Saturday, December 31

adios once.

once is eleven in spanish-talk.
i like that.
it's all over with now,
isn't it?
it sure is.
my homie wayne had me zippity-zap up a
goodbye-and-farewell good riddance-style
last-minute afterwork tattbomb on his leg.
i took a crooked busted bent knee picture to prove it:
eleven, neighbors.
in the spirit and memory of present times
becoming bygone ones,
and with an effort of affected camaraderie,
adam inflicted another other 'nother one on me.
on my side-knee, even:

a dirty green melted hot mess, mutha-'uckas.
just like this sh!tpile of a year.
guess what?
it turns out i still hate getting tattooed.
but this is it-
we'll see you around, eleven.
it's time for the dirty dozen to activate it's
very own special brand of expert events.
we spent the evening until now with friends.
but now we're back at the bastions and battlements
of the fortress.
we're fortified, all the way live,
and ready to live free or die.
after all,
death is not the worst of evils.
T-minus one hour until the future.
impending, my ninjas;
never quiet, never soft.....

the last before the first.

hey duders.
this is it.
the last Tea 'N' Toast breakfast of the year.
i mean, sure,
we're having T'N'T breakfast tomorrow, too...
but that's a whole different dietary calendar situation,
i know you do.
everything today is the last thing.
until the the next thing.
next time, next year-
and that's the truth-
just sayin', mutha-uckers,
there's always one more thing.
but it's not getting activated until later,
and later is definitely not scheduled until tomorrow.
i'll wager i've probably got another 'nother blog in me
before the clock strikes twelve,
and twelve becomes one,
and eleven becomes twelve.
...oh, c'mon.
the final few terrible tattbombs of the year
are today's specials on the menu, too.
i'm closing out the old and beginning the new
with some molto-busted barbarian
body-etched 'buttery business.
meaningful cavemanliness, engraved with metal spikes
and infused with stormswept norse occult symbology.
i'm also getting EXPERT with a reissue of
the missing ol' manly man of the mountain magic.
hard styles and sh!tty soundtracks,
fancy coffee drinks and a lot of wiener jokes.
why should the last be any different from the first.
like those star trek next generation jauns, an' that.
a whole day of doo-doo butter and bad weather
and work and weak sauce snowstorm sorcery...
you should probably all already know how it ends-
i mean, nobody retires with the title belt, kids.
like it or not,
it's all really happening.
i'm fighting the good fight tonight,
against the grain of the masses of A*-holes
and tourists and opportunists
and inebraited amateur celebrants waiting for fireworks
and last-minute searches for first-minute kisses.
you know i can't hang out with that kind of sh!t-salad sap.
we've got friends and family togetherness to consider.
some things can't be resolved by remaining resolute.
only an adjustable auld lang syne-sized wrench can 
accurately loosen up the taught-twisted tension
of trying to participate amidst and amongst the rest of them.
long nights.
hard times.
new years.
it's ending.
2011, y'all.
over and out.
the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress is buttoned-up,
snug and roasty-toasty warm.
the pyre of passing years is being constructed.
the rabbity rabbitude of our
impending post-year-ending good luck
is caged behind clenched teeth,
ready to pass, parsed, through parched lips
like fluid fiery hottness,
determined and destined to bestow
the bountiful berserker blessings
down on all us worthy warrior poets.
professional professorship, y'all.
obvious, inaccessible, deductive wisdom.
spirits and memories of really-real woodsly goodness,
infused and activated with participation and pontification
and whole lot of loud fresh hardness.
we never look forward.
there's no need.
we're already living in the future;
never quiet, never soft..... 

Friday, December 30

beige food...

when the fortress gets cookin',
the fortress' inhabitants get cookin'too.
family kitchen activation,
from the past.
that's right.
never mind the future, neighbors-
it's a super-70's explosion,
across the universe,
for our tastebuds and your faces!!!
check the teleport:
we're on that new seitan recipe sh!t.
breaded, battered, braised, boiled, mashed, steamed.....
how many techniques is too many?
you'll know when it feels like the right amount.
and just to take the faux-butter-fried freshness
all the way to eleven and back again,
me and my little ladies ladled gravy
all over all of it.
we make dinner like dwarven winter tundra lords, duders...
you want an action shot?
proof and/or pudding, b!tches:
blurred vision is a sign of participation overload,
and/or young hands operating the camera.
the second to last night of 2011.
it's snowy,
it's harsh,
it's all really happening.
i'm resolving my impending resolutions,
performing my daily ablutions,
and getting nostalgic for my cyclic revolutions.
smoke ring dissipating and disappearing, kids.
i'm here in the woodsly goodness,
cooking and cuddling and making magic
out of each molten minute.
i'm grateful for this time,
even as the last grains run out of the glass;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, December 29


i'm not an author,
i just write a lot.
and i don't just write,
i get totally blogtarded.
like a documentarian of really realness
with no regard for content, contentment, or personal safety.
one thousand four hundred and forty-one posts.
dang neighbors,
that's a whole holy sh!t-ton of words
for your mutha-F*ing faces!!!
now imagine if i actually ever had something to say!
it's been a crazy day.
i had molto muchachos apparating and evaporating
from the past and the present directly to the future.
that's a thing.
my peoples from away have gone back again,
my clients from before were around today,
and i've even got some once-in-awhiles
slowly converting into all-the-times.
the natural order of the secret universal plan
slowly dissolves and resolidifies as it approaches
the end of the calendar year.
endings, beginnings, middles, denouemonts,
cliffhangers, and a unhealthy overdose of lex parsimoniae,
and you've got the year end clearinghouse
for everything old and busted.
that's right, my ninjas.
we've got to make room here,
at year's end,
for the new hottness of world's end.
2012 is creepy-crawling it's slowpoke seditiousness
all up on our ambient oblivion action.
it's not uplifting,
it's not lighthearted,
it's not very nice.
it's just What Is,
and that's what's really happening.
frostbitten, dour, sour, and bitter.
it's a hard-style lifestyle here in the woods.
for serious.
the wind kept us up,
creaking trees kept us wary,
and cyclone cycles of ghost-circle expansion
kept us ready for any and everything.
time is ticking,
grips are slipping,
and stakes are high.
real life is no joke;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, December 28

impromptu reunions.

dan and mike are here.
word up.
my ace ninja from back in the ol' days,
dan dealy,
active participant and full-time just-be-dopeist,
and his younger brother mike,
are repping a sleepover party in the woodsly goodness.
two more menfolk to balance out the power an' that.
six sucka-free souls holed up away from the biting winds
in the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
that makes for a full house, neighbors.
we're rockin' tattbombs, burritos, and woodstove warmth
on a cold, blustery, below-freezing evening.
taking solace from our interactive dialogues
in our so-fresh sanctuary well apart from
the jam-packed masses of massholes who're
taking up space, invading the area, and ruining the scene.
but those waterbabies aren't ruining our scene, y'all.
because we're doo-dooing that holiday season hottness.
and we're activating it together.
it's been awhile since i've had a chance to hang out with my homies.
i'm grateful for being able to do so tonight.
the wind is howling.
roaring, really.
loud, fresh, and hard,
a stormswept savage raging gypsy gusting gale,
in full regalia, regaling us with a tale of arctic tundra,
blistering blight, and wintry woe.
the answers are blowin' in on it,
the scent of change and the reek of war are wafting from it,
and it's all really happening as i type.
windsweeping warcries from the skies, kids.
listen to that whistling wail of nature's winning way;
never quiet, never soft..... 

Tuesday, December 27

real recognizes real.

hamden warriors never die,
they just move away.
but in the spirit of ultimate war and sh!t,
check out the mutha-lickin' teleport:
the ultimate warrior....SON!!!
the cucch keeps it real,
even in the oceanic tropical weak-sauce of hawaii,
he still knows how to show some love
to his bitter, cold, ice-hearted homies in new hampshire.
wordimus prime.
ultimate, my ninjas.
you know it.
did you look closely?
i know.
it's a two-fer, huh?
macho man undies and knee pad activation,
a la wrestlemania 7.
and for the record,
if you can't hang out with this kind of hottness,
you are definitely an A*-hole.
and that's a fact.
XI-mas treats that go to eleven.
just what we needed, neighbors,
at just the right time;
never quiet, never soft.....

ailing and failing and mailing.

man, oh man.
it's a seriously sh!tty tuesday in the mountains, y'all.
icy droplets of doo-doo butter dripping down,
sunless plummeting thermometer temps,
with a side-order of fever-hot foreheads,
and whole lot of F*ed up headcold ruination.
i'm infested with congestion-type jauns-
i've got a hurricane in my skull,
and a porcupine in my throat.
the good news is that i'm using the stormswept shed quills
to author new frontiers in fury and ferocious fire.
that's the truth.
acute connecticitis notwithstanding,
i'm always happier when times are tough,
nights are long,
and styles are hard.
i'm complaining for no good reason, yeah?
today is that day.
me and harvest and maple have been defying the
doom diagnosed to us via this dearth of welcoming weather,
and the absence of available awesome activities.
that's correct, yo.
we began the day with a tried-and-true ragnarok repast:
double-thick fluffy manly manhole covers, duders.
did we sneak a little maple cream in between the stacks?
you bet your sweet butt we did.
i mean, c'mon.
what am i?
an A*-hole?
take it easy,
maple cream is vegan, dummy.
now we're bringing the good back to baked goods.
you ninjas all know we get rad in the kitchen,
and when the going gets grimy,
the pans get greased and preheat gets brought to bear.
stand back and sniff, suckas.
smell that?
this kinder-rockgarten has been consistently activating
the epic expert experience of Folk Life culinary hottness.
we've got banana bread in there now,
and a chocolate coconut pie in the queue, too.
real life is happening.
drippy faucet faces, dirty skies,
and traffic-jammin out-of-towned-up massholes
can't put a stop to it, either.
they're trying though, and i'll give 'em points for the effort.
our nearly-never here neighbors next door
have got every light on in their whole entire house,
indoors and out.
nothing says woodsly goodness
quite like a billionteen lumens of light pollution
pointed directly at my driveway.
i think i'll light a candle near the foot,
and let it take care of my problem for me.
i got some treats from hawaii today, too.
word up.
check the teleport:
weirdie plant ornament bulb magic globe action.
who knew we needed it?
cucchie knew, that's who.
the december embers are dying out.
the stoked-up fuego of a new year
is waiting to light up our lives.
it's winter vacation.
it's Folk Life living.
and it's a snow day.
what-what, say-what, say-what?
anything can happen;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, December 26


you all already know that i get busy with
the eleventh-level EXPERT gift giving, right?
so check the teleport on this hottness:
hung by the chimney with care an' sh!t, suckas.
you know it.
even olive the dog got a ration of fresh treats.
what am i?
a monster?
stop it,
it's XI-mas, neighbors.
good will and cheer an' that,
even for big dumb dogs.
of course,
if four-legged disasters are getting my good will,
you'd better believe that my human companions
and coconspirators of cohabitated compatibility
are gonna reap the rewards of their presence
with a whole A*-F*-ton of presents.
wordimus prime, kids-
harvest and maple got hooked up proper.
on the ones,
their color-coordinated bows and jauns
made for a well-presented parcel of pure freshness:
we activate that 'more-beautifully-than-you' action.
by the fireplace an everything, friends.
if it isn't picture-perfect,
it isn't XI-mas.
i mean, otherwise,
what's the point?
the wifey's haul wasn't slouchin' either:
solid gold, mutha-lickers.
we GOT that sleek streamlined tight and brightness.
amongst all the well-reasoned, researched,
wrapped and righteously received regalia
what was her most favoritest thang?
four on the floor, making each foot her best foot forward-
she's rollin', you're hatin':
when it comes to showing affection,
i express myself best with items.
you want feelings?
you're asking the impossible.
tangibles, y'all.
that atlas shrugged-style of emotionalism.
what about me?
how kind of you to ask.
don't worry, my ninjas-
i wasn't left out of the generous goodness.
in fact,
i got proper activated,
and i'm livin' with some serious gratitude for what's up.
for serious,
we were fed and lodged and interacted-with
the whole time we were away,
and that wasn't the half of it.
check it out-
my father-in-law, tom, hit me off this double bundle of
super-deluxe cedar-lined stink-stick stogie stock:
that's a hot batch of flammable carcinogens for my face!!!
but that's not even close to the limit, either.
i'm referring to the lovely mrs. rock.
we knew she was super hot.
we knew she was disproportionately dope.
we even suspected she had an extra-share of skill and talent.
but who could've known about the casual considerate
confidence with which she executed this XI-mas's
big deal deluxe special delivery for yours truly.
the wifey pretty much brought the ultimate hot fire
down on my gifty-giving head and shoulders.
like an expert of active participation, even.
what time is it, y'all?
according to my new mutha-F*ing wristwatch,
it is precisely 'baller-A* doodie-twankle' o'clock.
...yes it is.
i've never been more grateful for the time i've been given.
because i've never been given time like that hunk of
superior genrosity up there...
-that is some seriously futuristic chronographic 'ness.
vintage infantry werewolfen titanium depleted-uranium
unobtanium wolverine berserker-fury from the swiss alps.
it actually checks the checks that check the teleport.
we do it better, kids.
it's just how we get it together.
life is unfolding, kids.
real life.
real real.
i've got my three most important ladies,
i've got a blazing fire heating up our home,
i've got a preposterously nice watch.
real life keeps happening,
but we keep it realer, y'all;
never quiet, never soft.....


what's one better than X-mas?
XI-mas, neighbors.
us worthy warrior poets know how to doo-doo
that gratitude and that generosity
and that active participation
and that professional appreciation.
we can only activate that level of expert business
from the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress,
up here in the happy hills and magnificent mountains
of the heroic and stoic woodsly goodness.
we're home, duders.
there's no place like it.
it's where the heart is, even.
(and the foot)
after a trip to the less-than,
we're nestled back in the barbarian bosom
of our very own idyllic paradise.
why am i sniffling?
i'm not having an appropriate emotional sentiment
about being back where i belong.
don't be dumb.
i've got a clogged-up cratacular attack
of super-severe connecticitis.
it's bad, y'all.
i'm a drippy, coughing contagion waiting to infest
and digest the dopeness of the northern hottness.
i'm tellin' you ninjas-
it never fails.
bring me to the toxic turdblasted terrain of
the land of my birth,
and the heat-seeking hatebombs of hellacious
helix-harranguing heckfire assault my system
and my sensibilities.
or maybe it was the falafel?
check the teleport, buddy:
did it come from a dirt-dirty grit-grimy kitchen?
was it proportionately delicious?
you bet your sweet A*, son!
the dirtier the spot,
the more expert the falafel.
this one was off the charts on both counts.
the wifey said it was the best she'd ever had.
believe it.
so i'm laid up, beaten down, broken and broke,
but it's a next-level futuristic holiday.
and it definitely goes to eleven.
we spanned so much time,
across such vast expanses,
at such epic expense,
and with such savage stormswept gypsy expertism,
that it almost seems unfair to brag about it.
not that i'd ever let that briefest of unconsciou-style
involuntary conscience-type pang occupy
too much space in my ferocious furnaces.
i'll just say that everything was perfect.
my darling double-digit daughters,
the distended and extended branches
of our network of relatives,
the food, the funtimes,
the peoples and mini-peoples,
and all of the flippin' time we took.
real life really well lived.
that's what's up.
the paper is all torn and taken away.
the bows are bowed and the ribbons are wilted.
the storm and the glory of our very own day-after
dopeness and delight are all done for now...
but there are still molto days of winter vacation ahead of us,
and a whole new year to get jumpin' off.
where we are is all there is.
everything and everywhere else is just not What Is-
today was the day again,
tomorrow will be too;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, December 25

o' holy night, o' holy sh!t...

O' happy F*ing christmas day, mutha-uckers.
never mind those 12 days of weak sauce, duders...
the eleven days of really realness
are what's actually a-poppin' during
this merry jolly happy holiday season.
it's all a sequence of escalating avalanched attacks.
that's real.
i hope all you stuffed-up stocking-footed festive
fal-la-la-la-lollygaggers are having a good one.
first comes X-mas, my ninjas,
and then that's followed by the real holiday.
XI-mas doesn't storm the shores all the way
until tomorrow.
or as the canucks call it:
'boxing day'.
but that's not today, neighbors.
today is for the children, son.
just like that WU-TANG jauns.
the woodsly goodness is callin' us home again.
and in the in-betweening time,
there's a whole lot of family time,
deep in the heart of connecticut
we've been wallowing in relatives,
from the elderly to the infants,
and all the bloodfeuding bloodlines
that flesh out the bark and leaves
of the trees an' that.
it's been a heck of a time, y'all.
it's all happened.
it all keeps happening.
i am grateful for the opportunity,
i am grateful for the time..
merry christmas to all,
and to all a good night;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, December 24

overnights and living daylights.

never mind denmark, duders...
there's something rotten in connecticut!
good call, y'all.
it's not just something,
it's most minky, mincey, nancypantsy things.
...and that's no joke.
we've been wandering and roaming and
practically foaming like a frappe of rabid rage
at the raw, butt-nasty, dirt-dirty situation down here.
the smells!
oh, the smells!!!
the least populated spots have got more packed-in
sardine-type duders than the most inhabited corners
of the far-superior woodsly goodness.
my wifey needs her space, neighbors.
the close-quarters combat of a hard-style holiday
in this crammed up clog called connecticut is not spacious.
i mean,
you guys get it-
connecticut is NOT dope.
that's real.
but we're here, and it's really happening,
so i guess we're documenting the whole shooting match
until the final throes are done twitching.
word up.
it's on, kids.
you'd do well to get in bed extra-early.
visions of sugarplums, an' that.
you ninjas know the drill, dontcha?
if you've somehow managed to be nice,
and not get taken Off The List,
then our jolly ol' buddy santa comes tonight.
but if you've been naughty?
the berserker barbarians raid your gates,
throwing burning chunks and lumps of anthracite,
setting fires,
smashing sh!t and chopping heads,
and you'll probably have a better time for their efforts.
silent and holy can suckle those snowballs, b!tches.
we're on that criss-crossed countryside
forward moving time spanning family togetherness jauns.
big flippin' deal.
tonight is the night,
today is the day,
tomorrow is even moreso,
and monday is the most.
we're geting so much closer to christmas,
which in turn brings us within heartbeats
of XI-mas.
and that's the big action.
happy holiday times to all you worthy warriors,
you seasoned veterans get season's greetings.
and you nancy novices get noel nuances.
that's equanimity on the eve, yo.
happy happy, merry merry, and all that.
be good to each other;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, December 23

eve's eve reprieve.

connecticut, u.s.a.
awwwwwwww, man.
congested and infested and molested.
a sh!t-salad stankin' skank-filled steaming smog bowl.
that's what's up, and where we're at.
a train wreck in full effect,
overlapping and pumpkin-slapping the front and sides
of my whole entire travel plans.
every year i come back,
and every year i recognize less and less of where i'm from.
it's not the land of the Hamden Warriors anymore,
it's a war-torn wasteland of waterbabies and b!tchbags.
and yet here i am...
it's the day before the day of the night before XI-mas.
the eve of the eve.
what does this solid-waste state of the union have to offer?
how about hours and hours of sour traffic?
oh hell yes.
heinously long distances spanned
across this third-smallest state?
terrible air, horrible people, and awful areas?
with a few exceptions, and we're visiting all of them;
spread out along the breadth and width of this place.
it's all really happening.
ready or not-
here we come.
and do i miss the foot?
...a little.
saint elevenus may be the
chimney sweepin' chief of the holy smokin'
festy festive holiday season.
i'm makin' offerings,
lighting candles,
and swearing mighty solemn oaths
of worthy warrior really-realness.
trying to invoke the stormswept ghosts
of all this raging ragnarok-rockin' righteousness.
that's a thing.
prepare all your jingle-jangled
mistletoe kissing balls, y'all.
you can practice suckin' on them,
then move on to the real ones;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, December 22


the winter solstice has arrived,
and the bitter cold and grey season
is now reinstated, activated, and fully operational.
happy mutha-F*ing winter, neighbors.
three months of official brutal buffeting barbarian tundra.
and when we add in last month's full-fledged pre-season,
and the first two or three technically springtime months....
the woodsly goodness experiences roughly half a year
of savage stormswept raging gypsy weather.
it's just that today is the darkest day of that whole span.
i think the sun may peek out from behind these rainy clouds
and then immediately set behind the mountains,.
it's a high-speed horizon-to-horizon arc,
and it's happening right this moment.
winter's bone?
it's probably a lower extremity.
that's right.....
a foot.
beatus est pes, my ninjas.
y'all need to make the pilgrimage to the mountaintop
and pay homage at the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress
to the earthly remains, ghost-circular spirit,
and semi-corporeal memory
of saint elevenus of the immaculate immolation.
that's the patron saint of hot fire and really-realness.
you know it.
he's kickin' it up here,
or at least his foot is, b!tches.
oh, stop it.
winter times, duders.
cold and lonely and busted.
it's also the first day of crap-ricorn too.
that's a double cosmic check and change.
the world is in flux, y'all.
circumspect sacrosanct circumstances an' sh!t.
we GOT they.
today is most especially the day-
in fact, friends,
it's the very lovely and talented miss maple star's berfday!
a decade of daughterly dopeness.
ten revolutions around the sun, son!
in a row, even.
both my little bitty baby girlie-girls
are reppin' those double digits now.
holy crapola, kids.
just like always.
flyin' when i'm havin' fun,
and slippin' away during the rest of the moments,
we'll be delivering rock blocks
and vegan cuppiecakes and family togetherness
from us to them,
from here to there,
and to eleven the whole time.
that's what's up.
the XI-mas battle royale connecticut 'itis extravaganza.
it begins right now;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, December 21

the foot.

check out this mummified, mammalian,
and extremely festy extremity.
teleport to the future:
this dirty dollop of deceased beast rested in pieces
right under our house until late last week, neighbors.
for real.
i'm pretty sure it's my new good luck charm.
as a matter of fact,
i'm even thinking of getting one of those mirror-bottomed
gilded glass cases to enshrine it in.
a first class reliquary for a third-rate foot.
with some long-taped candles and an offering box an' that.
i mean,
we need to do something with all this brand-new
extra space in the previously-named nothing room, right?
why not rep a battle-beast chapel,
dedicated to the dessicated spirits and memories
of the woodsly goodness.
don't even try to act like that's not dope.
...because it SO is, duders.
what i really want to know is-
what kind of foot IS it?
who can tell me?
i'll name the shrine after you if you fill in the blanks.
yes i will.
false idols and animal spirits and sh!t.
we rep the old ways, y'all.
the nordic lightning-striking viking ways.
werewolf shapeshifter ghost circle jauns, even.
it's what's up,
it's what's happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

the fall.

so after sword-swallowing an entire pizza pie
in a newspaper roll-up dinner reality,
i trembled away the evening in the tooth shattering cold.
tooth shattering?
i think so.
i mean,
that's kind of a real thing...
in fact,
i also has a missing piece of molar reactivated earlier in the day.
it's possible i was grinding my teeth with holiday cheer,
and the enamel in my head couldn't handle it,
or, as is more likely,
the crown of my dented dental surface
emulated my hopes and dreams,
and just plain ol' gave the F* up.
awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww, man.
either way,
i had to visit the dentist and repair my head.
mission accomplished, duders.
all the better to demolish that 'zza with, y'heard?!
today's the last day, duders.
of fall.
of my having single-digit-aged children.
of pre-holiday woodsly goodness participation.
from here on out,
it's hard times and hard styles in hard-headed hard-hearted
weak sauce central.
the heavy-handed XI-mas family tolerance experiment.
who will throw me out first?
i'm taking bets,
and giving pretty respectable odds.
since our yearly dutiful pilgrimage to the land of doo-doo butter
began all those years ago,
it's been less and less like where i'm from, friends.
i hardly recognize the place, even.
and the densely populated,
heavily trafficked,
inconveniently congested and infested,
urban sprawling desolation of devastated constitution stateliness
is playing host to the berserker barbarian homecoming
road warrior poetry slam competition.
and i'm seein' everybody, too.
criss-crossing the state in an effort to maximize
the watering and pruning and fertilizing
roots and limbs to a whole flippin' grove of family trees.
everybody, neighbors.
big and small, tall and short, old and young,
if we don't hang out,
it's probably because you aren't somebody.
i'm not serious,
except kinda.
hard. loud. fresh. happening.
happy last day of autumn, my ninjas;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, December 20

fat flat rollin'.

me and my too-long-absent ace active answerer,
just powered down a double barrelled turbo-tube,
of a couple of whole entire large and in charge jumbo-sized
furious, ferocious shark gluttonous flatbread pizza pies.
...for our F*ing faces, mutha-b!tches.
one uncircumcised entire flattieboombattiebread per face,
to be precise, SON!
that's right.
and rolled up like a barbarian burrito.
right down the hatch?
we doo-doo that overachieving eating action.
manly men do manly masticated mayhem,
whenever they get together to get it together.
XI-mas shopping?
over and out, neighbors.
there are no piles that resemble sheistiness,
in any form.
more importantly,
the stockings are fully flippin' stuffed.
and that's really the mark of a worthy warrior of
gratitude and generosity.
anybody can drop a cache of cash
on a great big somethin'-somethin'.
it's the pure genious of an accurately accented stocking
that separates the experts from the waterbabies.
spoiled rotten over the top treats in a big sock
are what's up.
tune in tomorrow,
and i'll finally unveil the mummified monster mitt
we unearthed during the archaeological excavation
underneath the nothing room.
i've waited long enough to debut this thing.
once there's photogenial lightsources to illuminate
the horrific appendage,
i'll gladly share it with all y'all.
crime scene sh!t, duders,
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, December 19

the big change-up.

winter seems like it's already here,
but it really doesn't start until later on this week.
and i'm tellin' all y'all:
i don't like early birds in any circumstances.
from worm-grabbing, to tag sales,
to out-in-front first-in-line queue queers hoping for
pre-admission to whatever isn't going to happen until
the actual designated start time,
all the way (especially) to the onset of so many months
of shivering and extra blankets.
word up.
i mean,
do you duders take solace
in the solstice's soulless desolation?
who can hang out with the blackout attack cycle
of rhythmless circadian dirge-type jammie-jams?
what's up, my ninjas;
we're creeping up on the official wintry jump-off
of a barren, bleak, windy, brutal season.
oh, stop it.
and it's so cold outside the heat keeps turning on,
even with the woodstove roaring it's combusted
ferocious fuego activation.
for serious, neighbors.
the dedicated firmament location planagram constellation
amalgamation sensation is less than 72 hours away.
what am i talking about??
i'm talking about this thursday,
i'm talking about the first day of winter,
i'm talking about the one year countdown-mark
to the megadeth-style extinction brink breakdown.
up here in the mountains,
dawn gives way to dusk with only the briefest
glimpses into daylight's early shine an' that.
it's dark after lunch,
but it isn't that bright between the crack of morningtime
and breakfast, either.
the plummeting mercury is to be expected,
just not very appreciated.
30 degrees Farenheit is plenty cold, right?
NO degrees just seems like showing off.
if there has to be a ZERO somewhere,
i'd prefer it be one of our fresh-to-death
zombie destruction rifles.
that's the truth.
capricorn is almost upon us.
coinciding with the soul-crushing solstice,
the half-goat half-fish frankenstein's barnyard monster
is occupying the skies until late january.
i'm reppin' that mountain goat/brook trout action,
a woodsly goodness adaptive hybrid horrorshow.
and my darling daughter maple is doo-dooing the same.
listen up, friends-
i'm about to have double daughters in double digits.
i can feel the lightning-strike shock-straight fright-whitened
follicles falling off the top of my dome as i type.
old and busted is what i look like,
the new hottness is what i act like.
broke as a bad joke,
uglier than a bad accident,
but dope as F*,
from deep down bottom-dollar bets
to high-falutin' fire and fury.
a grey, gay fishgoat freakshow keeping it on full blast,
savage, berserker barbarian warrior poetry,
all the way to eleven,
all the mutha-flippin' time.
and that time is right now, just like always.
hard times, short days, long nights, all of that;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, December 18

stuffed stockings.

XI-mas mayhem, my ninjas!!
it's pretty much in F*ing full effect.
and it's affecting my whole wide realm
of woodsly goodsly gratitude and generosity.
those sheisty piles worm their way into my brain.
now i'm waking up in the deepest darkest
dregs of december nighttime on that
blitzkrieg brainstorming last-minute gift explosion.
word up, neighbors.
if you think it's easy,
you should probably think again.
i mean,
it's about doing it better than y'all, after all.
and if the futuristic festival of hot fire and fresh flavor
doesn't go to eleven?
i can't even allow myself to wonder, duders...
have you been to the FOLKLOFT yet?
why not?
you need to get some super sexy mountain magic
expert activation for your faces, don't ya?
yes, you do.
the countdown to waterbaby-town is underway.
connecticut, y'all.
the nutmeg spiciness for your constitution, an' that.
family togetherness.
berfday funtimes.
lefthand highway exits.
all that.
time is running out,
time is flowing in.
it's all really happening,
all the time;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, December 17

tight stacks.

the presentation of gifts is a b!tch.
i mean,
the presentation in terms of amounts,
and not my impeccable wrapping style.
you already know i rep on a crisp cornered
metallic foil foolproof concealment situation.
i'm talking about sheisty piles, yo.
i get those parental pangs of bad dadhood
when the over-the-top activation isn't
taking off into uncharted levels of spoiled bratitude an' that.
i'm serious.
i deal in quantifiable amounts.
and a short stack attack is equivalent to less loving feelings.
yeah, well,
you can shove your reasons for the season right up your A*.
i keep it darkman in my Xmas.
that 'hood flavorful DMXmas-type sh!t.
i keep it avaricious like it's delicious.
what can i say, my ninjas?
i don't buy my friends,
but i do rent those loving feelings from my family.
i doo-doo that festive sh!t.
it's a saturday night,
and it's all the way live for sure.
home alone, again,
eating too much,
drinking that rootin' tootin' beer,
and being oh-so-merry.
believe it;
never quiet, never soft..... 

Friday, December 16

Folk Loft.

that's right, kids.
that's where the cool kids go to get the good stuff.
my digital duder,
my busy business partner,
my homeboy mr. steve rovetti,
made the computer robobotronic magic activate!
now you've got a spot to get what we've got.
you want woodsly goodness?
we GOT woodsly goodness.
electronic hottness that goes to eleven?
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup., neighbors.
get on it;
never quiet, never soft.....


barbarian battle beast?
it's a sunny friday morning in
our ideal idyllic setting.
the woodsly goodness gets more awesome
after a sh!tskid sunless rainy day is done.
you know,
without the bitter, an' that.
our nothing room is fast becoming a something room.
okay, okay,
i'll explain it...
for all you ninjas who haven't had the pleasure
of touring the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress,
we have a nothing room.
that's right.
it has six doorways in a narrow space.
what can you do with a room like that?
but NOW, neighbors,
our heroic handymen have activated some epic expertism
and one of those doorways has disappeared
into more room where there was a mudroom.
because two mudrooms is too many,
and although that's normally the right amount
of everything,
we want to make something out of nothing.
and that's a thing.
it's still happening,
but the holes in our house are being healed,
and the future of spatial spanning is here.
it's all really underway,
under construction,
and under the radar of our actual neighbors.
we're like that.
XI-mas shopping, suckas.
i'm almost done.
as usual,
i've captured the real spirit of the holiday season.
big ol' heaped bunches of boxes filled with treats!!
i gave in and i started wrapping.
and what i saw made me pretty psyched.
plentiful piles.
copious quantities.
teeming trails of mutha-F*ing treats, son!
what i lack in mudrooms,
i've made up for in metallic foil paper and bows.
that's what's up.
the stockings aren't as stuffed as they could be,
and my competitive complex compels me
to pack 'em up right tight with stuffs.
i know, y'all.
but my inner nature is infinite,
and nature always wins.
here's to victory;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, December 15

wintry mixing.

what's up with the spirits and memories
of the woodsly goodness getting comfy-cozy
in cahoots with the coconspiring holiday spirit?
i'm serious, y'all.
a severe surge in appropriate actions
for active participation is well underway up here.
i'm not dressing up as an abominable snowman.
what's that?
i'm not riding in a one-horse open sleigh.
i want you to just wait and i'll explain...
wrapped gifts wreak havoc on my sense
of accurate accountable amounts
and my inherent, pathological necessity for more.
it's XI-mas after all;
it should go to eleven.
just sayin'.
a weak-sauce pile is not a masterful mountain.
not once, not never.
and a worthy warrior of shopping until dropping
is honor-bound to overwhelm his foes,
and his fellow recipients of noeltime cheer,
with expertly-selected luxuries, trinkets, and gewgaws.
that happens.
and you merry mutha-yuleloggers know it-
XI-mas is a demanding little b!tch.
being a consumate gift-giving viking appreciation
magnate for gratitude and generosity
takes a whole bunch of effort and forethought.
all that really means is a lot of second list peoples
are gonna be beat for treats this time around.
awwwwwwwww, man.
you ninjas know about the second list?
it's like flying standby.
it's like a 'weather-permitting' notice.
and for the record-
the second list is still only for mutha-lickers who're
ON the real list,
and not OFF THE LIST.
it's just that the honor roll call
is divided into two columns-
and friends.
and this year,
half the family doesn't rank treats either.
we rep a hard-style.
and we don't worry too much about being naughty.
don't be bummed out if you don't get a package.
i still like you maybe,
just in a negligible dollar amount.
that ol' thor's day thunder is here.
in the form of premeditated precipitation.
as in- nature thought about how to F*
with the A* of the woodsly goodness,
and decided on puking slurpees down on
all the windswept stormblown business
in these cold and dismally depressing mountains.
that soulless solstice sh!t sucks all the balls, y'all.
except for the part about it being my kid's birthday.
that part is okay.
a deep darkness is in effect.
i know, yo,
it'll start brightening in a week or so,
but until that day?
doo-doo buttery shadowland suckiness
is what's a-poppin' in the realm.
we'll see what happens.
today is most probably the day.
it usually is, isn't it?
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, December 14

criminal minded?

considered armed (obviously)
and dangerous, muth-'uckas.
verbally abusive, as well.
officer fiona rovetti was kind enough to
bring this poster to my attention.
what do you know about aiding and abetting?
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, December 13

F* the po-lice

guess who got a bullsh!t speeding ticket today?
it's a long story,
but suffice to say my ninja bag was wide F*ing open,
and that 'hood goodness came a-poppin' right out.
i'll be taking that battle royale business to court.
barbarian brutality by the roadside, neighbors.
i don't like b!tches playin' with the truth.
on the ones, y'all,
it's all really happening,
and i don't need some flexibly dutiful duders
doo-dooing some impromptu fundraising at my expense.
not cool.
so i spent the whole day being furious about injustice,
but i also spent the day shooting guns!
and spanning a little afterhours time at the gun shop.
yes, i did.
firing off some hot lead headshots right in the faces
of our very own ZERO targets,
and doing some semi-heavy lifting at the build site
for the rifles we know and love for their excellent
zombie defense capabilities.
it's been a day, duders.
and i've had about all i can fit into it.
the law tried to F* my A* today,
but i clenched it shut,
and the story is due to be continued;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, December 12


double up on that 12 gauge goodness, guys.
the date, duders.
it's a good one.
...for a monday.
i'm staggering around,
stunned, stunted, and bummed out
by the aftermath of the full moon.
i mean,
it was barely any less bright last night, neighbors.
and i got barely any more sleep.
nighttime is the right time to enjoy that wolfen sh!t,
but the veritable virtues of werewolfen wide-awakefulness
are few and meager compared to the victorious
vitality, vim, and elan of a well-rested warrior poet.
i'm serious.
a sleepy wolfman is a far-less berserk wolfman.
heavy lids and sluggish feet make for a hardly hard-style situation.
awwwwwwww, man!
hardily, heartily howling for a double dose of dopeness?
i feel like the sandman put silvered sleepy-seeds in my eyes
or some sh!t, mutha-uckas.
that's a hot pile of weak sauce for my face.
it's flippin' freezing like the arctic an' that.
and the construction-created cavity in my house
is leaking heat like a suppurating wound.
that's gross,
but so is 12 x 12,
and that's today, innit?
you like it.
it's the woodsly goodsly weekend again already.
one last day of dominating some 'splosive tatt-a-rrhea,
and a couple of sun-ups and sun-down showdowns
all to ourselves.
it's darker than dark,
even earlier than ever,
and time is running out, kids.
XI-mas is creepin' up,
connecticut is callin' us,
(taunting and jeering, really)
and all the rest of it is heaped on extra heavy.
it's all still happening...really;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, December 11


full circle.
i'm talking about the mirrorball sphere in the sky.
the moon was magnificently majestic last night.
even some haunted hottness-type clouds
were hanging out to reflect and refract that heavenly glory.
it was almost alien-abduction intensity, neighbors.
those wolfen jauns in my brains and veins
were feeling a little floodlit and exposed,
and that sort of revealing battle-beastliness just so happens
to mix well with late-night active participation business.
hangin' out at the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress,
appreciating the subtle nuances of nature,
and the not-so-subtle displays of victory.
nature wins is all i'm sayin', y'all.
just look at this striking viking view:
tight and bright, b!tches.
a blinding beacon of guiding light in the night.
unearthly auras and sh!t were emanating all over the flippin' place,
and the bitter cold was injected deep into the bones of the
mountains and the roots of the woodsly goodness.
so the spirits and memories were swirling in the woodsmoke,
and illuminating the secrets and mysteries of the moonbeams;
for all the raging gypsy mysticism,
the berserker barbarianism was a little lacking....
so we did what duders since forever have done.
that's right, my ninjas...
...we activated the hot fire!
fuego a-go-go.
home improvements always leave lots of
timber, lumber, tinder, and extra-special cedar shakes
for that eleventh-level incensed incandescence.
word up.
my coat and my scarf smell like that winter woodland magic.
which is to say: dope!
it's a sunny sunday in the north, my friends.
there're tattbombs to explode,
there're XI-mas gifts to wrap,
there is real life leaking out all over the place.
i've even got a candle called 'mistletoe kisses'
putting that holiday stank all up on my workspace, son.
that's a thing.
it smells exactly like comfort an' that.
you should come over and take a sniff, suckas.
i would.
today is the day, same as always, same as it ever was.
the moon is on the leeward side of savagery,
but there's still a little wolfen sorcery inside of it.
i can feel the nutrients.
no joke.
it's all really happening, buddy.
that's the whole point.
pay attention;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, December 10


eclipse action?
i guess so.
it's the full hard swollen circle sh!t
that i'm more concerned with.
and temporary blackout conditions aren't
going to prevent the super-duper-natural
transformation sensation jauns that this
great big fat blazing beacon of blue light
brings about for all the barbarian battle-beasts.
the berserker fury is raging,
like a burst balloon filled with the four winds an' that.
the conditions for hot and fiery fury are optimal-
it's so cold that the air feels sharp,
and inside,
it's so hot and dry that the air feels sharp.
it's an atmospheric razor's edge...
tooth and claw and breathing,
in and out,
and full-moon nutrients seeping into all
the day's doings and goings on.
werewolfen activation bodes poorly for
all the waterbabies and b!tchsappy slap-happy
saucy weak ones out in the woodsly goodness.
that's a thing.
hard styles, and bleak predictions,
and a whole lot of fomenting discontent,
fermenting the blood of monsters,
and forming fomorian firmaments.
bright, blighted, angry skies,
and spirits of savage stormswept curdled causticity,
with a burly batch of brutal business in between.
that's what's up, y'all.
our full moon saturday over here in the mountainous north.
that lycanthropic mischief is flowing along
the lifeline leylines of my palmistrical mystical
pannieman-caked right hand.
that's real.
i picked up my blue pencil,
and this ungentle-man-beast oozed out.
check the teleport:
a wolfman.
you like that background?
moon AND clouds and a ground shadow?!
this lunar magnetism must be doing something
because that's waaay more non-foreground subject matter
than i'm normally comfortable with, kids.
i don't know.
i'll bet he's smoking some pretty powerful pipe tobacco.
a barbarian blend of perique and latakia, my ninjas.
too heavy-duty for regular duders,
but just right in it's tight wrenchiness for a briar bowlful
of burning smoke ring spirits that go to eleven.
the sun isn't out,
but it's still too bright to see the moon.
today looks to be chock full of expectation,
and possibly expectorants as well.
i spit up hot fire?
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, December 9


that moon up there is bright, kids.
it's a nearly daylight caliber shiner
keeping me up, and keeping me salty.
what unsavory salt cellar-dweller could have that effect
on a warrior poet of heroically insensitive propensities?
how about skin-rip american flagmeat eagle tatt-'sploso-bombs?
i did that so hard first thing yesterday.
....or how about maybe some black spikes of triiiiiiiiibal?
wordimus prime, b!tches-
my broke-A* stayed late to activate those jauns.
full moons and empty pockets make for hard styles.
and while on the subject of hard styles,
check the teleport:
i don't know, y'all.
it's not a goat.
i'm not sorry, either.
there might be little ogre-type sh!t mixed in with the nutrients.
that underbite action an' that, y'heard?
full moon fever,
in full effect.
and what about the laundry robobots?
they're dope.
it doesn't take a whole holy helluva lot
to get the experts excited up in the woodsly goodness.
if washers and dryers doo-doo it,
then we're easily impressed by the futuristic technology
of space magic soapy superwet hottness and cherry-red
noise-makin' high efficiency.
y'know what that means, ninjas?
cleanest undies ever, mutha-'uckas.
my butt is currently clad in luxurious laundered lavishness.
that's a thing.
the moonbeams and space rays are intense.
the long nights and late hours are intense.
the XI-mas activation consumer frenzy?
the gaping hole in my house is intense.
the wolfen wild hunt barbarian business is intense.
that's it, buddy.
intensity is the order of the day.
every single thing in the woodsly realm
is currently maxed out,
y'know, red-lined at eleven.
life is hard.
and loud and fresh, too.
and it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, December 8


one thousand words worth,
succinctly summed up.
...and that's all you get today, neighbors;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, December 7

boys' night in.

me and my ace participator Ro-Ro
got activated last night.
italian-style dinnertime gluttony;
technological interface interaction,
and overreaction;
stinky stumps in the pouring rain;
a hot coupla cuppas of that cinnamon vanilla blackness;
and pie, muth-F*ers.
check the teleport:
german chocolate and toasted coco-loco-nut?!?
wordimus prime, neighbors.
steve confirmed my baking prowess,
and very possibly forever altered his culinary
and digestive realities.
a thick, moist slice of that sweet black pie, ninjas.
we doo-doo that freaky sh!t.....SON!
and not for nothin',
lookin' at that photo makes me realize
i'm a man of many different flavors-
homemaker baker,
tattbombed barbarian,
flashy timekeepin' watch-wearer.
every day in every way.
in fact-
y'ever wonder what i would look like
if i was in a grimy 'hood-A* hip-hop video?
you need wonder no longer, duders-
just check this teleportational future projection:
ghost circle spirit rings of ephermal flavor.
i do look a little like an extra from planet of the apes.
F* you.
stormswept raging rainy evenings,
in fifty degree farenheit warmth?
hell yes, kids.
we GOT they.
did somebody just say infinite kung fu?
how very prescient of you.
wu-TANG teleport action, for your face:
we got you all in check, b!tches.
four corner ninja footpunches.
protect yo' G-darn neck.
spanning time with my homie.
getting expert.
staying rad.
it's all really happening,
right here in the woodsly goodness.
thanks go out to steve for documenting real life
with his professional photographic skills.
long nights,
hard times,
everything that makes me feel tired.
i am grateful for the time i have been given;
never quiet, never soft.....

infamy. living it, all day long.

the most surpise-attackish duder i know
celebrates his amillionety-second berfday today.
the legendary guru of supreme intelligence,
the hardest-style 'garious get-right activist,
the meat-worshipping maestro of the marchigianos,
the one and only (thank heavens) Big Albert.
my dad, mutha-F*ers.
happy flippin' berfday to him an' that.
another year older,
and deeper in debt, just like the song, y'all.
really real ninjas know what's up.
pearl harbor day kamikaze fatherly activation,
that's that eleventh-level paternal expertism jauns.
just remember, b!tches,
without him,
there'd be no me.
and we wouldn't want to miss out on that big action,
now would we?
the fruit doesn't fall far, friends,
unless it rolls downhill,
the same direction the sh!t flows.
this also means i'm precisely one month away
from another turn of the existential earth-orbits myself.
daaaaaaaamn, we got those old A* mutha-uckas up in here!
wisdom, y'heard.
age + information + experience.
we got they, at least.
mostly in my butthole i think.
you like it.
you like labels?
a duder i know referred to this blog style
as 'stream-of-consciencelessness'.
i don't know about all of YOU,
but i'm 'bout it.
that's that What Is jauns,
in the freshest nutrients,
and loudest hardness.
truth tellers doo-doo that brutal sh!t.
i'm reppin' that slippery road trip ship today.
and the fastlane highroads are headed downeast,
to portland, maine,
to fully activate the operational holiday hottness.
it's not easy, neighbors,
but when is it ever?
shark-gluttony all by my lonesome?
it doesn't always have to be a feeding frenzy, yo.
i mean,
it still will be,
but the option to go easy is there.
even when nobody is there to be disgusted,
i'm still holding it down for my peoples.
i got you,
we got they,
it's ALL really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, December 6

nature, you got me again.

grey clouds are emptying their guts out.
raindrops keep falling, y'all,
right on my F*ing head.
that's weekend day off busy business
difficulty-level upgrade elemental challenge-type sh!t.
we doo-doo that, y'know?
dark and stormy morning jauns,
and bark bark barking overreactivated dog noise,
and semi-sleepless empty nesting,
and other other ingredients are combining, kids-
i'm making swamp soup.
that's a thing.
yes indeed, duders.
clean clothes are back on the schedule!
check the teleport:
stacked launderizing cherry-red futurism.
double decker expertism,
like an ac/dc amplified space robobotron.
big deal,
on the big deal.
simple pleasures or some sh!t.
i think i might need to make XI-mas cookies.
you slinky minky mutha-lickers know i get busy
with that futuristic oven lovin',
but i'm thinking about going backwards,
and making some pre-woodsly goodness-era
italian-type guinea goodies.
it's true.
i'm feeling like a genetic heretic most days,
living that Folk Life in the yankee hills an' that,
so maybe a little confection reconnection is in order.
those jauns are italic.
vegan new england italian heritage sweets and treats?
won't that be hard?
i prefer to stir my batter with a wrench.
i'm on that solo loco lobo situation jam.
a lone wolf lunatic lycanthrope,
coping without his pack.
awwwwwwwwwww, man.
don't worry about me, my ninjas-
there's a coconut cocoa creme pie on the cooling rack,
with that german-style chocolatey
toasted coconut streusel on top.
it's a pie party......
...for one;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, December 5

pleading the fifth.

it's another monday morning,
presented in all it's fullest flippin' glory.
big deal?
not really.
it does mean ther's only one sh!tty day
of doo-doo buttery tattbombing,
and then the woodsly goodsly worthy weekend is here.
mondays are pretty fresh, in that respect.
in fact,
we rarely get a case of the blue mondays.
up here in the white mountainous vale of Folk Life
it's far more likely to expect a blistering outbreak of thursdays
to cause a severe flare-up of thunderous fury.
but let's not dwell on that weak sauce.
there's seventy-two hours before that becomes an issue.
in the interim,
it's monday.
and it's happening.
i hope y'all weren't lookin' for any goats today.
because i'm fresh out.
sh!t is underway.
the mikes are here,
measuring dimensions,
and activating their expert construction skills.
we're closing in sections of homestead,
and reinforcing the Fortressy facing of our castle.
that's work, ninjas.
hard work.
i'm glad i'm not the one doing it, that's for sure.
mostly because i want it to turn out dope.
and that's their job, y'all.
the Fortress of solitude is what's happening.
the Fortress of i-wish-my-dog-would-choke-to-death
is more to the truthful point of fact.
that's a side benefit of my wifey's absence.
a brutal case of canine anxious nervous awfulness.
it's the worst, kids.
it's like the sound of raw november reinstated.
no me gusta.
i'm here,
the story is developing,
the characters are fully-fleshed,
and the plot is thickening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, December 4

and again.

over and over and over,
until it's all over and done with.
december days and nights are blasting past us.
the spanning is expeditious,
and the timely elapsing is both fleet and sure of foot.
these days know exactly where they're headed,
and precisely how to get there.
that's real.
i don't sweat it, my ninjas,
but this particular XI-mas season is F*ing with my A*.
that's no joke.
i've got builders erecting structures,
appliance deliverymen installing sh!t,
holiday destinations to arrive at in obscure and distant places,
and a big fat dumb dog who needs tending to,
and prevention from issuing bodily harm to
the aforementioned worker-type mutha-'uckas
who would otherwise serve as chew toys for her face!
oh, yeah,
and the wifely hottness has decided to activate a
long-weekended impromptu out-of-town vacationary liason,
so i'm doing all my dirt all by my lonely, homies.
solo-type hard-style manliness and homestead management,
with the added challenge of round-trip round-ups
for all my hard-to-find giftly givings and misgivings.
these are the things that happen to really be really happening.
responsible adulthood continues to disappoint me.
awwwwwwwwwww, man.
i'm just sayin', neighbors.
dinner for one,
monitoring the comings, goings, and doo-dooings
of all the improvement-heavy 'mos,
and babysitting the sh!t-salad suckiness of my canine companion,
all while my entire holiday agenda is hampered by the
absence of a second set of eyes and hands.....
infringing on my move-making,
and undermining my decrees?
oh, MAN!
the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress kinda feels a little stuffy
if you get me, y'all.
maybe there's magic to be made,
and maybe there's not enough time.
a whole fleet of fleet feet seem positively motivated
to carry off whatever time frees itself up for me.
quicksand hourglass A*-blasting, y'all.
what's up december?
how about you keep an eye or two out for us
worthy warriors of woodsly goodness.
y'know what might help?
one more big-headed wrestler goat man.
arms for grappling,
hands for wringing,
head-butting horny nubbins,
and a crotchal puff that'd make an earth-nest jealous.
that's how it goes.
that's probably the last goat for a minute,
tattbombin' zaps are back,
and those year-end movie checks are essential.
the next few days promise to be packed up fully
with have-to's and probably-shoulds.
so the goats aren't invited, kids.
i've got tatty-o blastin' on the books,
i've got cold and lonely nights on the house.
and somewhere, sometime soon,
that XI-mas mission activation needs doing too.
full days, y'all.
time is slippery,
and even my hands' teeth can't bite off enough of it;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, December 3

wild go(at)

what should we do about december third?
a sunny saturday in the woodsly goodness
calls for some sort of supplication to
the secret universal plans an' that, y'all.
for serious.
we need some big action up in here,
and we really need some brisk busy business
to bankroll our buying habits for the XI-mas
celebratory gift-giving explosion sh!t.
that's a tall order for an early morning, for sure.
i think it calls for some battle-beasts.
yeah. it definitely does.
how about three wooly woodwose warriors?
that might doo-doo the trick, y'think?
i guess we'll just have to ask the teleport,
and check for answers on it's windy activations:
a sort-of longhaired goat man,
complete with woodhouse thorn branch bludgeon,
and smoking a pipe!
the pipe is essential for heroic relaxation-type jauns.
that's no joke.
hot fire b!tchslaps for your face!
demonic? devilish?
kalahari red-style hard horned horniness,
with definitive stormswept unholy-possession flavor.
you want another 'nother one?
but just this once, duders:
who the heck is this chappy champion?
it could very well be rubezahl.
that's real.
he's an expert woodsly wild monster-man nature spirit.
like i've said before, y'all-
berserker barbarian battle-beasts are what's up.
i don't know, neighbors.
i'm just gonna rep these goats until i run out.
what else can i do?
oh, crap!
check this mutha-licker out:
pure blackmetal hard-pounding underworld nutrients?
all i know is, it's real dope.
and that's a fact.
maybe it's just a placebo effect,
but this last page of the calendar
has got the whole warrior poets' circle
re-activated and energized with non-vember
eagles' egg nutrient jobs.
it's totally expert.
three days into it,
and it already has november beaten.
no contest.
loud fresh hardness, my ninjas.
for all the faces;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, December 2

a decent december deuce?

i'm serious, duders.
i'm reppin' on those trip-trappin' bridge-burnin'
billy the kid-type jauns, y'all.
that's because goats are molto expert.
and you know how it is when i like somethin', right?
it's happening-
super-intensive goat-based reading and learning
and arthur-making and all of that.
it's non-stop full-on immersion in the big action.
december activation is hard at work elevating
my inspiration levels and creative juice quotient
to eleven.
that's right, neighbors.
abracadabra a la capra.
(that's that goat magic sh!t, son)
 i even drew a few more scribbley butt-heading boys
to bring that head-crackin' noise to you ninjas.
i guess that's what's up?
check the teleport, and let me know:
bleating hearts.
get it?
deviltry, on four legs, with wings.
half goat half fish.
all crap-ricorn.
who is this guy?
i dunno, duders.
a faun?
an inverted satyr?
somethin', that's for sure.
i've been layin' down a little tiny bit of lead
making goat heads materialize an' that.
i needed to doo-doo that chevre-type sh!t,
or so it seems-
goat heads!
it helps get the brain a-workin'.
i mean,
it's just some stimulation of my perceptions,
so that my XI-mas gift-giving generosity and gratitude
are fully-functioning and 111% operational.
that's no joke.
nobody likes getting an 'obligation' gift.
so i need to be on it like a worthy wizard of wrapping
and yule-logging lumberjackery,
so that the peoples i appreciate know what's up.
and to get it going,
it's all about goats.
december, my ninjas.
approaching winter
with encroaching increases in frostiness.
that's a cold deuce on the calendar,
full of holiday hottness.
it's happening, homies.
tundra-style yeti confetti action, yo.
you know-
from my butthole to my abdominals.
i'm bellyaching and decorum-breaking
and earth-shaking my whole body rockin' torso
like a bigfooted sasquatch from the north.
making moves,
making pictures,
and making those movie-checks.
it's a fresh and frenzied  fa-la-la-la-friday,
the shoppers and weekenders and tourists
are all up in force,
and the woodsly goodness is ready and waiting.
so am i;
never quiet, never soft.....