mutha.

happy mutha-uckin' mutha's day, b!tches!!!!
that's right duders,
it's mommy day.
so call your ma and say thanks.
it's brunch day, kids.
that's no joke.
mimosas and pancakes an' that,
with old ladies in hats,
like a royal wedding with less awesomeness.
us non-drinkie-sippers may get rad
on some ginger-ale virgin versions.
fizzy lifting without getting lifted.
spirits aren't made for that kind of pepped-up talk.
huh?
it's kind of a mom-free zone in the woodsly goodness.
at least it is in the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
that's not the point though is it?
get on the phone and say your piece to your momma dukes.
make that call, ninjas.
***********
sunday. sunday. sunday.
there's work to do.
and we're just the type of worthy warrior poets to doo-doo it.
we've got candy beans and wrenches,
and site-specific uses for both.
we've chosen our path,
and we're barreling down it at breakneck pace.
reckless rack'em-stack'em rock'em sock'em sh!t, son.
brunch-type jauns.
tatzap-type hard styles.
real life.
really real.
it's happening.
nylon chest rigs,
injection molded polymer,
jacketed hyrdoshock hollow points,
and a color-coded cache of coyote brown bits.
...and pieces.
mutha-flippin';
never quiet, never soft.....