reflections eternal.

another one down the pipeline, my ninjas.
three-hundred and sixty-five days,
completed.
documented.
and lived.
lived well, even.
all the way to eleven, an' that.
literally.
2011 is on it's way towards us,
like a piece of enormous, destructive space debris,
hurtling at terminal velocity to take us on.
and possible wipe us out.
i'm sayin'...
...i'm just not sure you mutha-b!tches can handle the hottness.
worthy warrior poetry gets composed up here,
in the forms of gratitude, generosity, and active participation.
Folk Life at it's purest form,
it's infinite nature and what-all.
today is the day, y'all.
the last one.
tomorrow is another 'nother one,
but there's nothing quite like the last hurrah of a dying year.
what?
no.
we won't be getting apesh!t retarded tonight.
very nearly 35 years since i showed up,
i STILL don't doo-doo that weak b!tch-sap suckiness.
i'll be starting the new year fresh-faced, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed,
and completely sober.
i just can't hang out with kicking off the big 'one-one',
the righteous ex-eye,
by being hung over, nauseous, blaery-headed,
and blasting out diarrheally-real yellow grumpers.
(y'know, from my doodiehole)
seems like a dumb way to begin what may be the best year yet.
y'heard?
yeah.
***********
time takes time.
2010.
hard-pounded into oblivion,
like a dissipating smoke ring in the winter winds.
this harsh north darkness certainly makes
the ghost circled snuff of another calendar's pages
seem so much sooner than it might've if a warm front
had just heated us up a little first.
i'm sayin',
compared to the year prior,
i don't think i really did anything.
i mean it.
work, to get money, to buy things, to pay bills.
day into month into year.
responsible adulthood is a lot less fun than
the tattoo-blasting berserker fury of years gone by.
i mean it, duders.
no amount of newly-minted year's resolute resolve
can transmogrify lost time into found time.
supposedly, it heals all wounds...
...but only through the process of preservation by petrification.
ouch.
i said it.
i meant it.
time turns to stone, duders,
and stone gets ground into dust over time,
and the dust fills the hourglass,
and marks the passage of even more of itself.
now that's a hard style.
***********
all around me.
that's where the savage storm is sweeping.
valkyrie vixens,
and lightning-striking ladies
are keeping me company,
spanning time,
and watching the tocs all tic-tic-tick away.
it's been a year.
again.
nowhere near as productive as the one prior,
but maybe just a lull to lure y'all in.
the calm before the raging barbarian burliness.
it's still happening.
really.
*
alright, 2010.
goodnight.
i'll miss you a little.
but we're in the wee hours whiling from the new hottness,
and that's a fact.
2011, my ninjas.
the year of the gun.
you'd better believe it.
louder, harder, and even mutha-lickin' fresher.
just be dope,
every single minute,
or every single day;\
never ever quiet, never ever soft.....

raising eyebrows.

i had the opportunity to do another 'nother set of eyebrows.
believe it or not, neighbors,
i like doing 'em.
especially when they're 'more' than cosmetic.
now,
all y'all already know i'm no doo-doo do-goodery waterbaby...
but-
i can't help but get some satisfaction from what i do,
when i use tattooing to actually improve someone's quality of life.
i mean it.
more often than not,
i dim bright futures and darken doorsteps.
not this time though, mutha-lickas.
i've got the enhancement magic on my side.
eyebrows for alopecia, duders.
that's what i'm talking about.
and for the record, i always have my wifey draw 'em on first.
she's got the cosmetic comet of trailing hottness on her side.
i mean,.
she draws her own ones on every day,
so she's got the turbo-practiced perfection on her side.
which pretty much means it's also on my side.
win.
and so i'm closing out the year doing something nice.
and also most likely eating chinese food.
those are the unofficial rules, right?
i think so.
***********
boiled dinner is on the pot, kids.
a big bucket of 'taters and carrots, and rutabaga,
and horseradishy mustard,
and cabbage.
sorry fresh air...
the 'splosive, thunder-bringing thor's-day
thursday night suppertime delight
is here to wreak the rectal ragnarok on all things
fresh and flowery.
boiling madness, ninjas.
that's another 'nother batch of burly barbarian business.
everything else is just weak sauce.
fury, flavor, feasting, and a whole houseful of in-laws,
lawless ladies one and all.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

wotan's winter winds.

jeez, we had a day.
so first,
we kicked off a super-sized fire,
burning away all the cardboard we'd accumulated
during the epic XI-mas blowout;
then,
we took a tour of the roadsides of western maine,
and sojourned all the way to portland.
down east, b!tches.
just for the sole purpose of gorgeing our gullets
with gross gallons of gluttony.
the green elephant, neighbors.
worth a day in the car for sure.
not for nothin',
but that place was mobbed!
i had no clue that so many veg heads would pick today
to pack on the pounds, and pack in the doorways,
for a fresh-baked batch of asia-style sharkbite chomping,
and seam-splitting stuffing, too.
where does the time go, kids?
a couple of chores,
a couple of hours,
and before anybody knew what had happened,
the day was done.
one weekend of active participation down the pipeline,
one workweek weak-end dead ahead.
*
and just to top it off:
it's dark, cold, and brutally windy.
...again.
i wouldn't change anything, though.
family.
food.
fire.
we've got all the ingredients for
a worthy wad of Folk Life;
and that's a life that makes sense.
i am grateful for this time i have been given, duders;
never quiet, never soft.....

the pannie-man can!

who can take a griddle-cake,
flap it's jacks right 'round like record, baby,
and then manhandle the buttery,
maple syrupy-sweet short stacks of
barbarian lumberjammer discs?!
the pannie-man can, ninjas!
c'mon.

where's them delicious jauns at, son?
the woodsly goodness, mount washington valley,
white mountains, new hampshire.
that's the spot.
i've been droppin' some earth balance brand
in the middle of the griddle,
and that double-butter 'splosion is making a whole wide world of difference.
on the ones.
pannie-cake! pannie-cake! baker's man!!!
that's right.
neighbors,
i'm tellin' all y'all:
here is where the hottness is.
good flippin' thing, too...
it's minnesota cold up in here.
real talk.
and that's before the wind chill gets it's claws into it.
directly and immediately through any and all coats,
and layers aren't about to do more than make you move funny.
this wind, from out of the northern barrens, isn't F*ing around-
it's all vorpal an' that.
even the miracle of ultimo-comestible panniecakes are a marginal,
nay,
a nominal defense against the blistering frost-biting coldness.
no joke.
but it's ALSO our day off.
so somethin' uber-dope has got to get poppin'.
i mean,
it's winter vacation,
there's snow on the ground,
and i've got three amazing ladies hanging around with me.
so we've got an obligation to make moves,
and magic happen.
it all really is, was, will, and continues to.
tuesday morning sparkle magical togetherness.
that's the name of the game;
never quiet, never soft.....

ah, there it is.

winter!

it found us.
finally,
the wintry white wrecking ball
of icy waterworks is hurtling towards our faces.
snow!
wind!
soul-numbing bitter cold temperatures!
what kind of a yeti-man am i?
an abominable blizzard wizard!
really.
there's brutality blowing up our spot.
the all-white mountains are living up to their name.
blanketed with drifts,
buried beneath the blops,
sandwiched between the snowfall,
and it's time for holiday family vacation!!!
wooord.
if the whole northern world wasn't frozen solid,
and crushed under the bootheels of old man winter
and his little partner jack frost.
never mind the nipping,
there is a full-on cannibal nosebite attack happening up here.
boogers, bronchial bruising, and bone-chilling berserker barbarian
lightning-striking viking violence from out of the skies.
stormy, neighbors.
that's how it is around here.
of course,
on the inside, it's still like this:

warm, welcoming, woodstove-heated hearthy homey-ness.
that's good, at least.
plus,
the snow is insulating the house,
and holding in the hottness.
let the weather outside stay frightful, folks.
i'm just sayin'...
***********
vacation in the woodsly goodness means a couple of important things.
* broccoli bread.
* movie nights.
* sledding!
* the green elephant, ninjas.
standards and stand-by's;
that's how we doo-doo that time-together-type sh!t.
harvest, maple, jess, and i.
warrior poets walking side by side all along
the byways and snowpaths and trails of the northerly extremes.
who's winning?
me, duders.
i've got what i want,
and more than i need,
and that's pretty much the best ever.
gratitude and generosity,
all the way to eleven;
never quiet, never soft.....

my wife wins again.

coat rack?
is that what i just heard somebody say?
good call.
you must be psychic, neighbor.
that is EXACTLY what my wife unfurled for XI-mas
right before my face!
check out the luxurious super-hottness that i'll
be hanging my coats upon:

turbo-expert, ninjas.
that's how gifts get given.
and it gets even better.
what could have made a warrior poet from the woodsly goodness
freeze-frame his face like this?

must've been something super-special, right?
right.
here's another 'nother reason why my wife is the best one:

boo-ya!
a bullpup automat kalashnikov 1947, ninjas!
that's correct.
a modified carbine length AK-47.
flawless victory, b!tchbags.
recognize.
i am grateful for this time i have been given.
i am grateful for the family that surrounds me.
it is all really happening, and that's really good.
lucky me, lucky us.
back in my own home,
with my womenfolk around me,
living the good life,
making the minutes matter more.
happy XI-mas, without a doubt
never quiet, never soft.....

much much better.

check out the perfect picturesque splendor

that's right, neighbors.
hung on the mantel with care and everything.
and turn your envy on for my lovely wifely hottness's
big perfectly pleated pile of presents:

expert.
two whopping mounds of goodness,
in the spirit of gratitude and generosity,
and all things louder, harder, and fresher than ten.
real talk.
it's been a pretty flippin' amazing day.
i mean,
fire blazing?
yep.
little kids gettin' treats?
yep.
happy holiday togetherness,
tenderness,
and temperant temerity?
yep. yep. yeppity-yep.
for really real,
this is what it's supposed to be like:

and it IS.
that's the best part.
here's the big double gift:

a laptop for the kiddos.
y'know,
so we can skype our faces up,
and have more than just a noisy conversation.
(really, it's more of a gift to myself in that respect)
and just so duders don't think we're too big-baller hard-style avaricious,
we hooked up the dumb dirty dog, too.

c'mon.
even the four-leggeds get stockings in the woodsly goodness.
the whiteout blizzard that's bombing connecticut
waited for us to vacate the premises first.
ka-pow!
one last parting gift for our A*s.
nice work, ma nature.
it's headed here,
and firewood needs hauling.
holidays aren't exempt from the daily duties
of folk life libertarianism.
it's happening,
and it's happening so GOOD
never quiet, never soft.....

mine was better.

on the real, ninjas...
XI-mas tidings!
super rad!
so check the teleport:

little itty-bitty baby harlen!
turbo-cuteness, in point of fact.
mark this documented mayhem on your dayplanner, duders.
that's me holding a baby and being cute.
one most excellent nephew,
and one most excellent uncle albie.
woooord.
*
the kitchen was rockin' over at the guercias.

the eve of the mas was where the big action was.
mas means more, yeah?
and we had mas of all the good stuff.
group photo?
sure thing:

tom, betty, auntie bobbie, uncle jim, rob, sharon, juice, and jay.
a whole posse of peoples who wanted to hang out and get rowdy.
that's how it really happens in the laked-up lounge of old lyme's
luxurious waterfront whiteness.
mmm-hmmm.
so good.
and my kids got early XI-mas treats over there, too:

bathrobes of wonderment and warmth.
roasty toasty, son.
*
did you happen to have an interest in seeing me and my wifey?
sorry you missed us?
well,
i got them consolation jauns for your faces:

family fun.
in F*ing full effect.
one of our four XI-mastimes.
done and done.
never quiet, never soft.....

happy.

surrounded on all sides by family.
that's an enfilade.
check your military dictionary, neighbors.
we're reppin' the full-on maneuvering of
a rebellious renegade cadre in jack boots
(or holiday-appropriate high heels).
real talk.
there are kids everywhere,
and three family-style meals from three families
worth of family dinner,
all resting heavily in my bellyhole.
i'm full.
of holiday spirit an' that...
my heart is pretty full, too.
and my guts are fit to burst.
it's been a helluva few days in the nutmeg nuthouse,
and it's all been really real:
on the real, neighbors.
***********
everywhere, here AND there, neighbors.
the home fires are calling us,
and the long drive is daunting us,
and the passengers are getting ready to
'are we there yet' all the way home,
all whee-whee-whee like little bitty piggies.
the ground is dry, and brown,
the air is sharp and cold,
and the sound of shrieking little ladies
is nailing up the chalkboard in my ear canal.
there arose such a clatter, kids.
that's no lie.
*
families, and the spirits of giving,
and thought, and memory.
it's all really happening,
and there's still more to come.
tomorrow,
we head home to the great north woods,
the white mountains,
the wonderful world of school vacationland,
and to all the inherent goodness within it's borders.
today,
we kept the dmx in x-mas,
but tomorrow,
we bring the noise,
all the way to eleven,
and XI-mas!
merry 'mas to all, and to all a good night;
never quiet, never soft.....

even

this is it.
the deep breath before the plunge.
the top of the roller coaster.
the slowest section before the rush.
last-minute shopping isn't even an option, duders.
there is only this moment,
and we're here,
in old lyme, connecticut,
making the minutes matter a mite more.
widow's mite-type gift giving, an' that.
c'mon.
what's poppin'?
a leisurely morning at my in-laws,
with my darling daughters and lovely wifey.
big fun, and bathrobes,
are what's happening.
really.
the whirling winds of change,
and war,
are blowing outside,
and the chill from all of that makes the indoors
and the family times seem warmer by comparison.
the weather outside is frightful,
but inside, son,
it's SO delightful.
inside the car, i mean.
that;s about all i've even seen of the down here-ness.
driving across the state.
over and over and over.
how much of connecticut is there to see?
too much,
and for a small state (#3 on the smallness scale)
there sure are a sh!t-ton of roads to travel on.
riding.
not sledding,
not dashing through the snow.
driving.
here, there, and everywhere.
the creatures, neighbors, are stirring.
restlessly.
myself included.
less rest, and more of this.
all of it, even.
on est ensemble.
we are together.
there may be time for more documentation.
but only if the mutha-flippin' road gets shorter.
XI-mas.
all the way.
soldierly sojourns to the 'sauce.
happy times to you, and yours,
from the warrior poets of the woodsly goodness-
jingling;
ever silent, ever night.....

eve of the eve's eve...

eve of the eve's eve.
i said it.
the first eve is what i'm talkin' on, son.
like, as in, the first eve.
the temptress. or the tempted.
depending on who you ask.
i'm inclined to believe the former.
b!tches always get craaaazy
when a snake-length duder
is whispering sweet nothings at 'em.
real talk.
what i'm sayin' is-
i've got tempted temptresses over here.
and they're tempting me to bring the
werewolf to bear on the nutmeg nancypants.
we got vegan bake 'em-ups at the edge of the 'hood.
connecticut folks will know what i'm talking about.
i can't say it's anywhere near any woods that i've ever heard of,
and that makes my name for it much more accurate, ninjas.
but they've got a righteous kosher bakery
with molto meat and meat by-product free goodness.
they may not celebrate XI-mas,
but they can sure whip up a scone.
that makes vegan cake, cookies, and turnovers,
all somersaulting and turning over in my bellyhole.
sugar rush and rush and attack.
so good, i may even put on a yarmulke.
okay, probably not. ever.
but,
i will keep eating until i leave connecticut.
winter shark, winter gluttony, duders.
in a little minute,
we're headed BACK to cheshire,
this time armed with emeergenecy vegan vanilla cakee,
to compound the assault when wee collect the kids
and tune up another 'enother batch of emergency tofutti.
yum 4 tum, neighbors.
***********
house of chao.
that's the spot, kids.
if you're able to get some, you need some.
seriously.
and despite the 'almost-got-too-loud'
real life warrior berserker fury that
they almost brought on their own heads-
limiting the numbere of dumpling orders we could get!
for serious.
i've been going there for 20 flippin' years,
and duders are trying to infringe on my consumption?
c'mon.
what do i look like?
some kind of waterbaby resident?
no way.
the real-life woodsly snakecharms got brought out.
we got our increased dump count.
birthday rules were invoked, an' that.
(just not as many as we'd have liked.)
ironically,
that spot was exactly where i ate,
nine years prior,
right before we hit up the hospital to get
a specially delivered little maple star in the first place!
cycles,
circles,
spirits,
and memories.
it's happening.
even in the weak sauce of westville.
pepe's is next, ninjas.
infamous pizzeria napoletana
my pie count is dangerously low.
treats rectification, underway;
never quiet, never soft.....

rock maple.

it's here, my ninjas.
the holiday harbinger.
fully mooned full moon,
and supersaturated satellite in the sky.
sleep is not on the menu...
..but a big, busted, budget-A* ride
to the world's worst weak-sauce waterbaby realm is.
connecticut.
it's what's happening.
what a way to F* up a perfectly good holiday season, son.
connecticut.
bad drivers, on worse roads.
connecticut.
a doo-doo buttery, urban, affluent-ghetto,
odious, malodorous, overpopulated penitentiary state.
it's cool, duders.
i'm on a mission of mercy.
uh-huh.
i've got peoples on the inside,
and i'm headed down to bring the word, neighbors.
Folk Life can't be conquered by something as
superfluous and suckie as connecticut.
real talk.
the liberated sovereign soil of the woodsly goodness'
travelling embassy and troubador/envoy mission
of savage stormswept berserker barbarian battle-beastliness
is set up to juggernaut it's way over, and/or through the
nancypantsed diaperbabyishness of the 'down there' sh!t.
and my peoples need some of that in their lives.
and speaking of lives:
one little lovely life marks nine years today!
yep.
despite the dolorous nature of the location,
the stuff IN connecticut has some good points.
like maple star.
yep.
happy berfday to my littler little one.
we're picking 'em up,
and partying hard.
...will there be cake?
good question.
i'll get back to you on that one.
in the mean time.
the heat is on,
the fire is dwindling,
and i've got a baby girl who is grown up a little tiny bit more.
as of today.
celebrating in the 'sauce.
it's all really happening.
get ready southern new england,
the woods is comin',
and we're fueled by moon-cheese.
(it's soy-based)
that's the word;
never quiet, never soft......

'guinis.

fake meat.
that term is F*'d up.
soy slices?
still gay.
let's just say that the greyish beige slabs of sliced sexy
taste pretty G-darned good, neighbors.
honestly,
i'll eat almost anything, if it's vegan.
no joke.
but,
this little somethin' somethin' was off the hook, son!
(teleport)

grilled 'butter'y bread,
not-mayo vegenaise,
and meatless gravy.
basically,
if it weren't for the bread being real bread,
this is really just a pretend sandwich.
manufactured in my kitchen,
with a double-dose of 'garious itis,
by my 'hood-to-death wifey.
we got them jauns on lock, kids.
word.
sandwich week.
still in effect.
wordimus prime;
never quiet, never soft.....

solstice.

happy winter.
yep.
happy cold, dark, dismal, bleak, barren winter.
today is the day.
the one and only one of these this year.
the very first day of winter.
like a loco, solo lobo,
a wolf howlin' and baying some sort of forlorn song,
it's the heralding y'all should hearken to.
the first official day of winter.
it snowed last night and everything.
...big fun.
now,
with the seasonal axis shifting,
and the gravitational ley lines of
spirit and memory making major moves,
there has been a molto serious disturbance in the force.
for real,
haven't YOU been having totally F*d up dreams?
c'mon.
it can't just be me and my nearby duders,
unless i'm the epicenter of some serious F*'d-uppery.
possible,
but not probable.
so,
you have been having the crazy night omens, yeah?
premonitions, and superstitions,
and that kind of vision-quest-type sh!t.
word.
and just so we don't forget our wild warrior poetic,
pictish, druidic, shaman roots;
let's just talk about another 'nother other possible why:
have you noticed the moon?
the full mutha-flippin' enormous blue-light specialist
hovering above the drastic quadratic seasonal transformation?
whaaaaaaaaat?
FULL MOON BERSERKER FURY, SON!!!!
like a siberian timber winter arctic wolfman.
lycanthropic lunacy at it's most absolute.
savage snowblown stormswept gypsy curse action.
it's all really happening.
full lunar eclipse, too.
holy smoke rings, kids.
the planetary aspects of secret universal stratagem
are all aligned to malign my mental well-being.
what. the. F*. neighbors.
it's ON.
eclipsed sunshadow earth-darkener?
that's so dope.
bright, bright, bright,
all the way to pitch black,
back to bright.
and all in the middle of the night.
a brief period of sanity squished in-between the crazy moon times.
sandwich week happens in many ways, kids.
that's how we doo-doo the woodsly goodness.
miles to go, an' that,
and days, too,
before i sleep.
connecticut is looming on the horizon,
and XI-mas,
and winter is here.
NOW is the winter of my mutha-uckin' discontent.
happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

open-faced.

gravy-basted, baked tofurky sandwiches.

belly-bursting 'splosions of delish, duders.
...that's how it happens.
sandwich week knows no limits, my ninjas.
slices of seitanic sexiness smothered in a
landslide of brown blops!
and just how much gravy is too much gravy?
c'mon, now.
is eleven too loud, fresh, or hard for your A*s?
it's obviously a trick question.
the whole object is more.
in fact, my second sandwich was even flippin' bigger
than that one up there.
moderation is for suckers.
and weak waterbaby wankers.
but not us.
that's a fact.
(expert)
***********
did you watch collapse yet?
my homeboy ro-ro put me onto that jauns.
the end of the world, as we know it?
and i feel fine;
but only because i'm reppin' anti-city shittiness
and have got an army's worth of ordinance, neighbors.
put it on your instant netflix queue, or whatever,
and then try and tell me that having all these guns
isn't rad.
and then i'll tell you that you're probably an A*hole.
real talk.
***********
tomorrow is winter.
remember that.
the first day, son.
that's some sh!t.
and the next day?
maple star has a berfday.
9 years old.
my little baby girl is kinda big,
and kinda strong,
and all that kind of not a baby stuff.
winter.
birthdays.
crapricorn.
(i know i said crap-ricorn, you try being half goat/fish)
cusps, duders;
never quiet, never soft.....

pre-emptive XI-mas.

treats!
that's the hand knit hottness, ninjas.
i got them jauns.
or, more accurately, WE got them jauns.
courtesy of jim and casey,
we've got the super-turbo fresh real life woolens,
and faux-woolens for the wifey.
and what? teleport!

fluff'n'stuff, son!
that's a color-coordinated folk life pillow,
on the ri'll-o.
recognizant cognizance, neighbors.
word to the berryish 'gariousness:

berry bowl!
my fruity bumps aren't about to get beat the F* up.
they're all about stayin' fresh to death.
hand-thrown, an' that.
stone where?
stoneware.
everywhere!
word up.
we're a couple of lucky ducklings, duders.
thanks for my friends.
thanks tro my friends.
worthy warrior poets,
and worthwile weekends with my peoples.
uh-huh.
***********
and just so you don't think we're sleepin' on sandwich week:
boo-ya!

that's a double doo-doo buttery leftovers sandwich, suckas.
my cucchie keeps it molto real is all i'm sayin'.
you know it,
you like it,
but we love it,
and we live it.
real life.
happening.
sunday night.
uno.
out;
never quiet, never soft.....

sat around turd day...

the oxford house.
that's the big, tasty, super-sexy, 5-star hottness.
the spot where we all went to snack up a little bit
and celebrate another 'nother year of sticking it to
the skin-laggers, d-baggers, sad-sacker slackers, and hangers-on.
the classy, splashy, fancy-fine fresh feasthall for the festival, an' that.
3 hours, neighbors.
that's the course by course casualty of a crucial exceptional meal.
yep.
the catch that always comes along with casual fine dining?
long waits.
it's all in the timing, kids.
but,
even though i can appreciate the pace of an excellent meal,
i'm a shark-gluttonous food inhaler.
a berserker barbarian battle-beast.
a wild F*n' animal.
and moreover,
i already hang out with my duders from around here
all flippin' day already.
all night, too?
c'mon.
the miso was totally worth it.
the sesame salad dressing?
holy sh!tballs, son!
that meal was off the hinges,
the co-workers were well-behaved,
and the tab was copped by the big boss lady.
wordimus prime, folks.
the best tasting meal is a free one.
fact.
and this one was one for the recordbooks.
i even had dessert- in the form of mint verbeena tea,
and a homemade blackberry sorbet.
schmancy fancypants sweets?!
put them in my facehole.
it's the kind of night that makes the scenic holiday hottness
seem all the more real.
just the way it's all really happening.
twinkling stars,
and icicle lights;
never quiet, never soft.....

XI-mas party time.

it's time for the annual XI-mas party
here at the white mountain tattoo studio.
mandatory holiday togetherness,
terse, tense, tangibly taught, and fraught with
heaps, mounds, piles, and wads of
forced conversations in strange new situations.
where are we going?
it's a secret.
i'm serious.
what's better than a razor's edge ragnarok of holiday cheer?
a pre-planned semi-surprise party.
yep.
we know it's happening.
it all always really is.
we just don't know where.
at all.
and to be honest,
the suspense is killing me.
almost literally.
what else do i even have to think about?
i mean,
i'm right here,
at work,
in the cold,
with no zippity-zaps to wrench on,
and waiting,
like a patient patient.....
all i'm gonna tell you duders is:
this restaurant, even if it's 5 mutha-uckin' stars,
had better have some sunovab!tchin' sandwiches.
it's that week.
it's friday, too.
real life, real talk.
the last weekend before XI-mas,
waiting for food;
never quiet, never soft.....

late dinner?

what is the date?
not the numeric calendar numbers,
or any of that doo doo.
i mean, like,
what time is it neighbors?
besides awesome o'clock, that is.....
it's sandwich week, duders.
a whole week.
of sandwiches.
in my bellyhole.
and for our mutha-lickin' faces.
word.

tempeh with maple soy marinade?
you'd better believe it.
on toasted oat nut bread, kids.
and a side of baby cabbage fart bombs...
you'd know 'em as brussels sprouts,
but their alternate name seems more fitting,
since the soy-based bombardment of my insides,
is sure to be fast approaching the outside.
ka-splode, ninjas.
late nights,
good times.
quick and easy;
never quiet, never soft.....

...and you're gonna be in trouble...

hey la, day la,
my boyfriend's back.
that's right mutha-uckas,
my numero uno ace homeboy
is here in the bitter cold,
sweetening and heat-ening up the whole situation.
one more good thing, sucka-ninjas.
and it's all really happening.
fresh from the northwest coast;
canada, in fact,
and now comin' atcha live and direct,
home, which is to say, here, for the holiday season-
XI-mas is on the schedule in a big big way.
you know it,
you like it,
you have to have some idea about what's up:

the cucch is back!
check that pinkie-stinkie hippie out, buddy.
how can it get any better?
well,
that's an easy one.
since we're over on this side of bringing back the hits-
it's not just pre-XI hottness,
it's also another 'nother other old-time favorite:
by popular demand,
fresh from the ovens and kitchens,
for your faces,
between two slices of grainy goodness:
SANDWICH WEEK.
F* yes it is.
who's winning?
we're winning.
flawless victory.
teleport need checking?
no worries, i GOT you;
word:

tofu magic bloppity glops, duders.
sauteed 'shrooms, onions, red sweet sugary peps,
red sauce (never weak sauce) and cubes of 'fu.
and if that doesn't sound good,
then f.u.
on the reals.
***********
neighbors,
it's cold.
stupid cold.
but,
the warmth is wafting from the stove,
and the stove.
all burners are burning,
all fires are blazing.
home is where the heart is,
and that's here with my peoples,
and my big, sexy, frigid, old house.
Folk Life & Liberty,
with libertarian life-livers and woodsly warrior poets.
this is the time i have been given,
and despite the dark outside,
it's bright bright bright right here and now...
(only without a lame chorus of ungendered choirboy-girls to ruin it)
everything good.
at the same time;
never quiet, never soft.....

O, holy sh!t, i mean, night...

hey there, duders.
greetings,
from the blisteringly frostbitten arctic chillbox
of the great white mountainous woodsly goodness.
we're here,
in the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress,
nestled like snuggly bugs by the big burning box of logs.
wood stove sexiness,
and XI-mas light-time magic are in full effect.
and it is good.
that's right.
i'm talking about good things.
all of 'em.
treats, eats, presents, and all the holiday hottness
that i usually lord over all of y'all.
it's all really happening,
finally;
in a last minute launching of a superlative spearhead attack
on the dolorous doldrums of weak sauce sorcery
that have attempted to thwart and confound and
in most other ways obfusticate my usually over-the-top,
all-the-way-to-eleven, berserker barbarian brouhaha hooliganism
with color-coordinated metallic-foil wrapping paper and ribbons.
duders,
the sound of sales slips being printed,
and the rustle of hustled and bustled bags of goodies,
and the crowds of crappy couples searching for that special something...
i'm into it.
hard.
me and the lovely little lady i call my wifey hit the hotspots in the brutal cold.
together.
on our day off.
like, all romantic and sh!t.
the double-checked list of not-so-naughty ninjas?
completed.
expert.
the boughs and the bows and the bushels of burly boxes?
trimmed and trued and totally flippin' excellent.
it's XI-mas, kids.
i don't know about you,
but an X-mas still doesn't seem loud, hard, or fresh enough
for the worthy warrior poetry of real life.
fact.
cheer, neighbors.
it has arrived,
in defiance of the deprivation of vitamin d that
the sunless realm of northern lightlessness tried to
front on my facehole with.
real mutha-uckin' talk.
suckle, b!tchbag grinches,
albie rock is ON it-
recognize;
never quiet, never soft.....

11:26

dang.
the day is done.
and what is there at the end of the road?
sleep.
sweet oblivion.
dear red spikes,
you've got subtle competition,
and it's winning.
believe it.
the ins and outs of zippity-zapping
were taken to new heights,
as white mountain tattoo
filmed it's own commercial today.
uh-huh.
that's real.
it happened,
and now,
instead of the usual explanatory musings,
it's time to shut some eyes,
and worry not at all...
until manana;
never quiet, never soft.....

wonderful wonderland.

let it snow.
let it snow.
let it snow.
except,
i've got somewhere to go,
and the flakes are falling fast and flurrious.
abominable blizzard wizard sauce-sorcery
is not going to help me get there, either.
real talk.
mountains make for treacherous driving
in the whiteout wonderment of bewildering blown bits of ice.
no two are exactly alike, an' that.
unlike the identical idiots who keep coming into the studio
just to F* up my afternoons.
different flat-brimmed hat, same exact lack of awesome.
i'm sayin',
since when do mediocre mendicants all look like clone troopers,
sans new zealand kiwi looks, accents, and muscles, and white armor.
basically,
why do all these oversized sweatshirt awesomizers
feel the need to come and hang out over here?
all up in the woodsly goodness, son.
like a sh!t-salad suckstain on the white mountains.
just like a mouse-turd in the rice.
it's not the 'hoodsly doo-doo-butterchurn, after all.
i'll take their movie checks, duders, don't worry...
it's my soul, or the semi-solid spiritous semblance thereof
that i worry and wonder about;
how much craptacular crunk crap can i administer,
before i'm guilty of perpetuating the preposterous,
preponderous, presence of these poop sprinkles?
if you arm your attackers,
don't be surprised when they storm the gates, yeah?
yeah.
dang.
that's a hard style, for certain.
at least the iceslide slalom we call a driveway at the studio
will keep some of the scritchers and creatures inside their trailers,
and away from my domain of calm.
a likely story.
the barbarian blanket of arctic comfort can't compete
with a blotted, blighted batch of b!tchbags.
my domain of calm still has to be navigated downhill later on.
there goes that tranquil focus, and i haven't even started my car yet.
no such luck, suckas.
especially not if i'm swerving, sliding, skidding,
and screeching my way to work.
all-wheel drive is a plus,
but the radio wavelength's sunday morning npr serenade
may force me into a diaper-baby pantload of uppity feel-goodery,
and then,
i may feel the inappropriate need to be 'culturally sensitive'.
heaven forbid such a thing, kids;
understanding is not one of the services i provide.
especially not to geographically-confused A*tards.
you kow the rules:
just be dope,
or F* right off.
the end.
urbanish woodboogers?
uh-uh.
i can't, and won't, hang out with that type of cakeholery.
i will, however, risk life and limb and liberty
to take their flippin' money.
dollar, dollar, bill, y'all;
never quiet, never soft.....

eleven. twelve.

F* this.
non-stop rockin' is mandatory,
as far as saturday nights,
and their feverish frenzies are concerned-
and yet,
there's a hurky-jerkiness,
a dischordant disconnect,
a speed-bump,
a disturbance in the force, even,
between gettin' over and going under.
that's what's up.
it's cold, it's dark, and the whole of the woodsly goodness
is chock full of fantasy XI-mas gift-grabbers.
ugh,
so many moms in so many s.u.v's,
and their disinterested doo-doo buttery duders.
that's a clogged causeway of mountainous meat-tards.
...in the mountains, at that.
heck yes.
it's nights like tonight that keep the turd in saturday.
c'mon.
it's congested outside,
and we're congested inside.
that's winter in new england in vacation paradise.
word up.
oh,
and i'm pretty sure i have a latex allergy.
no,
stop it.
on my hands, neighbors.
that, or smallpox.
on. my. hands, i said.
clap clap clap, son.
with my hands.
alright, that'll do;
never quiet, never soft.....

suckle.

duders,
how is it possible?
nothing is going on.
usually,
you know the drill:
it's ALL really happening, an' that.
except it's not.
at all.
how about double blow-off at work today?
yep.
that's back-to-back busted beatdown doo-doo butter,
for MY face.
ouch.
and did i leave my other 'nother work,
as in, the jauns i could've utilized
like apt time-allotted hottness,
all alone at home?
of course i did,
i mean, i had appointments after all.....
until i didn't.
life is chugging it.
suckle.
suckle.
suckle.
big bj blowies with sharklike dentures,
passed out with aggression by the whole wide world, ninjas.
chompa-chomp, neighbors.
that's the hardest pre-XI-mas style i know of.
it's what is.
***********
competent communications, son.
that's what i'm workin' on.
how to talk dirty and influence people.
how to talk that real jauns,
and get away with it.
how to talk myself into that p.m.a.,
and out of the swamp, suckas.
i write what's going on.
i write wrongs.
i write about really realness,
as it exists in the here and the now,
ugly as sin and twice as sh!tty,
in the cold, dark, desolate doo-doo
of a sluggish slate of weak weeks
in the woodsly goodness.
this is what is.
hard pounding with a no-no noel stick.
a yule log shoved straight up and sideways.
holy nights, and holy sh!t.
this isn't write,
this is what is;
never quiet, never soft.....

joking?

am i kidding myself?
i wonder.
somebody is kidding me at any rate.
who's coming up to get tattooed?
anybody?
it'd be nice to hang out with some money-makin'
rump-shakin' hot lava loot-lenders and what-all.
i'm sayin'.
sitting around at an uncomfortable spot,
for free,
with a pile of people who don't really like me much,
until it's even darker and colder than usual?
that's for sh!t, neighbors.
the goal for today was a new firewood tote.
mission accomplished.
this new jammer is bigger, burlier, triple-seam-stitched,
and supposedly the lumberjackin' log-length lugger.
we'll see.
as i snapped the straps off of my last one,
the bar is not exceptionally high.
of course,
the thermocoupler magic eco-fan on our stove
crapped the bed this a.m. as well.
yep.
the circulating circle on my woodsly hotbox
wore itself out.
lameness.
it had a year warranty, too.
huh?
c'mon, you already know it-
the year was up a week ago.
right up the doodiehole, duders.
that's where life has it's hands.
both of 'em.
thumbs and all.
it's dark, ninjas.
inside, outside, and all around.
lights out, mutha-uckas;
never quiet, never soft.....

days and days and days.

going, going, going away.
life is happening,
and i think i may be missing out.
i mean,
i'm on the grind, and there is no grist in the mill-
nor any grain, for that matter.
just the squealing twisted-metal muzak of an
empty set of axles coming unhinged.
where the holy motherF* did this year go?
i mean, december's in full swing,
the holiday craziness is unfurling it's tentacles all around me,
and it's already wednesday night.
that means it's the end of my weekend,
and tomorrow is another 'nother day of preposterous, ponderous,
dratted-and-bebothered jobsitting with no hope of parole....
two days of 'free time',
and as usual,
not one single thing of purpose or import got accomplished.
i mean,
sure,
we finalized the plans to make your favorite woodsly warrior poet
a pump-action master of marketing and manufacturing of munitions.
...that's correct.
me and my duders from the deep woods of the north
are ON the mutha-ucka, son!
making weapons of bullet-launching, lead-dispensing,
high-end, top-quality craftsmanship and accuracy.
making. machine. guns. b!tches.
i cannot stress the eleventh level of supreme hottness involved.
but seriously,
my partners and i are producing an incomparable piece of engineering,
assembled and available,
for your pleasure and protection.
i'll tell y'all more when the big reveal is ready.
but know this, ninjas-
they won't be cheap.
so bring your i.d. and some worthwhile money,
and we'll get you sorted proper, yeah?
yeah.
and for the record,
i know guns are oh-so-scary to some of you.
but that's only because you don't understand the level
of turbo-awesomeness inherent in a big hunk of death metal.
c'mon.
we're makin' some sexy blasterizers, duders.
unless you're joking about being dope,
you NEED one.
of each.
woooord.
*
other than that little bit of big action,
it's been the scurrying and scampering of a glittery,
sparkle-magical sugarplum fairyland over here.
buying treats, and writing lists.
santa must have some excellent auditing skills, son,
because i have had to check my jammie-jams
much more frequently than just twice.
the reward i've gifted myself with,
on both days of this reprieve from work?
indian food.
uh-huh.
in between bullets and billets of wrappings an' stuff,
i've doubled-up, and digestively devastated two heroic helpings
of brownish blops and greenish glops.
that's the flippin' truth, neighbors.
spices and sauces and thunder in the workings.
indian food is what i needed,
to fill the void where satisfaction in holiday times should be.
instead, i've got lentil lava melting me a new A*-hole.
ho. ho. ho.
now that's what's really happening.
aloo, neighbors.
taters all up in it to win it,
with little mutters muttering in my midsection.
that's peas, if you please.
the bringing of the thunder has commenced in duplicate.
triplicate if you're counting the guns, b!tches;
never quiet, never soft.....

infamy.

today is the day.
i'm not sure divine wind is the most flattering term,
but my progenitor,
the guru of supreme intelligence,
kamikaze'd his way into the poop-deck of existence,
on this date,
about a billion years ago.
yep.
it's my dad's big berfday.
and very glad we are for all of that.
the planes that sunk the ships were called zeroes,
and my pops is anything but.
unless you mean he's round.
then, you're kind of right.
decade after decade after decade, and so on,
he's been around,
doing really real sh!t.
if ever active participation needed defining,
his picture would most surely be included.
when we talk about berserker barbarian battle-beasts,
i, for one, always picture my ol' man.
that's no joke.
loud. fast. and hard.
a burly, surly, unruly ragnarok of parental thunder.
that's my duder, ninjas.
and happy berfday to 'im.
word up.
it's pearl harbor day,
and that's the big action.
a day that will live in infamy an' that.
and the most efficacious infamy belongs to the
garrulous, 'garious guru i call dad.
take that, hawaii.
yeah!
so if you know him,
the y'all'd best call him, mutha-uckas.
***********
tuesday is our day off here in the woodsly hottness, yeah?
well,
it's a flippin' freezin' snowshower of
lackluster lake-effect sh!t-salad sandwiches, kids.
when does weather always arrive?
whenever i need it not to.
real talk, neighbors.
if i'm at work,
it's a bright and beautiful, bountiful and baskable day,
but the absolute instant that i'm ready for goodsly fun,
there's perspicacious precipitation condensing on my parade.
i'm sayin',
it's like it knows, ninjas.
hard styles and soft flakes.
it's all really happening-
at least the sheer volume of candles on my man's cake
will throw enough heat to warm it up properly;
never quiet, never soft.....

snowblown and wind strewn

more of this,
and more's the pity.
spinning my wheels,
and grinding my gears,
and all the while my greyscale cauliflower
is working overtime on big thoughts and bigger plans.
the best laid of which are destined to come undone.
that's just the way it is,
and it's the only way to go.
i tried, duders.
really.
best efforts and good intentions and all of that.
and i failed.
hard.
or at least i am failing hard.
if i don't blow off a big sweaty pile of loot on XI-mas,
then there's no way i'll ever be able to enjoy it.
really.
i'm shallow, callow, callous, and capitalistic to the extreme.
uh-huh.
big talk from a broke, broken, ugly sasquatch, huh?
it's all true,
and true stories told truly is how i relay the really real-life
workings of the woodsly goodness.
i'm sayin',
all that cookies and smiles sh!t can suckle the sauce, son.
i've gotta get my sweet-honey-baby some
show-stopping, jaw-dropping, fall-over-backwards treats.
or, if that isn't possible,
a brutal buffeting of boxes and bags full of average treats.
if 'special' and 'heartfelt' can't be purchased,
then excess and opulence probably can.
sentiment can chug it, neighbors.
i'm a showboating grandstander, after all.
berserk. barbarian. beastly.
you know the routine by now.
the object is MORE.
'the gift of the magi' is great if you're poor or ugly or both,
but i'm a warrior poet with a blisteringly hot ol' lady-
that kind of one-upmanship demands a pile of presents an' that.
the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress has a humongous hearth,
and stockings are waiting for stuffing up there, y'heard?
the cinnamon-scented sappy sad-sack suckholery
about it's-the-thoughts-that-count crappiness of
any and all non-material holiday spirits
are just not invited to my make-out party.
mistletoe hangs far away from that mantel, ninjas.
***********
gravy and french fries for dinner?
fatness.
i need a greasy globule of tuberosity, neighbors.
right in my mouth.
(that's what she said)
and i've got it.
oven-baked steak-style potato hunks,
and vegan brown blops?
F* that uppity vegan pomposity,
i'm gettin' down and dirty, y'heard me?
fattie fat fat, kids.
starched and pressed and blown the F* out.
talkin' noise;
never quiet, never soft.....

rumplestiltskin.

say my name, say my name.
and if you guess the really real one,
i'll grab my beard and my boots and rip myself in half.
gangster.
i'm not exactly spinning straw into gold,
and i definitely don't want a baby in trade,
but i do feel like i'm creeping up on a doo-doo buttery
batch of dirty deeds and late night skullduggery.
yeah.
i said it:
skullduggery.
i may mean skull-crushing drudgery,
but either way,
in this instance of folktale fairy business,
i get to be the bad guy.
okay, in most instances i get to be the bad guy.
something about disproportionately long arms,
giant hands,
and enormous teeth.
that sh!t is scary.
personally,
i think it's the hazel eyes and beard.
it's an incongruity, son.
bright and shiny orbs of introspection,
and a scraggly unabomber face-pube chin-'fro.
sensitive villainy, or summat.
then again,
ol' mr. grumples rumplestilts was super short...
so at least i'm above average in terms
of my dwarven creature size.
i'm either a huge fairy,
or a tiny giant.
i'll let ya'll throw the obvious snideness at me at your leisure.
whatever.
bad guy politics are in play.
it's XI-mastime,
and the fattie stacks of loot are dieting i guess;
what used to be bloated is looking mad slim, ninjas.
and that means my movie-checks need the
name-game flax stack attacking,
or it won't be close to the eleven days of dopeness.
more like the fleeting glimpse of gayness.
with way more tissue paper to take up space inside empty boxes.
metallic foil wrapping paper notwithstanding.
word.
it's sunday,
i'm easy, just like it,
lovage is on the hi-fi,
the sun is out,
the sky is blue,
and before the evening gets here,
it'll all be buried in a blizzard.
fleeting flecks of fresh;
never quiet, never soft.....

the greater part of valor is discretion,

but the brunt of berserker barbarism is better-
a complete disregard for consequences, ninjas.
real talk.
when my dudes roll up from the deep and dirty south,
all cowboy or whatever,
to get zippity-za-za'd by the warrior poet powerpoint puncture,
they don't come soft with it.
loud.
fresh.
hard.
for your face,
or at least your neck, kid.
whaaaaaaaaaaat?
teleport:

wordimus prime.
that's what happens.
we finished a great big crow, too,
but my blurry photos aren't quite rockin' it.
here's an almost focused one for your A*s:

ca-ca-caw!
crows and scarers of crows.
that's Folk Life to-go type sh!t.
take that back to the lone star, son.
you duders get pictures today,
and less words.
we both win;
never quiet, never soft.....

big crazy furious friday.

hey, Hey, HEY!!!
guess who drove across state lines,
to portland, maine, to pick up his client yesterday?
yep.
that's warrior poetry livery service-type jauns.
i mean,
it was either THAT or wait until today to get started,
after budget-A* busted bus route rides an' that.
and that wasn't even the last of it....
i made a few stops while in the seaside city sh!ttiness-
trader joe's for tea,
and whole foods for some sodas,
and even a little art supply store action for pens and markers.
wordimus, son,
en route back to the woodsly goodness,
i tuned-up a pound of red,
twisty, autralian strawberry twists and that kind of  tasty thing.
but once it was get-busy business time,
guess who doubled-down on the tatty-blasting thunder?
uh-huh.
yesterday we zapped it up,
and early shirley this morning we zapped it up again.
two tattoos, my ninjas.
the brutal burly barbarian battle-beastly bruising.
homeboy took eleven thumps, an' that.
real talk.
rushin' and attackin',
and a whole lot of timeless time-taking.
and a scaredy-crow-man on my duder's neck.
his NECK.
jobstopper central, kids.
***********
and just what have i been doing since work got over with?
digging in the dark,
in knee deep water,
on a hill,
in the woods,
covered in mud.
oh, yeah.
rainwater mud-flooding,
and bog-like conditions bode poorly
for vehicles unprepared for the rigors of deep woodsly goodness.
that's when my out-of-state friends call up the warriors.
unfortunately,
shovels, logs, dirt, chains, rope, and molto back-breaking
bent-over trenches, dam, culverts, and diverts
couldn't be counted on to remove the swamp.
on a hill.
contrary to the laws of nature, and physics,
a waterwall waterfall swallowed a whole car.
friday night, and now it's snowing.
that's word.
and the car is still buried in the doo-doo butter.
awwwwwwww, man.
i'll say this though:
i will sleep the sleep of the dead tonight.
i'm spent, like empty bullet casings, son.
my boots are sopping,
my pants were green when i got there,
and brown when i got out.
the chain snapped,
the axles bent,
and another 'nother adventure wrapped up.
i'm on that sleep-type jauns, son.
night-time frightenings,
and slogging bog monsters wear me out...
and i'm out;
never quiet, never soft.....

dece deuce.

december.
day two.
y'know how, before july and august,
the calendar had ten months?
dec-ember, duders, that's that boom fire, son!
like deca, like 10?
yeah.
even that old math is overly generous.
the big 12, more than eleven, formerly 10,
and so far about a 4.
that's not half bad.....it's worse.
and it's only the second, ninjas.
the hot deuce.
it's thor's day,
and i'm anticipating some thunder, kids.
vido, a client of mine from faraway dallas,
is supposed to be here.
that's the big business, neighbors.
woodsly pre-holiday hot fire in the goodness.
but,
as usual,
philly F*ed up everything.
one hot mess of worst airportiness,
and he's in portland, maine, instead.
a whole day late, and molto dollars short.
(both of us are)
which means i have today off, sort of.
at some point,
he'll probably show up.
i mean, portland is nice an' that,
but i wouldn't cross half the contry ona diagonal axis,
and then skip out on the tatty-scrappin', would you?
right.
and when he shows up all tired, frustrated, bedraggled,
and travel-worn?
then the hell-hammer of throatly fury
will be unleashed on his flippin' neck.
we've got a crow on his leg to blast up, too.
that's a lot of vacation vengeance.
but, it's also just how i get busy......
word.
***********
speaking of less-than-ten, ninjas,
chanukkah starts tonight.
nine nights of chocolate coins and celery soda.
booooooooooo.
i'm not sayin', i'm just sayin':
a holiday where candelabras are the hot symbol??
that's that phantom of the opera holiday jauns.
and we already know that musicals are what?
yep.
turbo-gay.
uh-uh.
boo-ya!
or should i say: boo-yarmulke!!
c'mon.
not that i won't get dizzy spinnin' any dreidels, son.
i'm just speakin' on the reals,
for all my fresh'n'tasty matzo-munching,
flat-cracka mazel tovers out there,
i hope you rock the challah-days as hard as ever,
or whatever.
man, oh maneshevitz!
and, yo-
i'm never ever sayin' we should all keep the christ in christmas,
because that sh!t is uber-weak sauce-
i'm sayin' we should keep the terminator x in x-mas.
fight the power.
whaaaaaat?!
never quiet, never soft.....

rabbit-rabbit...

r.a.b.b.i.t. x2.
rabbit rabbit...
...and it's december.
already.
from directly out of the middle of nowhere,
the end times of 2010 are upon us.
the last throes, hurrahs, and ya-yas of the dwindling year.
every first, like that welfare, y'heard?
i said it,
i meant it,
and i might even pull a pair of freshly flensed flemish giants,
out of a flippin' hat before the sun sets, ninjas.
(it still sets, even though it won't show it's face today)
rabbity rabbits a' that,
for the future.
say it first, and harvest all that good-type luck all month.
i'll need it.
our happy hearth and home is hooked up for the holidays,
and the pine scented sexiness is in the air, duders.
it's emanating from some soy-wax candles,
and not the sap-slapping stump of a severed spruce.
...because our tree is molto faux.
*gasp*
that's right,
in the middle of the woodsly goodness,
surrounded on four sides by hefty hemlocks,
we've got a polymer pine poppin' off, kids-
no matter how many years go by,
that jammie stays green as F*.
plus,
the A*-lords working on the waterlines
have cut down more than enough trees for my liking.
plus,
with the hundreds of plants already living in the living room,
it seemed sadistic to parade around a dying relative for a month.
you like it:

but on the real ones, neighbors,
with the dusting of snow behind it,
in the wet and weak and windy wintry woods,
the bright light inside the big burly bay windows,
and the old-timey bow on top,
we've got the Folk Life festive feelings flowing
all of a sudden and with extreme force.
***********
there may be block printing in the forecast, today.
i've got some berserker barbaraian battle-beast imagery
that needs carving up and inking.
XI-mas jauns for your holiday faces, friends.
happy december.
and whether or not you're happy,
it's still december.
time marches,
time crawls,
and in between the paces,
in these places,
we span it,
together;
never quiet, never soft.....