Monday, January 31


adios, enero.
word up, duderonis-
it's done.
over. kaput. finished.
january is gone away.
and the B.H.M. is rollin' in.
so deep, dark, and dope
that a whole heckuva lot of bass-boosted super-thump
is headed down the hollowed out tubes and amps
of the woofers and tweeters in my speaker system.
Black History Month, my ninjas.
on it's way to the white mountains.
if you aren't 'bout it (and i doubt it) then you'd better get 'bout it.
because 28 days later,
it'll just be march.
and not the million man one, either.
black like ink, black like holes, black like night-time new moon skies.
beautiful, bountiful.
really real and happening really.
on the ones.
guess what i got today?
no, for serious...
try again.
give up?
check the elevenometer, neighbors:
tom savini is the man.
and now,
i will be too.
grande illusions, kids.
f/x makeup an' that.
for your face-
...and speaking of-
i need faces to F* up, too, y'all.
you know that the more you do,
the more you get to do.
our boy tom says that sh!t.
wise words from a movie-makin' move maker.
participate w/ me, kids;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, January 30

good evening.

i see my friends.
 i make new friends.
and sometimes,
clients become friends.
that's the weird one.
especially when it's go-out-to-dinner time,
and the guest of honor is a former weirdie.
the weirdies, a trio of bizarre, yet regular tattoo clients,
has been defunct for a few years.
one stayed super-weird,
one went and got married,
and one kept it really real,
and kept making the sojourn to our crummy, crumby
white mountainous woodsly tatzap town.
and now, at long last, the quarantine is over.
our friend amanda has made the grade,
and been promoted to meal-sharing status.
that's right.
so take heart, lurky jerks;
if you doo-doo what you doo-doo for long enough,
you too can hang out with the warrior poets.
i know.
believe me, i know.
dreams really can come true.
especially if they're suckie ones.
brown blops of indian goodness,
with spicy curry crushing it's way to my face,
via my throat,
via my stomach,
and vice versa.
ferocious is the perfect adjective
for everything going on gastrically at the moment.
lightning striking viking.
january is pretty much done.
the dregs are crowding up the bottom of the barrel,
and the crap is coalescing at the cusp of the cask.
silt, soot, and slag, y'all.
that's what's left after a barbarian blitzkrieg blows by.
the wind is blowing,
the skies are moving.
heaven is crashing closer to the ground.
electricity, ninjas.
static and dynamic simultaneously.
rubbin', thrummin',
throbbin', movin'.
this is the time we have,
these are the places we go,
and we are all together.
on est ensemble;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, January 29

oh no, oni!

jamie is a good client.
and he gets good tattoos.
and that means that today didn't start off suckie.
at all.
i got to start my saturday about 11x more awesome
in form and function, than i did on friday.
my day didn't doo-doo the deep dopeness after the deluxe hottness
of the demonic dome of doom.
oni head,
bubble-bobble purple and green,
w/ pom-poms, b!tches.
every once in a while,
something good happens.
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, January 28


dear the clock,
you win.
i lost time like a mutha-lickin' misplaced sundial today.
i lost wages,
whilst wasting away waiting on some wall-playing fence-sitting wafflers.
maybes and maybe-nots,
and assprted 'shoulda/coulda/woulda' weak-saucery.
i lost patience with my patients,
and in turn, they lost consciousness.
that's no joke.
out like lights,
like over and over and in a row...
low blood sugar?
t.k.o., neighbors.
all of the above and then some, my ninjas.
pale, peaked, pasty, and pallid,
sweaty, wan, weak-kneed and waterbabied-
that's right.....
i lost to induced semi-coma escapism,
and to the lengthy lapses of awake, aware, and amazingness.
dumple-bum floor-kissin' was what kept poppin'.
and that's a hard style on the very best of days.
i had duders droppin' down like sequoias an' sh!t, son!
and staying at work three hours late?
time takes time,
and taken time takes the cake.
lame cake, that is.
today was not a top ten calendar marky-marker at all.
i mean it, y'all;
like at all at all.
bedtime is the best time.
know when to fold 'em, ninjas.
the covers, i mean.
lost and found and lost again.
time out;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, January 27

pipe game.

why is the cucch my ace homeboy?
because he listens,
and he delivers the goods.
claro que si, my ninjas.
belated berday briar, b!tchbags...
now check the teleport, mutha-lickas:
that's make and model kinsale XL17.
the cucchie knows peterson pipes are my jammie-jam, y'all.
real talk.
for machine-started production pipes,
those jauns have got the business.
and the patented p-lip.
rusticated red finish,
and oversized bowl for burnable burley and bright virginias?
there's also some other 'nother treats bringing the heat over here too.
but they're on that next-level covert ops-type action.
even that cod/mw/black-ops appropriate sh!z.
liberte y viva la revolucion.
stumps are in the house.
habanarama on the ones, twos, threes, and fours...
for real.
generosity is one of my favorite qualities.
gratitude ranks up there too.
i hold to the honorable wordsmith warrior poetic ways
that's viking value-system life-living thats goes to eleven.
folk life is louder than ten, duders.
i'm reading a book of fairy tales, retold.
by forty different modern duders,
lettin' loose on olde-timey stories,
with new perspectives.
40 stories, one book?
you already know the object is MORE,
so you already know i'm 'bout it.
my mother she killed me, my father she ate me.
now that's a mutha-F*n title, innit?
wordimus prime.
thought you'd like to know what writing i'm reading,
when i'm not writing.
broke, broken, ugly, and dope.
new hampshire is where it's at,
and what it's all about.
real life is unfolding all around me,
and it becomes illuminated according to
the super-secret decoder magic of the universal plan, my man.
this is where that wizardly woodsly goodness gets started;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, January 26

panning out...

so light and fluffy, mutha-'uckas.
when it's a woodsly wood haulin' day,
the only way to kick-start it is with a short stack.
jumpin' lumber flaps, my ninjas-
griddle-battered and buttery, b!tches.
that's how a morning gets it poppin' in this house.
and it was a good jump-off, too.
fire needs wood,
and firewood is what's up.
check it out:
4 cords of wood were blockin' my driveway for months,
because i needed a shed,
and the wood for the shed (the one that isn't built) is in my garage.
well, since you asked;
it means that the lumber,
to make the shed,
to keep the rain and snow off of the firewood,
is nice and dry.
and the wood to feed the fire is under a tarp out in the rain and snow.
yeah, actually, i DO recognize how backwards that is.
don't worry, though,
whilst i was powered by panniecakes,
i brought in the last sticks and logs of combustible fiber fuel.
all those cords, cleared, carted, and completely done.
i know.
it's not even february yet.
no need to mention that it's cold up here until may.
which means that the object,
which is to say: MORE,
is not even remotely related to how it is.
more of this.
that's what's happening.
statistically, it's two days later than the most depressing day of the year.
the 24th holds the title, duders,
but i think i'm reppin' the runner-up for sure.
awwwwwwwwwww, man.
hard-styles and cold nights.
long, cold, hard ones.
made fresh daily,
for your face.
i wouldn't have it any other way...
a better fate than death awaits us anywhere, right?
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, January 25

soup is good food.

word up.
feast your face on this fresh bowlful of bangin' broth an' that:
a steaming, stout, stick-to-your-ribs heaped-up helping
of gnarly nutrition and burly roots.
root down?
i kick it, i put it, i got it, i get ya-
golden sweet and red pontiac baby potatoes.
onions, carrots, celery,
great northern white beans (that's a thing)
herbs, spices, brothy wet hottness,
and some t.v.p.
textured vegetable protein!
beige brownish brickle-blops of barabarian brutishness.
it's what's happening.
the whole world is frozen up here.
waking up to snow,
going to sleep in clothes.
and not because i crash out from hard-style partying;
it's because i'm freezing my A* off up here.
this morning,
we had a bright-eyed warm and fuzzy friend stop by
for a tasty treat and breakfasty goodness-
tea, and toast, and cyle.
homeboys help keep it heated, y'hear?
that's how we start days off right up,
in the woodsly wrathful winter wonderlands an' that.
peoples, y'all.
i got 'em, too.
i'm grateful for those who rock out with the warriors,
and the poetry,
and the stormswept, raging Folk Life world i live in.
spanning time with the lightning,
and bringing the thunder,
and all of that happy-crappy horsesh!t-salad
that rolls downhill and down mountains
in the mount washington realm.
time keeps gettin' taken,
moves keep gettin' made,
and futures keep unfolding along the ley-lines
and blueprints of the secret universal planagram.
happening, ninjas.
it all really is;
and there is strong soup fueling the furnace this evening.
nutrients like eagle's eggs, neighbors;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, January 24

eyebrows and other lower places...

i ween!
i win!
The Weiner Guy, y'all.
you can't handle the truth.
was i climbing up into the crevices, cracks, and creases
of an upper, inner, almost-potatoes patch of groin/crotch/thigh?
i sure was.
that's how monday gets done in the woodsly goodness, ninjas.
real talk.
a manga nurse w/ monster milk mounds,
a mega-thick, girthy, veiny, glistening rage-rocketing bone-a-roni?
why would i make that up?
our hard styles are harder than yours.
and more stylish,
and more boner-poppingly excellent.
to recap:
a busty nurse sporting a bustin'-out banana,
underneath and alongside a real-life banana-rama-lama-dingdong.
no joke.
what a day to leave the camera on the counter!
awwwww, man.
all you lascivious lurkers will have to wait to get a good glimpse
of the sausage-fest we represented on today.
good things come to those who doo-doo that, i guess...
i also did some eyebrows, too.
face-making upper visage improvement-type action.
highs and lows, y'all.
that's how it goes.
you got twitter?
do it.
be a part of something awesome.
or be lame.
your call.
i need a break, duders.
it's gonna snow again,
and i had a faceful of full frontal franfurter all day.
the sleepytimes are callin',
and i am answering;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, January 23

coarse, of course.

just get yourself a little bit of this anti-fine art.
coarse ground cork nubs,
pressed and etched and blocked and printed.
for where?
for your mutha-b!tchin' face, son!
and the shiny bits?
that's ink that's still wet.
fresh, my ninjas....
woodsly, goodsly, kind kindling collector.
smokey, knit-capped, and laden with sticks.
that's what's poppin'.
folk art,
folk lore,
folk life.
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, January 22


after a bold week of weak sauce,
and a stay at work late hard-style weekend evening,
this is what's really happening right now:
art makey-ness for your face.
and for my hands.
scraping and gouging,
chiseling and scooping.
blocks of golden linoleum,
speedball carvers,
and a #2 pencil.
22 is double eleven, after all....
staurday night, live,
from the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress,
in F*ing full effect;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, January 21

snow days, revisited.

i love it when i fall asleep sorta late,
and load up the woodstove the instant before
i knock myself out for the night...
that means i'm not getting up out of a roasty-toasty bed at 4 a.m.
to prevent the preposterpous temperatures from plummeting
down around the see-your-breath range of indoor livin'.
we keep it as warm as the heat-leeching seeping of dropping digits
and severe stormy thermometers permit.
but when the hot box gets filled later in the darkness?
a. that's what she said;
b. i get to stay asleep until at least 6, instead.
and that is, in fact, the best part of a chill winter evening.
i can't imagine how cold and busted the ice season must've
been back in the stormswept savage gypsy snow times.
i mean it.
staying warm under dead animal skins?
not having a lick of insulation besides mud and logs?
c'mon, neighbors...that's flippin' sucky.
and what about the lack of hot water, and baths in general?
those jauns are the most gross..
i'm sayin',
vikings used to all cram into the great hall during the most
brutal winter freezes, and just hang out in there for days.
that's a lot of poop and pee and body and mouth smells.
i may want to nestle up by the hearth with my peoples,
but i sure as sh!t make sure i shower first.
and paste-up and brush my equine-sized choppers, too.
no doo-doo butter is gonna get spread around here
while i have the wits to wash and wipe.
real talk.
still, my ninjas,
it's getting colder than the cast iron crucible can keep up with,
and that makes sweaters and blankets seem very valuable indeed.
thank goodness for the twin miracles of washing machines and toilet paper.
it's friday.
and it snowed like magic overnight.
went to bed late with clear skies overhead.
woke up at six to stoke the embers,
and there was the lightest dusting of frozen water
all up and over the place.
a fresh topcoat of perfect pearly white,
pasted on all the pines and perches
of the woodsly goodness.
by 9 a.m. there was half a foot of frosty fury,
and the wind started kicking up a fit.
the fray was afoot,
and freya was flinging thunderbolt blizzard blasts
directly at my face.
we're under seige by the cold.
good thing about all that hard-hearted blast furnace blazing
inside my chest an' that, huh?
lava in my veins,
and hot fire spit in my mouth.
a regular viking volcano, this one;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, January 20

the wane.

moon getting smaller?
oh, yes.
brain returning to normal?
you'll have to define normal.
if you're talkin' noise about normal for y'all,
then no.
no way, even.
no watered-down waterbaby thoughts happening over here.
in fact, it's all hard styles, all the time.
if you mean normal in the sense of a returning to
the less-erratic static of an analog line-out to lunar leniency,
all up inside my warrior brainbucket of elbow macaroni,
then hells yes, neighbors.
we're getting there.
the slow wane is also warming up the skies.
and brightening up the nights.
tides ebb, and circles get smaller,
concentric, and encapsulated,
like pipesmoke-blown rings of intangible transience.
awwww, man.
that's hobo-style imagery, innit?
mm-hmm. it takes one to know one.
i've got vagabond itinerancy welling up to replace the fur and claws
of werewolfen berserker business,
one side ebbs, the other flows, ninjas.
real talk.
handkerchiefs filled with treats,
stealing pies from window sills,
avoiding dogs (mostly my own)
and relying on the kindness of a goodhearted married woman-
who just happens to be married to me.
that's a lucky bum.
that's what she said.
wait, what?
i've got a harmonica and a fire over here...
a pot of beans is all i need to complete the picture.
one calm, collected gypsy swansong, coming up;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, January 19


canine pawprints in soggy snow.
it's that time, my ninjas...
werewolfen berserker fury,
and lupine supine backbent snowangels, too.
snow,wet snow, wetter icy snow, and warmer temperatures
make for a fabulous day of backbreaking shovel magic.
how many pounds of slush can one man move?
 a lot, neighbors.
a real lot.
the glistening glare,
the refractory prism of ice and water,
the tippity-tappy drip, drip, dripping...
is it the snow magic?
i assure you,
that is not the case.
slipping, and scraping, and heaping hard styles
all up on the daylight hours is fine and dandy,
but as the sun sets,
the hairy horror of hybrid man-beastly, fenris-flavored,
howling-mad garrulous loupe-garou grotesquerie.
just sayin',
the abominable snowtimes are here.
that's a real thing.
real life responsibility stole my days off, duders.
i've got spaghetti spindles for arms,
and overcooked noodles for legs.
i'm spent,
the day is spent,
and between the sparkly ice melter salts,
and a tasty soy hot chocolate,
even my movie checks are spent.
thank heavens for the skin-shedding,
longtoothed pack of full moon monstrosities, y'all.
mature adult responsibility just can't compete
with tidal waves of werewolf warrior poetry.
those high tides are pulling blood simple pulse-pounding
hard-style pounding out of my pores.
that's transformative, 'uckas, on the unos.
the day is done,
but the night has just begun.
if you listen a little bit harder,
you can probably hear the baying, b!tchbags;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, January 18

flame on!

burning bushes,
burning trees.
 i spent most of last night,
and all of today making fire!
check it:
caveman mastery of the elements an' that.
for real.
look at that pile of brush, b!tches.
it's big, huh?
there were three of 'em.
here's an even bigger batch of barbarian pick'em-up sticks:
burning winter wood is pretty serious business, too.
it's unseasoned,
but with molto low moisture.
it's practically frozen solid,
which makes even the otherwise super-green blue spruce branches
snap apart snappier than a saveloy sausage...
and after a raging non-stop full moon snowstorm,
which is still really dropping on my head,
the ever-burning ever-loving blue lit moonlit garden
is almost totally debris free.
that's a lot of wood to haul, neighbors.
the back of my truck is piled high with the remnants.
i mean,
this morning, i burnt a bunch of bracken,
and the snow had a lmost completely concealed the firepit:
notice how there's no combustible coniferous crapola
where the other photo had plenty?
and the towering inferno made it's mark, too.
snow melts into water,
water evaporates into steam,
steam condenses into snow.
concentric circles, cycles, and smoky rings of ephermis, ninjas.
that's some sh!t, for sure.
i'm sore from shoveling,
and inhaling smoke from sticks and stumps of several sorts.
time flew by, again.
and today is done.
still snowing,
still smoldering,
but definitely done.
the moon is full,
the night is bright,
or it would be without the clouds.
do i look impressed?
of course not;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, January 17

having dreams...

i dream.
just not that often.
because with full moon lunacy looming
over the skies and eyelids of the warrior world,
r.e.m. deep-dozing isn't on the menu.
not that being awake can't produce some things;
just that sleeplessness is not a vision quest.
for real,
insomnia does not count as a druidic shaman-magic
hallucinogen for lucid imagination explosions.
just sayin',
i have a dream.
ironic, yeah, that i'd have one today-
when most folks are observing a holiday
for a dreamer and a mover and a shaker, all-in-one;
my dreams are far more realistic, and less altruistic.
in fact, i'd say there's no idealism to be found anywhere in my
night times and mindscapes....
what's my dream, then?
or rather, my dark-out daydream, birthed from the frontal lobes
of a previously sheep-counting abacus of a psyche?
i have a dream,
that all of y'all will go to
and buy a bunch of sh!t.
that's right, duders.
the site is live, and ready for consumerism to take root
like an infectious outbreak of 'buy it now' zombieism.
doo-doo that e-commerce-type sh!t.
make a mutha-lickin' dream come true.
wordimus prime.
it's not like you don't wear t-shirts, after all.
why not rep your favorite woodsly warrior's
brand new heaviness?
hard-styles and stylish hardness, loud and fresh like,
for your face (or torso).....
get on it, ninjas.
(that's what she said)
did i mention that my homeboy anthony ,
a fellow firearms enthusiast and lumberjack, to boot,
made some full-moon moves and axe-warrior-chainsaw style
slaughtered the precariously leaning spruces in my front yard?
he did.
and the cords of brush i've got to get busy burning are making me anxious.
for really real.
i am a lucky man to have helpful heroes save the day.
day after day after day, it's the active participants
and presentable persons of interest that make it all possible.
i am truly blessed to have the hottness and the friendship of my
peoples and their peoples and all of that.
thank goodness for the good folks of the woodsly goodness.
i'd be lost without 'em.
thank you, too, for supporting my endeavors.
dream on,
and please,
exit through the gift shop;
never quiet, never soft......

Sunday, January 16

into the wild wolds of the world.

not just sh!t against the tide,
or against the wind,
but shoveling snow against the raging stormswept
torrents of windy, wild, white mountainous woodsly goodness.
me and my wife got busy this morning.
take it easy-
we got busy pushing tracts of frozen crystal water
into bigger piles of icy spiciness.
it's working, too.
there're heaps of snow,
with drifts at a minimum,
and sparkle-magical frosty bits making
kaleidoscopic rainbow filigree off of the nighttime lights.
so pretty.
i've said it before:
shovels make great equalizers.
strong dummies get more props than nerds when it's
straight-up shovel time.
it's why i shovel as hard as i do.
i may be a nerd,
or a dork,
or a humongous geek,
or a combination of all three;
but give me a shovel and i'll hold my own.
hardcore dishwashers will understand the beauty of that statement.
different blue collar work,
same brutal sweat-equity mentality...
do what you doo-doo as loud and hard as you can.
word up.
all this snow,
and cold,
and untouched swaths of natural wild sh!t-
i feel like i should be sledding.
just sayin',
there's a big ol' treeless clearcut sorespot
in my backyard,
and it's sloping along a good hundred feet of fresh powder.
i think i may have found the path to awesomeness just now.
and it's probably traversible solely by toboggan.
do you guys want to know something?
you do?
oh, okay, then:
i'm pretty obsessive.
i know, not exactly headline news.
lately, i've been obsessing over tactical armor and gear.
and there are hundreds of pages of information,
on dozens of websites,
that i can't help but peruse, analyze, and perseverate
over which padded patch of straps and sacks
are gonna rock my socks all the way off.
i've got a separate broswer window open right now, even.
that's the sh!t.
molle webbing.
also the sh!t.
in fact,
i've got a waist deep pile of sh!t sitting in my attic, so to speak.
i've got this big business on my MIND, duders.
and until the suppressor compatible superblaster is built,
i'll keep this noise going;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, January 15

saturday sizzler.

minus 6 degrees.
that's less than none,
and more sucky than most.
add in some snow,
some tourists,
and a mob scene of miscommunication,
and you've got today.
i've got business cards, now, kids.
and t-shirts.
and the super-sweet sensation of fabrication...
loud, fresh, hardness, y'all.
as in, molto magnificent machine guns.
after the SHOT show in las vegas this week,
the ZERO site'll be all-the-way-live,
and you minky, mincey marketplace masters
can add that sh!t to your cart.
buy! do it! soon! mass quantities, too, ninjas.
casey is over for supper,
and bogwater boiled brown blops
are being basted by the bucketful.
cabbage and 'taters and turnips and carrots and sweet 'taters,
and horseradish, dijon, and a smidge of smokey hottness.
disjointed doo-doo butter,
and dreary, dearly bought drudgery.
it's all really happening.
maybe an easy sunday morning will make up for it,
and maybe not;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, January 14

frosty friday.

bitter cold and snowblind bright.
there's a certain kind of refractory fury
that new snow and no clouds produces.
glowing, glorious goodness,
and dizzying, dazzling destruction, too.
fresh powder and extra days off?
this valley is gonna be flooded with massholechussetts turdblasters,
and their sh!t-salad sackhole siblings, offspring, and spouses.
add in some slick wet roads,
and it's all the heavenly glory of a gloryhole,
coupled with dangerous driving/mlkjII long-weekend weak-sauce
that worthy warrior poets are perilously poised to participate in.
read that again if you didn't get it.....
just sayin', neighbors-
my eyes are squinting,
my steering wheel has fingernail marks,
and my knuckles are whiter than the wet, wild world around me.
that's that kung-fu grip like a mutha-ucka, suckas.
i'm talking about a gripping events.
as in, a stranglehold on what's happening.
and it all really always is.
i've got gun company meetings,
tattoo cancellations,
arthur-making last minute artwork hottness
to FINALLY get started on....
busy, busy, busy,
and nothing's getting done.
or, at any rate, more than half done.
if i was a steak, i'd be rare to the point or rawness,
and if i was eating a steak,
parts of me would be pretty raw, indeed;
but the odds of that doo-doo disgustipated noise
are even rarer than the air up here.
wordimus prime.
it's friday afternoon, y'all.
at work, at the computer station,
that's such a hard-style.
what's in store for the evening?
long hours, cold dinner, and starry skies.
one out of three isn't so bad, i guess.
getting older, getting wiser,
being busy doing nothin',
being busy getting busy,
taking it easy,
and taking it deep;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, January 13

thunder and lightning.

ZERO Heavy Industries is in F*ing full effect.
as in:
i just got admin access to the blog, store, and site.
that makes it a real thing, huh?
i've even got my own title and card an' that.
i wouldn't have guessed i'd have business cards for
zombie survival training systems and gear,
and NOT have 'em for tattooing.
i guess that shows where my priorities are, after all.
conceptual engineering, kids.
that's what i do.
that means my main job is to think of fresh ideas.
i was doing that anyway.
hard style hardware and heavy duty industrial ideas.
and zombies.
they're not just face-biting undead flesh-crunchers!
look around you, duders-
look in the back of that minivan on the road,
and check out the six televison screens in there.
you can't occupy your brain with anything else?
zombie-like tranced-out mindlessness.
just sayin'.
zombies are real,
and it may just be buffalo wings, beers, and sports,
but their insatiable appetites are just as menacing.
i'm ready.
are y'all?
time moves pretty quickly these days.
maybe the grains are smaller in the secret universal hourglass,
or somethin'.
it's dark out.
it's cold out.
still, again, and always.
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, January 12

where it is due.

stephen rovetti is my homeboy.
and he's the worthy warrior who took those photos.
those jauns i posted yesterday that made all you dirty ninjas say:
just sayin',
if propers are to be dispensed,
as i'm positive they are destined to be-
they go to his minkey monkey-A* .
stephen ro-ro.
he doo-doo's that shizz.
i took a shot of his burly masculinity, too.
his space-robot camera is 'tarded-proof,
but somehow most of my attempts were still extra 'tarded.
one made it through though, so that's something.
something along the lines of 1% untarded, at least.
the result is handsome manliness for your eyes.
check the teleport:
mr. delicious, huh?
it should be marked somewhere, however,
for all you duders who are keeping score,
that the super-sexy hot fire blasterizer i'm holding
in that picture of me looking all viggo-from -'the road',
is in fact a product created for zombie destruction
by the collapse countermeasure operational hottness
of ZERO Heavy Industries.
that's pretty rad, yeah?
and not for nothin' neighbors,
but you're gonna need to get some shirts.
from us.
we have 'em, you need 'em.
check out the silhouette of serious sh!t:

word up. right?
no idea who the model is either.
but i have one of these jammie-jams,
in person an' that,
and it's molto fresh.
wordimus prime.
i know.
2011 goes to eleven,
and 2012 goes down the sh!tter.
buy a gun, and be prepared for BOTH.
on the really real, son.
we're finally gettin' hit with this brutal blizzardly weather.
that suckles the popsicles, y'all.
oh well,
alackaday, and alas.
i guess we can't dodge winter all winter, after all.
it's not warm, kids.
and the snow is heavy.
just like my heart.
awwwww, man.
there's at least 35 reasons why my styles are hard;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, January 11


that's what today is,
that's where today goes.
loud fresh hardness, for your face!
believe it. or not.
but just try and front some weak sauce on this:
brokeback jackets.
home-knit scarves.
far away looks.
representing the live free or die hardiness
of the heroic woodsly goodness.
just so you don't forget about the 'hood, my ninjas.
real talk for the teleport:
grimy, duders-
like some baller-A* really realness.
old and busted and doooooooope.
stumps and hats and beards an' that.
and that's a crochet flower on my hat, too.
real ninjas do real things.
warrior poetry and forest weirdie-type hard styles.....
how do we doo-doo that freaky sh!t?
you know it;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, January 10


picture in picture futuristic teleport magic?
that only happens to other people.
over here,
it's a little less enthusiastic.
waaaay less enthusiastic.
just sayin',
there's a grind date to make,
and no grist, if you get my gist?
have i mentioned that,
so far, being 35 has been the most humiliating year since my teens?
real talk.
all kinds of real life behind-the-scenes butter is being basted and spread.
i'm not even a little bit joking, neighbors-
well, okay, try this on for size:
i had a gratuity returned to me.
not from tattooing, or anything like that-
i do okay with the tipping aspect of tatzapping.
for real,
the floor show alone usually guarantees a quality clump
of that "little somethin'-extra".
(that's them movie check jauns, ninjas)
the situation at hand, however,
was that the server at my birthday dinner felt insulted.
insulted by the budget tip that she got.
now, normally, i probably wouldn't have ever even known about that;
but, our homies left their wallet at the restaurant, and live 2 hrs. away,
so i went to pick it up,
and got to chat a little tiny bit with the owner of the restaurant.
i'm being real here.
she gave me an enveleope with the loot in it,
and said the server wouldn't even accept it.
so instead of just being a decent friend and picking up the wallet,
i got chastised for being a skinflint!
for the record, i personally didn't pay a single dollar.
remember, it was my birthday, after all.
somehow, though, the other 8 adults,
who all have been to a restaurant before,
missed something.
i'm not sure i even believe that.
because i do not hang out with idiots, or budget-b!tches.
so as a businessman in a relatively small market,
that's sure not the image i would ever want to cultivate.
obviously, there was some misunderstanding,
and it'll get remedied today.....
because i am not, in point of fact, an A*hole.
or a cheapskate.
i don't play on that phone, y'heard?
35 right up the A*.
at any rate,
we hung out with christina and james,
and their amazing little man, rowan.
we had dinner and got roaty-toasty by the fire, an' that.
i know i'm not that old yet,
but knowing someone for a lot of years is kinda weird.
watching them turn into a real person and all that.
it's actually pretty flippin' rad,
at least when they become a dope person.
and that's the case with these duders.
long drives,
cold nights,
hard hard HARD styles.
it just won't stop happening.
maybe it can't;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, January 9

fun-filled frenzy of freshness.

non-stop rockin',
made possible by time-takin' turdblasters.
that's the aftermath of a magical existence-anniversary weekend.
one little bitty birthday,
and all of a sudden a landslide of extra responsibility
is on the lap and laptops of all the really realness
in this adult world.
i've got it going on.
and on and on and on.
from the break-a break-a dawn.
but for serious, though-
it's been challenge after challenge.
no drama, no tears, no weak- sauce sorcery or
diaper-baby doo-doo butter,
but plenty of stuff.
stuff to do,
stuff to deal with,
stuff to stuff my whole life full of...
F* that noise, y'all.
sorry, senior life experiences-
i'm taking the night off, kids.
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, January 8

such luck.

i have some pretty g-darn good peoples, y'all.
on the ones.
i mean it,
my birthday dinner was tremendously excellent.
really 'spensive, fancy vegan treats,
and a whole tableful of mama-uckin' active participants.
i couldn't have asked for a better batch of battle-beasts
to span my woodsly goodsly berfday business alongside.
i got more treats!
i got to see some folks i don't normally hang out with.
seriously, kids,
a more conscientious, compassionate, considerate cadre
just doesn't exist.
i'm pretty flippin' lucky.
i'm just sayin'.
tattooers, teachers, stylists, foresters, musicians, designers-
my main duders don't F* around.
at all.
and now,
with my new stereophonic turntabley sound system,
and new records to revolve around on it,
not to mention some tasty new stumps, my bakety-bakey star wars apron,
and the super-s'chuan megapixelated camera i got,
i'm kind of winnin'.
snappin' shots, and cranking tunes?
my wifely hottness arranged a picture-postcard-perfect day of dopeness.
honest to goodness, neighbors.
now it's up to my mean mutha-b!tchin' A* to deserve it.
that's the really hard part.
like a log of doodie, duders.
a fresh one, even.
that was how today was at work.
a regular sh!t-salad sandwich,
with diarrhea dressing.
anyone who tattoos will tell you:
a blow-off appointment suckles pretty hard.
no call, no show, no good.
but what's even more amazing?
showing up, 25 minutes late,
(no call, naturally)
with a put-upon pouty face,
and a sass-blasted batch of business along the lines of:
'sorrrrry, i have bad news. i don't really feel like spending the money'
i swear to god, ninjas.
you don't really feel like covering the four hours of time on a saturday,
that you booked in advance, and had me show up early to meet you for,
the day after my miki-fikin' berfday?!
best part?
he left no deposit.
so i got to shove it straight up the stovepipe, son.
chafed-up gaytarded is what that's called.
welcome to thirty-five;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, January 7

portrait of the artist as an old man.

happy birthday to me.
the magic minutes have all mounded up in a pile,
and now this is happening:
someone turned on the lights.
thirty-five years in a row.
grizzled, beaten, bruised, busted, and weathered.
put it together and what do you get?
i'm ripe, ninjas.
...with age, not for the picking.
bearing neither fruit nor bouquet.
i'm seasoned.
like firewood, which is to say: dry.
fully-cured. but still sick, somehow.
that's it.
bubbling trouble and sour about the dough, yo.
for really real.
a little self-aggrandizing for the perpetually
self-deprecating duder.
hard styles and hard times,
and happy candle-blowing business, b!tches.
it's all really happening.
am i scared, am i pushed, am i worried?
another day,
another year,
so what's the hurry?
everybody called and well-wished for birthday-candled cakeworks.
a few folks sent some sweet hook-ups and fresh action-packed packages, too..
a star wars apron? holly made it happen.
and my wifey, as usual, brought the noise.
a new camera?
a new stereo system?
now if only i looked or sounded half as good
as all this super-high definition dopeness i've got.
i will not be doo-dooing anything much justice.
i mean,
i doo-doo that creaky, squeaky, freaky sh!t,
but only because i'm old.
and i feel it, neighbors.
thirty-five yeeeeears.
the time is ticking and tocking along,
and still life keeps clack-a-lackin' away.
away, ninjas.
that's where it's going.
not up or down or even laterally along any known axis;
just away.
and we've got a ways to go before it's over.
there will be more of this.
that's something to look forward to.
maybe even at the same time;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, January 6


according to my calendar,
it's the epiphany.
anybody having one?
an epiphany, i mean.
i know i am.
because this is the end.
for real...
today is the very last day that i'm gonna be thirty-four.
holy smokes, my ninjas.
i'm tellin' you duders-
i feel it.
every sore thumb-sticking second of sore thumbs are stiff necks.
every grey hair, and each and every missing one, too.
the lightning-striking shock of white in front, and the sides, as well.
i'd call these wrinkles 'laugh-lines',
but i'm just not that mirthful, y'know?
more like misery, and a whole lot of company-loving ley-lines.
that's more like it.
a face-blasting wizardly firestorm...for my OWN face.
i'm getting uglier, creakier, codgerier, more withered and enfeebled.
it's not pretty, but it's pretty good.
because all this advanced age,
and all the experiences that've built layer upon layer of
berserker barbarian battle-beastly warrior poetry
all adds up to one very important quality for really real life:
i should get some wise pants for my wise ass.
i said it.
and i meant it.
i've already got smartypants for my smart ass,
and all these cheeky cheeks need warmth, neighbors.
real talk.
today is the day,
but tomorrow is even moreso.
it continues to happen.
all of it.
the broke, busted, broken, disgusted time-spanning temperance
of Folk Life & Liberty, gratitude, generosity,
and real-life documentation in the woodsly goodness.
thanks for another other 'nother year of being.
just being dope?
you betcha.
thirty-four years, in a row, right down the sh!t-pipe.
next up,
the savage stormswept raging gypsy whirlwind
of arthur-making, vegan-baking, grubstaking hottness
of thirty-five, in the big eleven.
to eleven, ninjas.
you like it;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, January 5

hard where? hardware!

duders, i touched it.
i'm talking about the turbo hottness
and absolute latest and greatest in
worthy poetic warrior fury.
ZERO heavy industries.
zombie elimination response operations.
taking the hit them in the head mythos to the next stage.
the ultimate in live free or die,
new hampshire libertarian, crisis preparedness.
you mutha-'uckers aren't ready for this sh!t.
on the really real, y'all:
business meetings,
bank documents,
corporate paperwork,
and guns.
holy smokes, ninjas.
guns and guns and guns and guns.
the meeting tonight was in a gun shop for goodness' sake.
that's the super eleventh level thunder, for sure.
there is no such thing as too many guns.
i mean,
we're engineering some epic excellence.
i mean it.
the team is in place,
the plans are coming together,
and the lead is flying fast and fiery.
that's word.
i was at my design partner's pad this afternoon.
s. rovetti, expert, and homesteader-
...located directly in the middle of nowhere.
which, i might add,
is a far drive from even my remote fortress of folk liveliness,
and although i b!tched about the trek,
i got to shoot a mosin-nagant 7.62x54mm monster
right out of his flippin' office window.
ka-pow, sh!tty city-slickers;
you're spots aren't fresh like that!
ZERO, y'all.
from zero to hero, even,
one loud fresh idea at a time;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, January 4

good things in gooey and green.

i am gonna just say this the one time:
y'all minky little munch-mouths missed out.
the best part about school vacation?
no school, obviously.
the second best part?
when living it up in the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress,
it is most assuredly the baked-up blops
of crusty and crisp, chewy, gooey goodness
that we know and love and call by it's proper name,
with all due respect and admiration:
broccoli bread!
that's one stuffed-up loaf of golden deliciousness.
don't believe me?
you're probably an A*-hole, then.
go wait in the car, or something.
really real mutha-uckas want some of THIS...
(the teleport can't handle this much hottness, neighbors)
c'mon. c'mon. C'MON!
have you ever seen something as sonuvab!tchin' dooooooooope?
if you answered yes,
you are a liar.
on the ones, duders,
the gooey kablooey goes to eleven.
my belly is full,
my tastebuds are happy,
and the vitamins are being absorbed.
it's all really happening,
and you missed it.
next double-b inoculation in february;
never quiet, never soft.....

goodbye, girls.

awwwwwww, man.
the first hard day of the new year.
i'm surprised it took THIS long to get here.
after an awesome breakfast,
the rest of the day was spent driving.
to massachussetts,
of all the god-forsaken sh!t-salad bowlfuls of lameness,
and then right back home again,
with minimal stops,
and minimal fun in between.
all so i could deliver my dearest darling daughters
to the depths of doo-doo buttery despair and drudgery
in weak-sauce waterbabyish connecticut.
i miss 'em already.
two more fantastic little ladies i've never met, duders.
i mean it,
and not just because they're made out of me, an' that.
and maple.
gone home to their other less Fortressy spot.
"epic bummer" doesn't even come close to describing
the level of artex-and-atreyu-style swamp-of-sadness-type
gloominess that's hanging over the heights of the white mountains
as a result.
for really real,
it's even cloudy and awful outside,
despite starting out turbo-sunny and excellent.
the house is ours again, though...
just in time for my birthday on friday.
so there's that to brighter-side an otherwise half-empty day.
long drives,
hard nights,
and cold weather.
it's all really happening,
with or without the
lightning-striking viking valkyrie vixens.
until their next vacation,
it's right back to the grind.
movie checks don't come for free, ninjas.
real talk;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, January 3

hey there, muffin.

nuthin' muffins!
that's right.
and nuthin'.
at the same time.
the secret ingredient is what makes them so special...
so what's in 'em?
take a wild guess:
choclolate chips?
none of the above.
the correct answer is:
they're nuthin' muffins.
brought to you by the lack of toastable bread in house,
AND the delicate palates of my darling daughterly dumplings.
i did go rogue from their initial request,
and hit off a coconut/oatmeal/maple/cinnamon streusel on top.
i mean,
what am i?
a no-baking no-talent turdblaster?
no way, duders.
i'm a kitchen-crunching oven-crushing,
berserker barbarian bakeshop battle-beast,
and i brought the tastebud-tempting treats to bear today.
wordimus prime, ninjas.
i doo-doo that a.m. apron-string hottness.
it's the last day of my daughters' visit.
the last day of woodsly, goodsly, Folk Life freshness
with the whole family.
that's such a hard style, neighbors.
there's only one small consolation i can countenance
to get through the disastrous disappointment
of their impending absence.
just one little event that can cancel a trek to the middle marches
of middling, mediocre massachussetts.
one thing, and one thing only, y'all....
broccoli bread, b!tchbags!!!!
the first loaf for the last day.
all the way to eleven, and then some.
tradition dictates that the rolled up and roasted,
baked and toasted florets of flavorful fury
are only created and devastated during visits from the
first daughters of the presidential mountain range.
they haven't been up for months, duders,
and that means my righteous and excitatious
double-b count is reaching dangerously low levels.
well, at least, it was;
the dough is kneaded and proofing slowly in the fridge.
when i get in from my long and unlovely day of tatzapping,
it's stalk chopping, onion sauteeing, nootch blasting terror
for the countertops and braised blops of the Fortress.
real talk, ninjas.
i'm sayin',
what else could we do to ring in a new year,
and bid farewell to my favorite young women on earth?
tonight's the night,
today's the day.
i am grateful for this time i have been given,
and for the people i span it alongside.
eleven, the year, the level, the loud, fresh, hardness-
for your face;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, January 2


here's to the new year.
...just like every year,
but never ever just quite the same, though, huh?
i've been busy so far in this 11th one.
it's been going to eleven, on every level, even.
there's not a spare minute mushed in there anywhere.
and that's okay, i guess.
lots of zippity zappin' already, my ninjas.
and boy are my hands feeling the hours and hours
of drilled-up chiseling and stretching.
it's only the second day, and already i can tell that my overall attitude
is really real and representative of a ragnarokin' readiness;
for action,
for move makin',
for sweet sweet lovely lovin',
and for all that Folk Life on the elevens has to offer.
what can i doo-doo to kick it up another 'nother notch?
it's resolution time, kiddos.
the most brutal let-down-by valentine's trial by fire for most duders, right?
will i do any better?
my resolution?
to overcome the crushing discomfort of physical closeness.
i'm not a toucher, neighbors.
not a nudge, or a chove, or a gentle ribbing.
barely ever a hug unless you're one of my peoples,
and no incidental contact with anybody else if i can help it.
i'll hand out a high-style five slap,
if only to acknowledge that i should do SOMEthing...
because that's the least amount of contact,
with as much force
and as short a duration of impact as possible.
real talk.
i can't hang out with shoulder rubs, duders.
i wince, cringe, and tense up more than if i'd just tried
to process and digest stress all by my lonesome.
i know, i know...
it'll be worse for all of y'all.
i wouldn't want a hug from me, either.
but it's being done in the name of evolution.
to take the content of my character to it's highest potential apex.
a pinnacle of approachability,
and humanity,
where before the may have been an appreciable absence.
i may be choosing the path of greatest resistance,
but the wrench has always been the best tool i own.
it's a conflict resolution wherein the resolve to conflict
is the whole point.
immersion in contact, by contract,
with the people who surround me.
you've been warned, neighbors;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, January 1


happy mutha-uckin' miki-flippin' new year!
rabbit, rabbit, at midnight;
rabbit, rabbit, at first light;
conejo, conejo, en espanol.
we all said it.
we all want it.
we all like it.
good luck, with that, an' that.
eleven, all year long?
how about THAT, kids?
i've said my new year's rabbit mantra,
i've said my january jauns, too.
four bunnies blurted,
and now it's guaranteed to just be dope.
we're only a wee week away from the bigger big action, anyway.
when friday comes around,
albie rock turns thirty-flippin'-five.
the good life is here,
and almost assured to be more intense than '10.
true stories, told truly,
that's what's up.
new year's eve has come and gone, hasn't it?
the question remains, then:
did we ring it in correctly?
we did.
i mean,
what are we...
no way.
too much chinese food,
too silly party hats,
too animated star wars,
too bombastic burstie fireworks.
all good things.
was that it?
so what else?
you know:
a barbarian raging blaze;
surrounded by torches, and snow, and trees.
we doo-doo that kind of supreme late-night out-of-doorsiness over here.
jim, maple, harvest,  my gorgeous wifey, and our imbecile canine, olive,
all hung out in the atoll of light and heat and brightened it up.
i was there too, kids.
(looking the very essence of warrior poet, i'll add)
and just to make sure we repped on the eleveny-ness,
we did something else, too.
check the time-travel teleport, ninjas:
cast iron coal-toasted hottness!
chestnuts, my duders,
roasted over an open fire.
for real.
don't play around, now, neighbors,
you know that's dope.
and that's how the woodsly goodsly old timey
Folk Life livelihood cooks up a little sumthin'-sumthin',
for our faces.
remaining resolute,
with or without new and/or different resolutions.
in fact, i'm on that high-definition high-resolution
hard-headed heavy-hearted hard-style-type new year's action.
the object is more, duders.
more time, money, fun, food, fury, friendship...
all that noise.
more of this.
this life, in this place.
this life worth living, really.
it's happening,
officially to eleven,
every day.
happy happy.
and happy new year to you, too;
never quiet, never soft.....