Monday, February 28

the end...

...of february.
but don't worry,
it's still snowing up here.
i left yesterday in the throes of a snowstorm,
ate some pizza,
had a few teary-eyed farewells,
and scooted northwards,
to avoid overly enjoying the fifty degree sunny weather
that connecticut saw fit to rub in my face.
i suppose the brutal 'itis it gave me last time wasn't antagonism enough, yeah?
don't wory duders,
i returned to new hampshire in the depths of the evening,
and woke up to...
guess what?!
a snowstorm.
12 hours round-trip to the weakest sauce,
10 am to 10 pm,
capped on both ends with raging stormswept gypsy cloudcover.
the hardest of hard styles.
12 hours, 10-10,
and all of it because i take it to eleven.
february is molto finito.
right now, the last grains in the hourglass are swirling
clockwise towards oblivion.
where the F* did it go?
if you know, holler the answer at your neighbor.
because i have no clue.
at all.
and i mean at all, at all.
how do we counter clockwise?
with clock ignorance.
oh, c'mon.
age and experience make wisdom,
so youthful indiscretion makes time stand still?
let's try it.
i'm ready for a little teleport to the top.
art show time is upon me.
cult status, in minneapolis, is doing the do,
and shawn hebrank and i are the stars.
i've got heaps and piles and wads of art,
and it's got to get to the midwest before the 11th.
when did you think it would be...
holy crapola.
tomorrow is march.
so much to do, so little time;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, February 27


broccoli bread is how we spend time.
my daughetrs' last night in town?
we gotta close it down in full-blown flavorful style.
florets and nooch and gluten and pure dopeness.
special occasion taste sensations!
we reserve the albert r. loaf until the girlie-girls are in the building.
that means the only time i get to have it is when they're here.
that's called honoring traditions, ninjas.
they could never know about a little secret cheat treats on the side,
but i would.
and worthiness is what i value, neighbors,
even more than broccoliness.
no doubt.
so i am a patient boy;
i wait, i wait, i wait,
and when the big moment of big fun in due time comes around,
i most certainly, and with authority, chow down on both crusty ends.
two butts is how i doo-doo that freaky green sh!t.
here's what you hungry hippos missed:
ohhhhhhh! sh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!t!
that's a log of burly block of hot and gooey, chewy, crust, crumb, and crowns.
yum4tum, my ninjas.
and it's even more impressive on the inside.
you like it, we love it.
bite, swallow, bite, swallow....
that's for little fish, mutha-uckas,
we get busy like sharks, son.
it's snowing,
and i'm a male man,
so i've got to make like a mailman,
and not let the sleet, or rain, or stormswept sucktardation
stop me from making a special delivery today.
the warrior express is about to start an epic expedition,
from the pinnacle of northeasterly turbo-hottness,
to the nadir of sauce-suckin' stinkbombs.
connecticut-bound, and down.
it's been a great week.
and i've got some great peoples who can hang out.
i am grateful for this time i have been given,
but if there was a suggestion box,
i'd make mention of the fact that i'd sure like some more.
that's the right amount, right?
road warriors and snowplows make for gripping tales
and gripping steering wheels,
and white powder, white knuckles, and white mountains.
it's all really happening.
no way.
all the way, or none of it;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, February 26


if you eat kangaroo,
and you aren't crocodile dundee,
you are suspect.
if you used to be vegan,
and now you get down on 'roo tail steaks?
you are definitely Off The List.
the price of success, i guess.
money never made a man, ninjas.
it has definitely changed one or two.
don't misunderstand me-
i make money, too,
and it has certainly changed me.
the thing is,
i don't have lots of money.
i have just about enough to stay still.
i'm not gettin' swole up movie-check pockets,
but i'm not dipping below the dangerzone redline, either.
i'm living precisely at my means.
that's a thin line of tightwad tightrope walking,
but i keep it balanced,
i keep it fair,
i keep it even,
and most of all, i keep it real.
that's a thing.
but i'm talking more specifically about the selfishness
that an abundance of eminence,
and the resultant prosperity that comes along with it, brings.
duders, c'mon.
it's easy to forget being a dumpster-diving
vegan punk rock radical made of compassion and idealism,
when you've got a guaranteed income
cut heavily from the fat off of scatophagic sycophants
who seek to supplement your scene and psyche for years to come.
you turn into something else.
it's inevitable.
ask any group of hold-out poutypants turned sell-out lootmakers.
(baby boomers, anyone?)
all i'm sayin' is:
foundational beliefs shouldn't be so easily shaken.
and marsupials?
grosser than veal calves.
grosser than Filipino balut eggs.
fuzzy, external womb, pink-raisin-baby dinosaur mammals?
that's the transition?
those're my favorite ones.
i used-to-be ____.
if you're not now, you never were.
now that's a hard style, huh?
you bet.
i never understood the conscience behind
free-range organic dead animal parts, duders.
if you treat 'em good before you kill 'em, then it's okay.
i don't care how nicely fed and cared for they were up until
the ol' sledgehammer-to-the-face moment.
or how large the farm they roamed was,
before they slit their necks with an X in a tiny room.
the dopest jail is still jail.
a free college degree on death row is no consolation
when it's finally lethal injection day, right?
spending extra loot to eliminate pesticides and hormones
doesn't change the fact that the animal was super-duper healthy
up until it's decomposing, dismembered carcass got heated up
to start rotting in your A*-hole.
suckle the protein, b!tches, and eat a bean.
just sayin'.
kind of like being vegan just to win.
you know who you are.
i don't get that either.
i know a guy who'd totally watch me eat a bevy of baby beasts,
and not even try to stop the senseless swallowing whole
of all the cutest and the fuzziest of furry friends,
just for the priviledge of being so much more vegan,
so much harder than me.
the dead animals are completely irrelevant.
why be vegan then?
to lord it over everyone else.
winning a competition no one else knew they were entered in.
almost makes me want to gnosh a wombat omelet,
and forfeit the contest.
there's no more nights.
tonight's the last one.
and that's no lie.
in the snow,
it'll be downsouth driving,
and daughterly delivery,
to the doo-doo buttery depths
of the constitution state.
the state of my constitution?
but in the meantime....
it's broccoli bread time!
small victories and big hunks of treats.
lucky us.
cyle and casey and cucch,
plus harvest and maple,
and my most lovely and delightful wifely hottness.
i'm surrounded on all sides,
including the inside,
and that's where and what counts;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, February 25


how many blog posts?
yes, duders, really.
a snowbound and windswept,
wintry white mountain friday night,
and that's the only way, really,
to mark one thousand one hundred eleven
truly told sagas of Folk Life & Liberty from
the worthy warrior poets to the rest of you.
that's exactly what the F* is up, duders.
a foot of heavy wet water?
we got that.
an unplowed uphill driveway?
white mountain tattoo does NOT make it easy for waterbabies
to get what they want, y'all.
mountaintop gurus make you work for their wisdom, after all.
and that's how it goes.
the second-to-last night before the girlie-girls go home.
it's never ever ever enough of them.
that's the sentiment from the bottom of my sh!t, ninjas.
little partial pebbles of albie rockness,
all alive and kicking it with their collective active participatory parents.
we doo-doo the sweet and sappy lovey-dovey stuff, neighbors.
real talk and human accessibility from your favorite gyspy stalwart?
don't judge me.
i'm happy, they're happy, we're happy.
eleven, an' that.
commemorative magic milemarkers aside,
it's been a rough, rugged, raw kind of week.
and the big weekend capper?
i get to get going on a whole other 'nother 'nother road trip,
back to connecticut.
disconnecticut, even.
and back again,
like, to the future, almost-
in a round-trip lightning-striking-viking
plunder-and-sack pilgrimage.
we go easy,
but we come rougher every time.
the rewards of responsible adulthood.
seven kinds of hard-styles,
in a three kinds of hardness capacity container.
overflowing with hard.
that's a thing,
(and that's what she said?)
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, February 24

secret tunnels.

hoth base night-raid mountainside
rabbit-warren wilderness snowbank
deluxe fort freshness.....
check 'em out:

glowsticks as entryway lights?
so good.

forty feet of hollow holes.
a veritable winter enclave of cocave of cave complexes.
go ahead and yell, ninjas-
snow muffles sound,
warm days make melting happen,
long nights make it ice over.
it's silent, and it's deep,
it would be dark too,
but our esteemed neighbors keep every vacationary light
lit to the highest possible lumen output.
flooding the night with light.
floodlights, even.
nothing says woodsly goodness like extended urban light pollution.
the stras are bright, but less so when those duders are about.
they aren't outshone,
just occluded by massholery.
valkyrie vixens and their dads don't let weak sauce dilute
the dopeness of snowfort playland taken to the limit.
that's what's up.
i was a full-on tax return tattooer today.
no joke.
matching kanji?
oh yeah.
matching initials as tribal?
astrolgical neck zaps?
you know it.
what could top that much hottness?
how about a dale earnhardt sr. #3,
and 'intimidator' under it in olde english?
albie rock, for the win.
victory, in this instance, is just delayed loss.
and that's always interesting, innit?
brutality, in fully-formed effect;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, February 23

no time. like the present.

that's a thing.
no time.
presently, that's what there is.
busy busybody business,
and balls-out nonstop uphill battle beastliness.
yeah, kinda.
sickness and vacationary family times
make sleep very nearly nonexistent.
after all,
sleep is restful,
and the wicked aren't supposed to get much.
which is weird,
since most lazy D-bags i know sleep in regularly.
of course,
all us early birds and sleepless heaps need a little somethin' extra
to get it poppin'.
somethin' along the lines of nuthin'.
nuthin' muffins that is!
no berries, bananas, nuts, chips, or whatever.
...just muffin.
not cake in a cup,
but nuthin' in a muffin.
with a heapin' helpin' of hot oat streusel on top.
wordimus prime, ninjas.
days off, over and out.
tomorrow the grind is back in effect,
with or without grist to get the gist.
dry grind?
like a homecoming dance, neighbors.
uncomfortable, ugly, awkward, and dreaded.
it's happening.
tonight, however,
it's good little girls with sugar, spice, and everything nice.
and chemical lights.
or as you skeevy dancehall doo-doo bumpers know 'em:
secret mutha-lickin' tunnels, kids.
in real life;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, February 22

big fun family togetherness times.

even pooped-up squack can't compete with that, my ninjas.
just the five of us,
in full effect.
having a time of it.
a good time of it, at that.
making the best out of the trials and tests
of vacation visitation frustration.
concentrate, duders.
with your mind.
and concentrate,
like a bouillon of super-saturated thunder-sap
distilled into Folk Life & Liberty warrior poetry.
so good.
we hit up the walk-in clinic this morning,
and got a deep-pockets diagnosis.
fifth's disease.
when you have it,
you just have it,
until you don't have it anymore.
$100 for a doctor to take three actual minutes
to tell us that.
we waited for over an hour in the reception area.
$33.33 a minute?
that's a rate i can respect,
even if the prognosis was petulant and prim.
we did the green elephant for dinner.
vegan shark gluttony, in big bigger bites,
lots of swallowing,
and little to no chewing.
the five fingers of folk life, neighbors.
that's a fistful of fretful feasting,
fraught with fresh veggies and spicy soy nuggets.
that's a thing.
for real.
since we were already in portland, maine,
we hit up trader joe's,
and whole foods, too.
crackery, uppity snobbery?
yes, please.
we've got holistic, healthy hunks of
twenty different kinds of treats an' that.
organic cookies are still fatty-boombatty calorie bombs,
but they don't have any funky chemicals,
so it's good for you, right?
we did it,
we drove,
to, fro, and in the mix of the midst of maine's downeast coastline....
and now we're back where we began.
with no time on either side of any minute in my life,
we made a slated-up slot
of family togetherness.
that is absolutely what's up.
full hearts,
full bellies,
full schedules.
oh, and fifth's disease.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, February 21

the dwindle.

the world does seem smaller, right?
i mean,
not necessarily in an overpopulated congestion way,
but more like there's a disconnect in the interconnectedness.
a break in the circadian circuits,
y'know- more arcs,
and fewer perfect concentric ever-expanding circles.
or maybe, just maybe,
the more inward we look, the circles are just getting smaller anyway.
radiating smoke ring water-ripple overlaps...
the epicenter is the smallest point,
and maybe that's where i'm at right now.
i'm talking about the dwindle.
it's a waning, declining, past-peak downturn kind of a thing.
once you hit your acme,
it's all downhill from there, yeah?
now THAT'S some underenthusiatic-type hard-style sh!t, son.
i guess that's just what it is.
there are a pair of gorgeous little girls hanging out up here.
they had a stepmom funtime explosion while i was tatzapping,
and the flavorful vibes are flowing fast and free.
i came home to hot dinner,
hotter wife,
and superfly fresh 'best dad ever' cards from the girls.
harvest and maple are having big fun.
it's woodsly.
it's goodsly.
and it is most assuredly all really happening.
snow fort?
arts and crafts?
green elephant?
tomorrow, ninjas.
there are good parts,
even during the dwindle.
if it's gonna blow out like a candle,
it's gonna also go out with a bang;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, February 20

fresh out of time.

sunday morning,
and it's anything but easy.
i'm tellin' you duders-
my immune system is apparently mislabeled.
because i am NOT immune to the nutmeg plague.
that's a thing, neighbors.
and it is no fine and dandy matter.
at all.
i have come to the conclusion that
connecticut has it in for me.
i was there for only the briefest of moments,
and somehow procured a doomsday virus for my face.
i'm serious.
tons of folks in the woodsly north have some kind of trailer-cough,
or hick-foot.
or woodbooger-lung,
or whatever other 'nother up-here ailments they catch....
but for us former city folk,
those redneck germs from up here are too backwoods and backwards
to infect our vegan-healing, white blood cell system-superpowers,
the kryptonite of connecticut's strength-sapping suck-sauce
has accomplished what the blackest of white mountain forests could not,
and aggressively infiltrated my lymph nodes an' that.
like assassins and spies,
these virulent infectious defectors and dissidents
sowed civil unrest in my antibody collective.
agent provocateurs, all up in my busy body business.
and now i've got that 'itis, ninjas.
head all swollen solid,
ears all plugged and deaf-defied,
nostrils all clogged/unclogged in unpedictable intervals.
it's pretty cool,
or it would be,
if it was happening to someone else.
of course,
that's not how it ever goes, now, is it?
if it weren't for hard healthy homeopathic herbs,
i'd probably just drip-dry until empty.
but that's weak sauce,
and we don't put that on our partcipatory pasta, right?
i've got a north african uprising in my brain bucket,
and the protestors aren't looking like they'll be leaving town square
anytime soon.
sorry, winter vacation,
but it's snots and spreading of the connecticut snotulism
all flippin' day.
indy 500?
i'll be doing laps to the bathroom and back.
pole position on the buttery, blarpity, booger express.
yesterday we made regular people look like zombies,
it's me who looks undead,
and that's without the use of latex and make-up.
airborne contagions,
all patient zero-type hot fiery feverskin tattoo time.
you'd better have eaten your eagle's eggs, kids.
you'll need molto nutrients to battle back against
this dastardly doo-doo butter.
i'm sayin',
it's happening,
and it's happening hard;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, February 19

z is for zombie.

photoshoot production photos?

very special thanks to jason and jojo rosen for making the trip from ledyard, ct.
check out jason's big action at monsterwood.
thanks go out in just as big amounts to
max, elsah, and brooklyn for gettin' covered in goobie blops,
peter marques for bringing guns and wearing masks,
and the generosity of the rovetti family for allowing the use of their home
as a makeshift super-rad portrait studio.
greenscreen, whaaaaaaaaaat?!
all in all, a great way to spend a saturday
in the great white wintry woodsly goodness.
a bunch of educated duders,
and active participants gettin' into it,
mixin it up,
and doo-dooing all the freaky sh!t.
my peoples bring the fresh noisy berserker dress-up fury, son.
and no thanks to any of y'all, ninjas who stayed home and sauced out.
because you wallflowers missed out.
big time.
it happened, neighbors.
...and it was good.
real life pretend zombie hottness.
if you aren't psyched,
you're probably, nay, most definitely an A*hole;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, February 18

happy returns.

i did not shoot the sheriff.
it may have actually have been the deputy, anyway.
the messenger is never ever really the one to blame.
that's a real thing.
over and out, connecticut.
a lot of driving,
almost no sleeping,
and a double dose of tatzap fever....
i'm home again, home again.
all jiggety-jig an' that.
late to bed and early to rise,
and a whole highway or three full of
road warrior poetry,
plus a couple of quickie fill-in tattoos,
and the day is done.
and so am i .
finished with being awake.
finished with being at work.
finished with being in the car.
and out;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, February 17

connected, severed.

aawwwwww, man;
my ninjas, i am trying to tell y'all-
doing what needs doing means doing the doo-doo butter.
that's no joke.
if you're tuning in late,
you may not know that i have two terrific little ladies in my life.
darling daughters.
valkyrie vixens.
and it's high time, well-nigh time, and the perfect time
for a little super-duper family togetherness action.
which is where the hardest style of vehicular sojourn comes in-
guess who has to take a whirlwind jaunt,
all p.m. powertrain,
and passing through massholechussetts,
to the nutmeg nut-job nut-bag state?
after work today i get to go to connecticut.
before work tomorrow, i drive home.
getting up early to get ahead of presidential weekend traffic,
just to get nestled back into the tourist turdblasts
of presidential weekend population pump-ups
in the presidential mountain range.
10 hours in the car,
with 6 hours of sleep in between.
real ninjas do real road warrior sh!t, neighbors.
the silver-lined bright spot in this sunless trek to turdtown?
once it's over and done with,
harvest and maple are gonna be where they belong-
the woodsly goodness of Folk Life & Liberty in
the white mountainous mount washington valley,
of northern (read: genuine real life) new hampshire.
before i go-go to the no-no spot,
i'm tattooing some more face skin.
another other 'nother set of surprisers...
and then driving down to the swamp.
the bog of eternal stench, even.
doubled-down on stress, kids, for sure.
actually, now that i think about it-
responsible adulthood called earlier;
told me to 'take it deep',
whatever that means.
hours and hours and hours.
that's what's up.
and let's not forget that we're adding the wolfen lunar tug
of the full-moon guiding-nightlight.
back to the o.g. den where the cubs got whelped, ninjas.
hours after hours, all afterhours...
circadian rythms,
and concentric circles.
tightening cycles,
inside ever-expanding gyres.
add in some pyres,
and you can bet it's all really happening.
next stop:
weak-sauce waterbaby world...
you're lucky you'll be asleep when i arrive-
we comin' rougher every time;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, February 16


dope dinner.
all roasty, rooted, and doused in homestyle homemade mushroom gravy.
when it's late night, and past time, and family dinner needs cooking,
we doo-doo the triple threat, neighbors.
tofurky roast.
brussels sprouts.
onions, carrots, 'tatoes, and sweet'uns.
the oh-so so-goodness got all kinds of ovened-up.
we like to share some foodie parts in a big way.
the best thing about a panful of tubers
is that a panful is too much for three people.
too much is what time it is when it's time for dope dinner.
and that means leftovers.
and leftover dope dinner makes for even better big breakfast.
scrambled up 'fu, with that pimenton dulce ahumado?
english-type toasting bread?
of course.
baconesque slabs of some kind of ruddy brown strip material?
home-style re-roasted rootin' homefries?
what am i?
an A*-hole?
no flippin' way.
i'm a full-to-burstin' fat-bellied barbarian.
so good.
so the iraq war was based on the word of some dude.
some dude who said that iraq was a serious biological threat.
and it turns out that some dude was tellin' fibs.
big fat wartime liarmouth fibs.
no chemical monster sauce.
no truck-bed rockets.
no nuthin',
but a disgruntled ex-iraqi national who
'had a problem' with iraq's regime.
had a problem, neighbors.
and when he saw the chance to cry wolf,
AND get results,
and indirectly kill 100k people, mostly civilians.
now that's a problem, son.
oh, don't worry,
he's proud of what he did.
and possibly not the only one, either.
i mean, germany gave him asylum, too.
i know.
true stories, told truly, are how we get busy up here-
but i guess tall tales turdblasted out
is how the other 'nother doo-duders do it.
weak sauce is an epic understatement.
freedom based on falsehood?
the ends justify the means?
am i crazy,
or did somebody just turn on the suckiness all the way past eleven?
full-moon lunacy just got outshone.
but, at least liarmouth sh!theads got what they wanted,
and freedom is ringing somewhere.
just probably not in the hearts or minds of all those dead folks.
we tell the truth.
because we always employ the best policy.
worthy warrior poets.
real-life documentarians.
active participants,
and goodsly, woodsly, honest, honest-to-goodness
gratitude and generosity.
i am grateful for where i'm at,
who i'm with,
and for the truth.
it's all really happening-
good, bad, and ugly;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, February 15

day off layoff

panniecakes or bananas?
pannie cakes AND bananas.
banana panniecakes!
start your sh!t right, son!!
oh yes.
when the woodsly havoc takes a deep breath,
and allows for a lapse in the lightning-strike launches,
it's not actually a day off, duders.
it's a race to cram in as much hottness as possible.
that's right, we work twice as hard at relaxing than we do at working.
and when it's time to disembark from the brouhaha barbarism,
you've got to begin with syrup, and potassium,
and sweet griddled-up goobieblops.
now that's the darn truth.
i'm just sayin',
when the buttery batter gets browned up,
errands get run, ninjas.
the hoth base is under construction, kids.
for my kids.
secret tunnels,
in the snow.
an underground ice base.
a snow fort beyond comparison.
the big fun in the big drifts.
it's underway.
and when the second phase gets finished tomorrow,
you'll get a sneak peek.
don't sleep, neighbors.
you wouldn't want to miss out, would you?
i didn't think so.
don't forget about saturday.
the big zombie make up photo shoot.
you'll wish you were there if you aren't;
and you can be there.
so be there.
i mean, really, ninjas.
blood, guts, guns, and green screens?
that's what's up.
let's make it work.
take a look outside.
up in the sky.
that big pizza pie?
no, it's not amore, friends.
it's the howlin' holy-sh!t hottness,
and it's got the wolfen wendigo a-go-go
going into overdrive.
i don't have to doo-doo that weak sauce until some other time.
i've got silver to shun,
skin to shed,
and berserker battle-beast burliness to blast out.
the waxing is waxing, an' that.
that's how we get busy on a non-business day,
and even more is how we take on the night.
right about now,
i can almost feel the tidal tug of a gnarly, nuanced neap leap.
and nobody has firewood worth a dang,
and i'm fresh out.
howling mad,
and huddled close for comfort.
thank heavens for all the fur under this pink veil;
never quiet, never soft..... 

Monday, February 14

be mine.

true love.
that's all well and good,
if you're a sad sack of 'sauce, suckas.
warriors of the poetic sagas want something way better:
possessive love.
obsessive love.
progressive love.
tainted love.
today is the big day.
saint valentine,
and his 24 hour chocolates and satin soiree.
it's time for conversations about hearts,
and conversation hearts.
two-word messages,
and one-two-punch knockouts.
swollen aortas,
fist-sized muscles moving floodwaters
of red and white.
now that's a heart attack, duders.
hard-style pounding,
and hard style pounding.
punching platelets, ninjas.
pugilistic plasma.
the vital life-nectar,
sweet syrup from the geyser of romance.
easy now, i'm talkin' about in your chest.
less-than-three, an' that.
<3...c'mon. you like it.
the constituent filtration system.
ciruclating, like rings.
no ends, no new beginnings...
just more and more of all this.
air, nutrients, eagle's F*ing eggs.
attacking hearts and minds,
and winning.
that's what we're on about.
stoking the ebullient ashes in the hot fire furnace,
and deeping to the doo-doo dolors of
it's cast iron black-history breakbeat kettledrum cadence.
arrows, and eros/cupid naked flying babies,
and piercing stabulator robin hood quiverings.
...and candy.
don't forget the candy, neighbors.
sweetness to balance the bitterness of loves-me-nots,
and sugar to boost the sappy saccharine sentiments
of the insincere and unworthy.
corny cards and corn-syrup carotid-clogs.
shot through, and stickily sealed shut again.
real talk,
and real hearts.
and conversation.
it's not enough to have free love, kids.
i want to own it.
be mine.
not everybody's.
that's word.
i've got my sparkle-magical woodsly goodness,
and my two best buddies,
one of whom is my turbo-hot and fantastic wifely dopeness.
you can keep them chocolate jauns,
unless you'd like 'em melted by all the warm feelings
and hot fires we're druid-drumming and shaman circling
right here at the homestead.
hot chocolate?
hot fire?
aww, c'mon.
circles, in smoke,
circles, in arteries,
in corpuscles and capillaries.
flowing forward, and back again,
over and over.
my heart beats.
yours get beaten.
heart attacks and conversations.
true stories told truly.
it all happens-
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, February 13

thirteen ways to say some things.

sunday morning.
the thirteenth.
unluckiest of numbers,
lamest of days,
hardest of styles.
even a t-n-t breakfast of tea and toast
may not be able to pull up from nosedive like this one.
wrenches abound, duders.
in every way, on every nut, and every pipe.
metaphoric sausage-squeezing tightening-vise constricting?
you know this, my ninjas:
really-real mutha-uckas should be getting busy doing so much more
than just working and sleeping and eating.
that's word.
we only get this time we've been given,
and not one extra day for perfect attendance,
or additional work-ethic related drive or motivation.
a finite fleet of fleeting hours,
and an empty vessel for the contents therein.
what the F* are we gonna fill in all these blanks with?
barbarian battle-beasts.
and participation.
especially participation.
passive aggressive just won't work with warrior poetry.
aggressive aggressive? that's more like it.
shore-storming berserker attacking and sacking.
we plunder whilst we bring the thunder,
and what we're taking is time.
our time.
that's exactly it, kids.
we take our time, at breakneck pace.
sunday, bloody sunday.
like a british epithet,
or a dry-air woodstove nosebleed.
we doo-doo that pulse-pounding hard-pounding real sh!t.
it's that time.
every time.
halfway to march, already.
march into spring,
and spring into summer.
it's a just a short series of walks, skips, hops, and jumps,
and before you know it,
we're out of time.
which means, in the meantime,
there are sure to be some mean times,
and hard-styles,
to beset and besiege the big business and big action
of a woodsly, goodsly, Folk Life & Liberty lifestyle.
things, neighbors.
things happen.
and if you aren't at eleven on the hottness scale,
you're probably already out of time.
it's all really happening.
all these things.
the lamest day,
the unluckiest number,
the easiest morning,
the hardest styles;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, February 12

fun is how you make it....

...not where you make it.
that's the truth.
good thing, too-
because the saturday crowd at the tatblastin' studio
is never ever really so much of the easiest one.
we save that for sunday mornings.
i made my own fun today.
it wasn't easy, but also was not that hard,
and yet, somehow, twice as loud and fresh.
there were hard styles galore at the zip-zap store today.
inner arms, trapezius floppers, ditch-pitchin' pokers,
and a cover-up to close out the stay-late night times.
stay all day, and pound it out all night?
fun is how you make it, like i said.
i sometimes surprise myself.
which is probably nothing compared to how i startle the clients.
consternation and confounding confusion is what i leave in my wake.
and that's just during my least wakeful minutes.
from the woodsly goodness,
it's saturday night.
and that's pretty much all that there is.
i'm making fun.
it's what i do;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, February 11


this is it.
today is the day.
just like every other day,
except even more so than usual.
what makes today more of a day than yesterday or tomorrow?
haven't you been paying attention?
didn't you read the title?
what are you?
an A*hole?
it's the eleventh.
...and that's what's up.
a ferocious, fantastic, furious, spurious, bi-curious,
glorious, uproarious, drastic, spastic, caustic cacophony
of berserker barbarian bearded battle-beastly big business,
and raging savage stormswept gypsy thunder.
i'm just sayin' it's set to be a good day.
that's all.
conditions are perfect.
there's tats what need zappin',
food what needs cookin',
hard styles desperate for pounding,
and duders who need an infusion of warrior poetry.
long, drawn-out, over-the-top, and totally true.
sagas, son.
the hot fire spat wrench-tightened temperant tales;
told truly and lived well.
it's all really happening.
embroidery might be dope.
i'm not sure, exactly.
i mean,
i always associated it with polo shirts and golf,
or those old timey primers (which actually are pretty dope).
but these days,
i'm all about the embroidery action.
on hats and treats and sh!t.
no polo shirts for me, thanks.
that hellhammer logo for ZERO is pretty flippin' fresh,
and it's stitched onto some other 'nother goodsly goodies,
and that makes those treats louder and harder and fresher.
for my face, via my whole head.
and that is good.
for everybody.
embroidery, duders.
that's like screenprinting for crackery people.
i'm on the fence about the implications.
i think that very dad-like dads and duders
will be psyched about the texture and the luxury
of sewn-up sweetness.
plus, embroidery goes great with righteous rightness.
like the right to keep and bear, b!tches.
and with the proposed 'constitutional carry' law
slated for state approval this year, (look that hottness up, ninjas)
i think my firearm-friendly responsible-americanism
could use a deep and delicious dose of thread-count sophistication.
that's a real thing.
you like it.
right now.
the truly true and tried, tied-up fried-up flambe, ninjas.
hot F*ing fire.
the pyres are piled,
the kindling is kindled with combustible kindred,
and the catalysts are awaiting the order to attack.
time takes time,
and we take it for ourselves.
one for you,
two for me,
three to get ready,
four to go,
and one for good luck.
add it up, neighbors,
and you get eleven;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, February 10

real life.

hard styles.
that's what happens,
every day in every way.
up here,
in the woodsly goodsly hottness-
that's pretty much the general rule, ninjas.
i mean it.
if you've got any sense of style,
it's almost always a hard style.
drunk flunkies, all redneck and incorrect,
ill, illiterate, and filled to the brim with rural resentment...
those quiet, stale, softnesses make the
eleventh-level-type really-real warrior poets seem worth a darn.
you know what i mean, yeah?
we're doo-dooing what we do,
and not letting the dense-packed doldrums kick our A*s.
that counts for a lot.
i'm sayin', son-
without them, we'd just be us.
the have-nots, neighbors,
those weak-sauce wallflowers are here to
make the sweet parts that much sweeter,
because that bitter batter makes the Folk Life better.
it's like sourdough, duders.
they're sour about how little dough they've got,
but they keep rising up like yeasty beasts.
that's that >10 crowds' jam, i guess.
and that's word, you dread pirates-
life is pain,
anyone who says differently is selling something.
that's real life.
go ahead and document it;
i meant it.
what it means, my friends,
is that as long as we keep keeping it up,
our superfly turbo-dope mothra magic
is gonna continue to carry the day.
it has to.
if not then what is the whole point?
no, for real-
i'm asking you.
it's one of those days, kids.
a perfect 10.
sunny, shiny, bright, tight, and alright.
even the calendar says it's a ten.
no foolin',
since when is ten good enough for anything?
i mean,
what are we?
a bunch of A*-holes?
no way are we gonna let the date set the stage
for a watered-down waterbaby saucefest.
it's an eleven kind of ten.
it's thursday.
it's thor's day.
that's hammer time,
AND thunder time.
and self-regenerating goat chariot time...
maybe not that last one,
although us crap-ricorns could sure use an auto-heal feature like that.
what i mean to imply is,
it'd be nice to know that i could have a do-over clause written into
my skaldic stanzas,
because i am on that lightning-striking viking-type jauns today.
so HARD.
if you have the means,
i suggest you come by and get a little...
for your face.
thunder is just the sky applauding electifying actions.
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, February 9

breakfast of champions.

pannie cakes,
pannie cakes,
baker's man.
fry me some flat and sweet treats,
as fast as you can-
griddle in the middle and the stacks pack back.
thick, hearty, buttery, yet fluffy, golden and delicious.
that's how the day gets started when the Folk Life folks
get together early-shirley in the a.m. for nutritious fast breakin'.
slogged down in a saucy slather of real maple mutha-b!tchin' syrup,
and none of that corn-sap suckholery, either.
not once, not never.
it's practically impossible to have a bad time when your guts
and butts are digesting a pile of pannies.
me and my most excellent wifely hottness played host
to the cucch and our good buddy casey.
we gorged with gastric shark-gluttony.
pounds of pannies got pounded.
because that's how we doo-doo that sh!t.
and that's exactly what we did.
it is 2011 isn't it?
so where is the thunder?
i've got the good stuff,
but now i want the loud(er),
hardest of the hard-style hardness.
for all the skull-flesh flensing features anywhere.
11, for goodness' sake.
that means zombies, duders.
and what i mean by that is:
who wants to be a zombie?
we've got movie magic and tomsavini handbooks,
makeup artists, photographers, and props....
there's fake blood, real bullets, and tons of professional expertise,
all building towards the 19th of february.
what we need are active participants, y'all.
that means you.
you wanna be a zombie?
we'll make it happen.
on the ones, my ninjas-
if you've got the desire,
we can hook you up.
zombie photo shoot time is coming up.
get at me, ninjas,
and you can be a part of something super eleveny.
don't sleep on this.
life is happening,
and you're part of it.
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, February 8


yesterday i was wondering where the good stuff was at...
today, i know, neighbors;
it's right here,
where it has alwaysd belonged.
i'm tellin' you duders about what's up, now.
good peoples, in the right place, at the right time-
even if they like to shave away the barbarian burliness,
and replace it with yosemite selleck situations.
i'm on that justache surprise arrival explosion action...
hold on,
i'll just show you what time it is:
awesome o'clock, my ninjas!
the cucch is back again!!
just when the deep freeze had ice pop stopped up the works,
the hamdenista hottness is here to heat it back up again.
lucky ugly duckling that i am,
i've already got a ninja making dinner with my wifey.
tandem noodle gnoshfest feasting?
i got that.
my two most favoritest, most bestest ones preparing them jauns?
double-up on the dopeness, doo-doo butterballs,
because here is where the good stuff is.
don't worry,
with all this twice-as-awesomeness everywhere,
it's a wonder twin wonderwall of works in the works...
and wrenches, too.
i'm takin' it back, kids.
i think there's even a double ear infection brewing in my braincase.
F* cotton swabs,
i'm de-waxing, waxing loquacious, and whacking my lobes
with a set of metric hexes and pipe-fitting monkeys.
that's fixing to go apesh!t on that kind of hard-style, innit?
it is.
if you stop enjoying my misfortunes and fortunes for a minute,
you can hear that spooky moustache whispering.
so a'spooky, son.
i am grateful for these peoples,
and i look forward to spanning time,
even as i appreciate the time i'm spanning right now.
this is how it is.
wrenches and nuts,
making bolts start tightening like lightning;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, February 7

wordimus for the turdimus at the terminus.

where's all the good stuff at?
for real, y'all.
where on earth did you mutha-lickas hide them jauns?
we got cold air,
snowblind bright bright brightness, all salted, shiny, and slick,
there's plenty of miniature mountains made of mounded blizzard leavings,
heck, ninjas,
we've even got ski-rack attack vehicles s.u.v-ing all over the dang place.
but i'm lookin' for the good stuff...
good news, good food, good friends, good miki-fikin' times.
all the time, some of the time, one time, any time;
where in the holy F* are they?
i'm on that great hall viking winter barbarian get-together-type sh!t.
gratitude, generosity, and tag-team tandem active participation.
on est ensemble, ninjas.
we are together.
i'm for serious on this.
it's february, already.
watches with wings, an' that.
just sayin', time flies, son!
a best-buddy of mine from way back in the day turns 35.
and i haven't talked to him in well over 10 or so years.
that's flippin' crazy.
hangin' out on every afternoon for two mutha-b!tching decades,
and then nothing?
just where is that good stuff, then?...
like i said.
it's not as if i can afford to spend relationships freely, either.
i don't exactly make friends easily.
so the ones who make the grade get bonus points forever.
hard-style hard, loud, fresh peoples are few and far between.
and coupled with cast-iron skin,
iron-clad temperance,
and ironic temerity,
the order is taller than most folks can fill.
(even though most of my main duders are shorter than i am)
after all,
you must be at least *this* dope to ride this ride.
i mean,
if you can't go to eleven,
you can't hang out....
but still-
for old times' sake, suckas-
where is all the good stuff at?
i've got some,
and i want some more.
strap on your snowshoes,
pull up your water(baby)proof pants,
raise anchor on your longships,
and set sail due north.
here is where the power is.
(that's some reiki mystic magic mage movement, kids)
i am grateful for you Folk Life folks that i span
this airborne hourglass alongside.
the rest of you duders need to hop on board,
or hit the bricks.
it is happening.
let's make it even moreso;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, February 6

super-stupid, maybe

what's so flippin' super about superbowl sunday?
not much, duders.
buffalo wings and t.v. ad campaigns,
fat guys in plastic armor,
fatter guys shirtless with body paint,
and commercial beer and nachos by the truckful.
i'm more than just kind-of-whatever about the stupidbowl.
i hate it.
not that i watch it, ever,
or give a handful of turds about who wins it,
or whose fantasy football pool pays the best dividends.....
if football is your thing, as far as i'm concerned,
you'd better be talking about soccer, my ninjas.
otherwise, it's all just a b!tchlike batch of
sports, and sports, and sports, and sports.
it just all sounds like blabbity-blah baby-talk to my ears.
and i can't translate that kind of weak-sauce whinging
into coherent hot-fire-spit syllables of warrior poetry.
but seriously, nevermind about me,
you have fun with your lucky jersey,
and your hot sauce,
and your fat A* friends.
i think it should be called the super-bowels.
given what goes into the average sportsfan tonight,
they'll flippin' need 'em.

dear america,
it's time to get excited,
about commercials!
you win
....for suckiest use of a sunday.
don't worry about us, though, neighbors.
there are still ladies who need to get tattooed today,
in the snow, and ice, and stupidbowlery-
these ladies of leisure feel no qualms about venturing forth
in the inclemency to inflict their fancies on our loud, fresh, hardness.
i'm serious.
tax return money-spending doesn't take weekends off, y'all.
and it's a good thing, too.
all those tortillas and velveeta aren't free, after all.
do they leave fattie-boombattie tips,
gratuitous gratuities of epic appreciation?
never ever.
that's what happens with an h&r block debit card, son.....
you can't be leavin' extra loot with that shystie jauns.
tax-returns, instant gratification,
life-altering executive ink injections
and cheapskate pig skin pork-rind grinders!
i did,
but only because i was listening for the sound of
total awesomeness dying in a last-gasp guttering sputter.
that just happened.
it all really is.
iron is anathema to the fey.
that's that cold-iron exorcism action.
from what i understand,
the supernatural hates iron.
ferrous ferocity fights off bogeymen, an' that.
gridiron, however, acts as a summoning circle for
slovenly sloths and subservient spouses.
demonic dollops of fat dookie duders, on the ones.
when i rep a bowl,
there's never sports of nugs within a thousand miles....
i mean it,
it'd better have cereal or soup in it,
or at least 10 pins of regulation, duck-, or even candle-sized business.
that is no joke.
and while ten-pins goes to eleven,
the super one goes to the toilet.
poop-boat tardifiyin',
and doo-doo buttery bleu-cheese blops.
hard styles are how i get busy, mutha-uckas.
whether it's first and ten,
or it's fourth and goal,
there's still no hope of scoring.
woodsly goodness still wins,
supertime suppertime hits the showers;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, February 5

storming the gates...

snow as high as the windows?
yeah, i got that.
snow higher than the tree branches?
pretty much.
snow, right now, outside, adding height, weight, and fury
to the otherwise idyllic woodsly goodsly winter wonderland?
you know it.
were we busy as a mutha-beaver, bad weather and all?
this is new england, my ninjas,
no amount of snow is gonna stop the local lurky-jerks
from wastrel spending and squandering their early tax returns.
that's that 'power to stay-poor positive thinking'.
they do, and i'm positive it won't stop anytime soon, either....
shovel, shovel, shovel, shovel.
year of the rabbit,
and the burrowing hasn't taken a second off yet.
warrens, tunnels, holes, heaps, burrows and barrows.
this weather is a wreck.
and it's scheduled to keep dumping a whitewash of hoary icebombs
for days and days to come.
eleven inches, every day.
in fact,
real life documentation is over for the moment.
i've got saturday night fever,
and the fever comes with drippy nose,
aching ears,
forzen digits,
and soggy shoes.
this is responsible adulthood.
this is north woods living.
this is all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, February 4


how serious about surviving the worst case scenario are you?
i mean,
do you have the capacity and wherewithal
to bring the burly, berserker barbarian battle-beastly
primal instinct-type business to bear when it counts?
i hope so.
just sayin', duders-
i know i have peoples with generators,
and people with big ol' gardents,
and people with cases of ammo.....
but y'know what else i have?
i have some really real ninjas molto dedicated
to striking back and rockin' the hardest of hard styles.
zombie defensive systems are not for the weak sauciest, son.
my business partner's son, son!
zero heavy industries has die-hard duders who need it on 'em.
(and here you haven't even bought a shirt yet, huh?)
that's that really real talk in practice with purpose.
how do you know when an image has enough hottness?
when it makes a bold tattooable turnout in person, on a person.
that's some sh!t.
the exact same sh!t that us woodsly warrior poets totally doo-doo.
and in case you were actually wondering just how stylish
a conceptual engineer needs to be all lookin' like an' that?
teleport to this jauns:
year of the rabbit, you playboys and bunnies....
check the scarf and hat combo.
hottness like you read about in thai ladyboy periodicals.
i'm not sayin',
i'm just sayin'.
wordimus prime;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, February 3


year of the bunny, my ninjas.
rabbity asian hottness,
complete with lucky feet
and rapid reproduction capacities.
a whole year of coneys cuttin' it up
and comin' correct.
like a rump-dumping thumper session,
the pittery-pat-the-bunny magic is happening.
happy, happy, happy.
happy new year to all you cottontailed co-conspirators
and large-and-in-charge lagomorphs.
big ears?
big teeth?
big feet?
you know it.
that's right, duders-
your main man in the woodsly goodsly great white north
is one of the luckiest lops in the warren.
i'm a rabbit, neighbors,
and this year is MINE.
y'know what goes all the way to eleven?
vegan donuts.
we get the love jones, b!tchbags-
holly sent us an early valentine's day present.
lucky rabbits get the mutha-lickin' frostable freshness,
for their faces.
thanks for lovin' up our tasty treats, via postal express explosion.
good one, mama bomb-bomb-pajamatron.
is it tax return tattoo time?
you be the judge.
i had three first timers.
in a row.
uno, dos, tres, an' that... a row, y'all.
barbed wire armband?!
oh, yes, indeed.
male nudity with a gandering glimpse of flagrant full-frontal foulness?
how about a hand tattoo for a intoductory pounce into hard-style reality?
i doo-doo that freaky sh!t, son!
the woodwork is oozing out the weirdonauts,
and i guess i've been elected to helm the ship of fools.
oh, captain, my captain.
we're lollipoppin' and loop-de-loopin'.
this is it,
and that's all there need to be;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, February 2

watch that first step....'s a dooo-oo-ooozy.
that's right, all you ned ryersons-
it's groundhog day.
and i sure as heckfire remember you.
for the record,
punxsutawney phil can go screw.
a promise of early spring right now
is as of much use as an extensive knowledge
of sanskrit is to someone trapped in a gutter in lima.
i'm sayin'.
keep your big action to yourself,
and if you aren't showing up with a shovel,
then please, just stay wherever the heck you already are.
the woodsly goodness doesn't need any more weak-sauce waterbabies
slaloming along it's wet, wintry roadways.
stay home, stay warm, and cut it out.
ma nature is giving us the frigid F*-blasting.
seems oxymoronic, kinda, huh?
you like it.
8 years.
in a row.
that's no joke.
coincidentally on groundhog day-
and repeating ad infinitum ever since.
yes sir.
8 years of woodsly goodsly Folk Life & Liberty.
and in no way is THAT depressing.
(are you sure?)
and to think i showed up here
with just half a kitchen garbage bagful of owned property,
and now all of THIS is happening.
payments, payments, bills, and expenses.
or, as you capitalist vermin would know it better as:
happy anniversary, to me.
seriously, neighbors.
getting away from all the doo-doo buttery nancypantsery,
and making the magic happen was the very best move ever made...
that's really real, on the real, and documented.
i said it, i meant it, and i made it happen.
(take that, red spikes)
.....and now,
i'm buried under feet of snow.
nothin' like a little blizzard to reinforce some affirmative life decisions, huh?
hard styles and hard weather.
it's all really happening.
and i wouldn't trade it for all the heat on the equator.
after all,
we've got all the hottness we could ever need right here;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, February 1

RABBIT, rabbit!

good F*n' luck...
that's what i think i'm gettin' a good ol' grabhand full of.
and in two more days?
you know it.
it's year of the rabbit.
mantras, mandalas, calendars, and anniversaries.
dates and dates and dates and dates....
rabbit, rabbit, groundhog, rabbit.
it's a menagerie of semi-rodentate mammals, my ninjas.
like the bone thugs told us-
it's the first of the month.
so grab yo' checks, duders,
and come on.
and while you're at it,
put away those guitars,
and break out the drums, y'all.
B.H.M. is what's up.
so, if you live anywhere west of california,
you're probably getting snowed on.
there's that good luck, huh?
yeah. sure it is.
what do barbarian snow-bunnies do in the
abominable blizzardly wizardly winter sky duel doo-doo butter?
they spit out a bitter bit of hot hot fire.
that's correct, mutha-b!tches-
combustion is a must when the going gets tougher than usual.
and it's beyond tough, too.
frozen tundra-type hardness,
and ice-cold shoulders in so many ways.
i give you the heated-up hardwood....
for your face:
flame on, neighbors.
it got better and better, too.
fire has been known to get busy like that.
check it out:
that's snow ghost goodness,
and haunted like smoke and magic.
we may be buried under an apocalyptic avalanche of arctic awfulness,
but inside, where it counts,
it's all orcs and isengard, duders.
fiery forges,
brutal bellows,
and barbarian battle-beast blazes.
inside these bones,
there is molten marrow.
white-hot folk life flurries,
with a 100% chance of dope.
never quiet, never soft.....