an' that.
and even some semi-elusive,
not-included-in-the-four-pack number ones.
for those of you who don't know:
#1's are the number one fat-lined markery marky-markin'
flavorblastin' liners out there.
because they are even thicker than .08's.
that's pen talk, kids.
believe it.
one whole millimeter of fluid density.
and i've got a whole assortment of new ones, too.
plus a super-fresh, graph-lined ruler.
just being IN the art store
makes me want to get down on some get busy arthur-making hottness.
throw in a truly disgusting quantity of vegan deliciousness,
and you've got yourselves a worthy day away from the workplace.
although, to be fair,
i was at the studio for a little minute,
scooplin' up on some new fonts,
some photocopies,
and some firm plans for tree removal and rock hunting.
days off, duders.
a rare and really excellent commodity in the woodsly goodness.
going south, by southeast,
to portland, maine,
for green elephant asia-type eats?
that's worth the drive from anywhere.
AND new mutha-flippin' pens?
a new nib on a factory-fresh fully-inky stick
is pretty much the best thing there is.
and what's more, i've been using 'em.
so hard.
for really real,
there are at least four new illustrations on the 'almost-done' list.
it's almost the eleventh after all,
and worthy warriors of berserker barbarism don't sleep, son.
that's no joke.
i'm just sayin', mutha-lickers,
a full belly, a new art cache, and a day well spanned.
tuesdays are rarely this rad;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, September 6


work. work. work.
all work, and no play,
and just a little bit of cake,
makes for a long day indeed in the crisp and comfortable environs
of the perfectly picturesque septemberiness of the woodsly goodness.
here we are.
and although the rest of the realm around us is off today,
enjoying the idea of a just reward
for laboring all through the summer an' that,
we wanton and world-weary warriors of poetic (and prosaic) pugilism
are headed out into the work world for one more day.
it's the last of 'zaps before our weekend,
which is actually scheduled to only be one day,
and as such much more of a short one than a long one.
less-than satisfactory.
which of course just means we've got to pack as much awesome
into 24 hours as we conceivably can manage.
like yard work.
or house work.
or gardening.
awwwwwwwwwww, man...c'mon.
hard styles know no boundaries.
we're on the borders of the berserker barbarian badlands
with that kind of responsible adult activity.
i suspect a revolt against our orderly obligations by tomorrow.
if the labor of today doesn't ignite a hot fire of rebuttal and reprisal
against the rigors of work-week weak-sauce.
anything could happen,
although it usually doesn't.
we'll all have to wait, see, and be surprised together.
the smell is in the air.
whiff it.
and not just the old cabbagey hot dumpster reekings
of our dog's festy butthole, either.
breathe deeply, and without worry,
because in addition to that malodorous aroma,
the pervasive purely-pleasing, refreshing, and rewarding wafts of
almost-autumn are snappy fresh and dawn's early lightening
in our collective woodsly nostrils this morning.
crisp, ninjas.
like extra blankets and undershirts.
it's labor day, for sure,
but i don't imagine i'll be working too much.
at least, not any harder,
and definitely no smarter than usual.
a pig-headed, bum's-rush, bull-in-the-china-shop,
stubborn-mule animal attack on all things obligatory.
excessive is the order of the day.
gratuitous, if you'd like.
i'm grateful for this time i have been given,
and i'll be using it to bring all the odinous thunder down
on all the doo-doo butery duders
who don't know well enough to stay home today.
like giving birth.
to a new era of woodsly goodness...
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....


homemade goodness.
whipped-up squackers,
crumby (but not crummy) layers,
and all kinds of moist, sweet, deliciousness...
after i baked a double-deck of my cakey hottness,
i embarked on the obvious next step;
i went to prepare the twin circles of wheaten wonder
for the slathering of slap-happy sugared-up second-skin,
and then discovered half of the ingredients to be missing.
now, neighbors, i should tell you-
my pantry is a closely guarded lair of preparedness.
a fortified vault of vitamins and minerals.
an armory of culinary ammunition, even.
i'm sayin',
i back up all my back up plans.
and my sugars,
and my cocoas.
that's right, y'all.
molto. molto. molto, still.
so having only one of anything? way, jose.
i've got stacks and rows and piles.
there's not supposed to be any such thing as NONE of anything.
so just imagine my surprise,
and frustration,
upon discovering the absence of my frosty necessaries.
that's such a hard style.
somebody has been sneaking on my jauns.
and i only know one goldilocks around these parts.
so the icing had to wait a whole 'nother day.
all's well that ends with sugary, faux-buttery air-whipped brown blops.
and now that a quick shopping trip has been accomplished,
it's time to celebrate.
cake, mutha-b!tches.
in my mouth.
it's a Labor Day cake.
for all the hard work i get to doo-doo today.
glycemic 'gariousness, ninjas.
i'm set to slice this baby-b!tch in to sections,
and devour, on the hour, every hour,
a shark-gluttonous sundial of dark and lovely lusciousness,
until i'm a shaky-lining tatty-o'blasterizer
all the way until closing time tonight.
it would've been easier, i think,
to take the day off.
but that's not how barbarian bankrollers get busy.
gimme s'money.
gimme some cake.
all day;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, September 5

thick blankets...

make sleeping so good.
it's here,
post waterstorm,
on this september sunday.
cold nights and sunny days and perfect sleeping weather.
the conditions are all aligned.
and the extra magic of a super fluffy blanket is right on top.
i'm sayin',
i just woke up.
that's extra hours of sleepy-time.
and it feels good.
Tea 'N' Toast is gettin' brewed and baked in a hurry, though.
so that the remainder of our restfully easy sunday morning
can proceed without any undue haste.
i know you ninjas all like that magical blanketry.
because it's the perfect top-coat for a tasty night of turbo invigoration.
every side of the bed is the wrong side,
without the right covers, yeah?
everything blanket.
i've still got a big ol' pile of dirt in my front yard, y'all.
a heap of brown earth.
a mound of melted mountain, even.
i kept some in reserve, neighbors.
i mean,
there's all kinds of yardsly landscaping still to get done,
and happily,
i've got the extra soil to spare.
filling in the bl_nks, an' that.
and raising up the flowers and the berries and the bushes, too.
of course,
it looks like a blop of lawn-blight in the meantime.
but that's cool.
i'd rather have my back-up look busted and come in handy,
than have my everything else look dope and not have enough.
that's Folk economics, ninjas.
my garden may already be a perfect ten,
but i've got enough raw gardening material to take it
well beyond eleven.
too much is the right amount;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, September 4


i'm making it and baking it.
i won't be in the weak waterbaby worstitude
of connecticut's suburban streets
to celebrate the big candle-blowin' berday business
of my sister anna's thirtieth being-alive anniversay.
as a show of solidarity with my sibling,
i'm making myself a consolation prize cake.
flaunting a supreme disregard,
for flood and drought alike,
in the face of the worldwide wheat famine,
hunger-scare food-cost-spike frenzy,
i'm adding applesauce and sugar,
and gettin' all marie antoinette on my tastebuds.
let 'em eat it, y'all.
i'm sure gonna.
there's always the promise of frosting.
or icing, if you'd prefer.
you can call it thick chocloate goobieblops for all i care;
it's getting spread on my cakes regardless.
that's correct.
september cakes.
just what the weekend ordered.
hefty slices of amazing.
it's no indigenous andes, alpaca-haired, quinoa cake,
but it is surely destined to be more delicioso,
and probably mucho mas vegan.
i'm on it.
but more importantly (barely) than the cake in the oven,
my little sister is thirty.
my littlest sister.
that makes me even older.
i feel it, too.
and man, do i look it.
labor day weekend,
and i'm headed to work,
after staying up too long for the last late showing of 'machete'.
my sad bones and sleepy skin can't handle this kind of thing.
brownsploitation and rest deprivation?
and more tattoos?
mutha-b!tches had better be bringing big heavy-weighted
molto movie checks with 'em today.
holler.(i'm ready to make dollars)
...and cake.
by the stack and by the slice.
both types.
the hurricane of biblical retribution and fury
failed to smite massachussets off the face of the earth.
that means it's still full of 'holes,
which in turn means a mass exodus
from the realms of b!tchbagging sucktardation,
to the idyllic woodsly goodness.
good for them,
bad for us.
what could've been a peaceful,
albeit soggy,
saturated span of sweet, sweet silent solitude,
is sure to be a sh!t-salad traffic jam jamboree doo-doo circle instead.
hard-styles don't get vacations, i guess.
more of this,
and more's the pity.
hot fire spit only condenses and concentrates
the baby b!tch-sap, neighbors.
it looks like the end o' the week will see the fruits of such interaction.
which is to say:
thick, bitter, and unwanted.
that's what SHE said;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, September 3

deep into it.

i'm still on about it.
y'know there's ripened pumpkins around already?
that's some late summer seriousness.
no jokes.
i need some.
now, let me tell y'all about our metal roof.
and more importantly,
about the explosions of divine heaven-hurled fury i've been hearing.
it's scary, a little teentsy tiny bit, my ninjas.
when, in the stillness of late night woodsly quietude,
a harsh, hard-style crash'em-up 'sploding sound gets a-poppin'.
like the villagers are catapulting boulders at my fortress.
i'm sayin'.
for all the loudness and the hardness of the big bangs we're wakening to,
it's all a lot of noise for just a little bit of danger...
it's acorns.
little nature grenades.
the big sexy oak tree is shedding her little babies on our house.
so hard.
like, it sounds like dinosaurs crashing through the woods
when heard from the opposite side of the house.
miniature oak trees.
little truths.
so dope.
today's my brother-in-law's berfday.
he's thirty.
that's pretty cool.
my youngest sister's big one is tomorrow.
she'll be thirty as well.
what i'm thinking about is not the magic milestone
of triple decade decadence.
but moreso that neither of them represents
the roman numerals associated therewith.
you know:
like straight-edge. (most assuredly not)
or pornography. (probably not)
but maybe, however,
if we're talking about the old alcohol branding...
like moonshine jugs and pirate casks,
just maybe,
my fully grown-up siblings by blood and matrimony
very well might be rockin' the trip'-X most truly.
drinkies, kids.
i can't hang out.
but i do love birthday cake.
that's word.
i hope there's more of the latter and less of the former,
with plenty of good cheer and all of that happy crapola.
this weekend is the labor day daze and craze.
which means i'll be laboring.
all day.
every day.
after all,
what the F* is a holiday weekend?
when we talk about long weekends,
it's because we work extra hard for extra long.
and then it seems even longer.
(that's what she said)
so today is the lull,
before the storm;
and quite honestly,
before the actual storm.
hurricane earl's remnants and roustabouts
should be kicking the coastline's A* off sometime super-soon.
which means the elevated up-here-ness may actually
even get a little double drizzle to quench the unholy sizzle
of these record temperatures and fire-hazard tinderbox forests.
sorry, coastline,
but the mountains are what's up.
northern new england, mutha-b!tches.
that's where it's at.
today and every day.
just like always,
with the help of a hundred acorns;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, September 2

hot fire.

no smoke without it.
and just look at those bellowing, billowing plumes.
the inky, oily clouds of atmospheric monoxide, my ninjas. manly.
the blazing bright barbarian beacon of burly september welcoming.
i'm just sayin',
we know how to inflict the hottest dopeness on your A*s.
and we never hesitate.
birch bark, b!tches.
the fastest combustion,
the fastest consumption,
the smokiest stuff.
that's how it goes up here.
the temperature drops a couple degrees,
we bring it right back up again.
the circle of stones,
the stone seats,
the woodsly goodness,
the well-watered garden.
here is where the heat is.
and the heart;
never quiet, never soft.....


that's the hunter's feast, my ninjas.
one big bowlful of excellent.
in keeping with the rockin' really loud and hard of the rabbit-rabbit-ness.
which is traditionally what's IN the hunter's feast.
i didn't really do much hunting.
i didn't even wear any camouflage.
in fact,
outside of going to the grocery store,
i mostly just roamed around outside.
plucking herbs, y'all.
herb plucking, y'know,
like out of the gardens.
rosemary and basil from the upstairs deck garden.
greek oregano, sweet marjoram, and sage
straight off the stalks at the front of the house rock spot,
and italian oregano and lemon balm from the big garden.
it's not exactly hunting.
i mean,
i planted 'em,
so i knew where they were.
but i also know that they're mutha-flippin' delicious.
and with bow-tie pasta?
c'mon, neighbors.
farfalle is their grown up name.
it means butterflies.
but i like to think of it more like moths.
because those're waaay more sexy.
in unrelated observation,
i also find it amusing that chevrolet uses the 'bow tie' logo,
since mostly rednecktardbots drive 'em up here.
you get it?
yeah, you do.
they'd never wear a real bow tie,
or probably even eat farfalle if they knew what it meant.
i'm sayin'.
cacciatore is good for your face.
and my face needed a couple of shark-gluttonous bowlfuls.
to fill the empty spot left by failure.
awwwww, man.
i attempted a major woodsly rock heist.
even with two duders, levers, backbreaking lifty-squats,
and assorted grunts and grumbles,
the rocks were too big and unwieldy.
dirty, sweaty, hundred-degree defeat.
and with some showcase rocks right there on the roadside,
taunting the gardeny hottness of the fortress and it's warriors.
by dinnertime,
it was hard even lifting my fork, kids,
with the jellied spindle-noodle arms i was left with afterwards.
with my mouth full of awesome,
i reflected on the half-full news.
we didn't leave empty-handed,
or empty truck-bedded, either.
we got another 'nother lined-up and eroded,
super-sz'huan striated behemoth though.
check the teleport:
with real bits of bossy moss?
that's what's good.
and so much dinner, duders.
i doo-doo that hot meal waitin' type hard style sh!t.
i mean it.
the wifey was working,
so you just know i had to show some gratitude.
that's viking feast funtimes,
via italian recipes,
alongside vegan sensibilites,
with fresh woodsly ingredients.
real life,
all around us,
in our bellyholes,
and in our hearts.
it's all always going on and on and on;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, September 1

rabbit, rabbit!!!!!

repeat after me:
it's the first of the month, y'all.
landlords and welfare cats are happy.
so am i.
i said the magic words.
the lucky good time repetition petition for swell monthly doings.
rabbit, rabbit, my ninjas.
it's september.
for thirty whole days.
in a row.
and september, neighbors,
is one of the best months.
crisp, fresh apples.
that autumny filtered, failing yellow sunlight no other time can match.
back to school times for the little ones,
so no sh!tty little kids F*ing up my dinners in restaurants.
polarity-infused seasonal quarter transformation equinox time.
like i said,
it's good.
really good.
and today's the jump off.
lucky us.
nowhere but here.
that's where i'd like to be right now.
looks like the rabbity babbity blahbity-blah is working.
i mean, i'm here.
and that's something.
i've even got a few plants to drop into the ground today.
for real.
a couple of buckets of razzledazzleberries,
two different kinds of big dark sweet juicy blackberries,
and some bugleweed, too.
it's september.
so i'm late.
but i'm looking towards next year, ninjas.
these little leafy buddies need to set their roots.
and i'm here to help.
i've got some drawings to finish up,
and the overpriced screenprinting lady to bargain with.
i want what i want,
and what i want is pretty fresh.
...and i need it now.
or at least,
within the next ten days.
or else it doesn't go to eleven, y'heard?
word the F* up.
secret sexiness?
loud fresh hardness?
oh yeah...for your face.
due diligence for my favorite season,
my favorite project,
and my favoritest most bestest folks.
(that's all of y'all.)
it's happening.
moves are being made.
never quiet, never soft.....