Friday, September 30

das it!

adios, september.
too quickly,
yet another page turns on the calendar.
the first week of fall,
the last half-empty week of the month.
time passes, time rushes,
and the minutes that matter most meander aways away.
more weekends to spend under the auspices
of a world-weary workhorse and the poetry of perpetual motion.
can't stop, won't stop,
don't stop.
it's always really happening,
working at play,
playing at work,
and swallowing globules of brown blops.
sending off september with some indian food?
you know i need a dollop of spice
to saucify and ignite my night.
i doo-doo that pureed protein type sh!t.
ZERO heavy industries had an informal meeting today.
as in-
i left work to get some delicious ciabatta bread,
and happened across the gang at the gun shop.
but when i say i 'happened across',
i mean i stalled for time on my break-away,
and we went over and saw the supremely sexy
new zombie training target proofs.
holy smokes, neighbors!!
they're pretty flippin' elite,
and we take delivery of 'em on the 11th.
you know it.
as i say goodbye to the month,
i also bid a fond farewell to some more
of my rapidly dwindling follicles.
awwwwwwww, man.
when you can see the back of your own head's bald spot,
from the front,
it's time to re-assess the viability of your haircut.
seasonably appropriate, anyway.
my hair changes color,
it falls off.
autumn on my dome, duders,
fall on my mind,
zombies on my brain....
get ready for october, kids;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, September 29


perpetual gloom.
that's the outside atmosphere.
it's been dark, dark, dark,
all dang day long,
...with a marginally better live show.
leaves have become slick slippers
and roadside hazards;
low-lying clouds and the foggy haze of
rainy mountain grey areas;
the pattering pitter of pouring skies,
pouring their guts out on the ground;
the smell of soaked earth and sleepy roots.
september is whisking away under cover of weather.
what is this today?
it's the day, neighbors.
today was all about worthy warrior participants.
we had molto visitors at the studio,
hanging about, hanging out, hanging around, an' that.
it's nice to know that i can compound all my sociability
into the workday at the tattbomb laboratory.
fine looking ladies abounded,
manly men astounded,
and in-between, some zaps got blasted.
these kinds of dreary A*-dragging days need some of that.
peoples, spanning time together,
and enjoying each others company.
or at least enjoying everybody's company but mine.
i've just got that way about me, duders.
an acquired taste, even,
of the utmost in excess and extremism.
that's how the cookie crumbles.
with chocolate on the outside,
and peanut buttery hottness in the middle.
no, i'm serious:
moon pie for your eye!
okay, you got me-
i'm just killing time and filling space.
(it's almost the best, burly, book-reading hour)
each day brings me one closer to the fair.
the fair, y'all.
eight days of gluttony and gastronomic garishness.
so close, i can smell the grease, the manure,
and the nedneck pheromones...
or maybe that's fried oreos.
they're almost chemically identical.
falafel is in my future.
mountains of it.
the level of consumption?
you can count on it.
if you're within five hundred miles,
i expect to see you there.
first falafel is on me;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, September 28

the good life.

double or nothing?
how about double-nothing!
that's how i spanned the chasms of non-work.
days off mean days off.
all the way off, duders.
a dead zone,
nullified progress,
and only a whole helluva lot of words read
and their impact on my nerdbrains to show for it.
and i'm pretty much certain that that's invisible,
more like nothing to show, except the fingerprints
and dog-ears on the pages and pages and pages
overturned and devoured over the course of days and nights.
for real, neighbors.
i got caught up in some word-eater digestion jauns.
and that's a seriously hard style when fall times are a-callin'.
...but i just can't resist a good book.
i've got another 'nother stack of stories to eat.
and when it's time to get activated,
worthy warriors of the written word get activated.
and so before i recognized my mid-morning
it was already late afternoon,
and i'd hard-pounded my way through
two and a half books,
and neglected an overcast day of doings.
it's been a little minute since my last dedicated reading day.
i got snared pretty flippin' hard i guess.
it's these dang omnibus editions, y'all.
all the stories, at once, in one place, in a row.
glen cook writes a holy sh!t-ton-load of books.
and they're pretty mutha-b!tchin' expert.
i'm wading through a fat stack of collected works,
and there're more coming out within the month.
another omnibus!
make-pretend stories,
swallowed whole like a shark-glutton,
by a true-story telling real-life documentarian.
you aren't always what you eat, i guess;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, September 27


in mutha-b!tch-slappin' full effect!!
sunny, clear, warm weather,
farm stands, foliage falling,
and autumn experiences from dawn until dusk.
our sleepover guests left before we even woke up.
from there,
it's been super-delightful down-to-earth new england hottness.
all F*ing day.
wordimus prime, neighbors.
we hit up a couple farms,
and got some epic winter squash for eating and decorating,
and some magic hippie popcorn for shark-chomping,
and a whole vegan homemade pie, too!
the teleport requests your checking of it:
weston's, y'all.
they put out a sexy spread for the season, huh?
...for your face, ninjas!
i pop the hardest one over this kind of folksy sh!t.
speaking of poppin',
check out this rainbow of indian summertime expertism:
i thought that there should be representatives from
the super-fancy unnecessary faction present and accounted for.
and kids,
we have SO got they.
just to make sure i did nothing productive,
but that i did everything to eleven,
home cookin' was in order,
as in- an executive order,
so the farmshare feast tonight was pretty rad:
two kinds of kale and onions,
fresh herbs,
slabs of fried up pea-based protein,
and braised, browned butternut in 'butter',
with garlic, sage and thyme from here, y'all.
you like that rice garnish?
you should.
it's three different delicious varieties of sage,
straight from the Fortress' gardens.
like i said...
... perfect.
these days are what makes all the times worth it.
and spanned,
in equal measure;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, September 26


what's waaaay better than a crusty, lispy, wispy,
gender-non-specific, expansive-spectacled,
sleepover art party?
but especially the avett brothers
doing a double-encore.
that's right.
the object was definitely way more.
like, twice the extra-type jauns.
many happy returns to the stage,
and non-stop rocking,
as loud and hard as possible,
while also much faster than any
under-eleven-speed album versions.
and all without the benefit of a single accordion, too.
we made sure to get a solid sonic
our entire entourage got upgraded seats,
and got molto rad from some expert sounds.
even the drunkenness of the masses,
and the clouds of stonery gaytardation,
 couldn't quench the fiery flavor
that those skinny southern boys were belting out.
concerted efforts,
and maybe even speculatively.
i think that having real peoples around makes
experiences a little bit better.
if it's shared, it's a verifiable recollection,
instead of a semi-shaped personal perception.
maybe not,
but i'm still glad i hung out with my ninjas, y'heard
we even re-met some of the wifey's long lost buddies
from the weak-sauce waterbaby days of connecticut livin'.
we sang out loud, with soul-claps and chair-slaps,
and swayed like a field of windswept gyspsy ryegrass.
true story.
we even got some extra big-A* garden-fresh winter squash:
boner-poppin' upright vegetables from the future!
what else has the hot beige phalluscious frenzy
of a bulging butternut squash?!
cyle can produce some auspicious produce, y'all.
and that's not even ALL, y'all.
tonight's the night,
another 'nother other show.
this time with way worse haircuts,
and dumber posturing costumed co-witnesses.
oh don't worry,
we won't let those art-school kids ruin our good time:
dark dark dark gets it on in maine this evening.
and they'll do it under the influence of the squeezebox.
for sure.
maybe they'll have a second encore.
looped claps and feedback with sprite-flute recorder noises
and the distilled essence of art-show destroying sadness
mixed into it until everybody leaves.
i sure hope so.
i feel like i didn't appreciate it all the way the first time i heard it.
awwwwwwww, man.
oh, c'mon.
you know it, mutha-holes-
a less-than-full day of tattbombing,
a more-than-full bellyhole of vegan dopeness
at the green elephant,
and a pair of earfuls of sonic minor keyholing.
P.F.D.s in flippin' full-effect, friends.
the Folk Life participation level is right up there.
and tomorrow is already our weekend all over again.
living, duders.
that's what we're doing;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, September 25

predisposed to indisposition.

what's up, mutha-uckas?
it's easy.
because it's not just "like",
it actually IS sunday morning.
they wrote a song about it, even.
wakin' up and munchin' up and gettin' all ready.
just sayin',
Tea 'N' Toast is a smooth introduction to each day.
and today is no exception.
it's everything after the magic fast-break that gets
a little bit less fresh and flavorful.
sunday afternoon is anything but effortless.
there're rules, limitations, strictures, and abidances
that beg observation,
and the determined dereliction of that duty
takes it's toll visibly by around 3 p.m.
you know it-
loud, fresh, hardness is dirty work, duders.
and no matter how steep the pricetag of
taking it to eleven,
all the hot and fiery berserker bombardiers
pay it gladly, and with interest.
the leaves have started their polychrome moulting.
rain activates that big business, neighbors.
the grey humidity that has blanketed the mountains
has flipped the switch to full-ahead on fall.
word up.
we've got quantifiable natural beauty, kids.
you should really make an effort to visit.
you are clearly missing out.
funtime concert time in the nighttime.
after tattbombing the 'butter all day,
we're driving a spell,
and sittin'/standing in the open air.
if we're really lucky,
maybe it'll rain...
ohhhhhh, man!
getting EXPERT with the avett brothers
comes at a price:
social gatherings,
boku big drinkies,
commonality of location and diversion with
crowds, nay, hordes of doo-duders,
and with only a small clique of my peoples
to buffer the buffeting buttholery of all the rest of it.
my sick socks had better get rocked right the F* off,
because the spirit of compromise is not
one of the spirits and memories contained within
the recalcitrant canyons and causeways
of the great northern woodsly goodness.
i'm going,
and i'm going hard.
me and mine are ready to experience the hottness.
i'll be hacking and hawking and hankie-wiping,
like a rotten molecular core,
surrounded on all sides by bodies guarding my
sovereign circumference,
a shield wall of worthy warrior poets,
a protective phalanx of active participants
and semi-professional appreciators.
we're a life-sized model of a Folk Life atom,
charged up and ready to swap ions in a
full-scale major meltdown of concertgoing fun.
times are being had,
ready or/ like it or not;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, September 24


so it's all the way autumn.
way to go.
there's still a ways to go...
a syrupy saturday is seeping it's sauce along
the 24 hours assigned to it's circadian orbit.
syrupy, y'all.
that's right.
thick, slow, and contributive to tooth decay.
at least, my teeth are hurting a whole bunch,
but that's really just high-pressure sinus compression.
and that's the kind of blinding brutality
that bashes my brain right off it's own A*.
nothing creates the medicine-head murk
of a syrupy sh!t-salad like head cold action, neighbors.
the omnipresent kettledrumming of my pulse in my skull,
and the blunt force of berserker boilermaking behind my face
takes my usual snarky shark-sniping to eleven.
hard-style aggressive action verbs,
and convoluted minoan sentences,
labyrinthine in their unnavigability,
sorted and sortied at all the weak-sauce waterbabies
oozing and cruising through the woodsly goodness.
get it?
i'm a cranky-pants crab, duders.
and i'm taking it out on everyone else.
manly sickness is sapping my strength.
a masculine attack of the sniffles, my ninjas.
a heroically hirsute nasopharyngeal predisposition
towards nostril hair aches, pains, and drips.
i can taste it, kids.
and it is not good.
but if i've got to sneeze and cough and endure,
then i've got have some company.
misery loves it, after all.
who is coming over to take care of me?
you're busy?
ALL of you?
now that's a hard style.
we've got concerts to attend, mutha-lickers.
back-to-back type jauns.
that means i'm stayin' sick for a minute.
you need rest an' sh!t to get better, i think.
oh well, duders,
it's late nights,
hard times,
wet weather,
high humidity,
and stuffy-nosed sing-a-longing for the next few...
it's what is,
and it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, September 23


the autumnal equinox is here.
like, now an' sh!t.
we're hurtling through time and space,
crossing thresholds, neighbors.
the lines of demarcation are smudged by our passing,
and the forests all get their retirement packages,
starting today.
it's hibernation overdrive preparedness season.
this is the time of year when the earth tones
start getting their proper propers, my ninjas.
beech oranges and oak browns and rusty maples,
those dirty olive greens and the yellowy birch spades.
and that's not all that happens-
as the temperatures get sharper and colder,
i put more clothes on,
and as a result get decidedly less gross;
the trees, however, get more naked,
and as a result get deciduously more dope.
it's officially autumn.
can you feel it?
it's the howling hot fire hymn of the wild hunt, duders.
sort of like an auxiliary full moon.
another 'nother encore of magnetic polarity activation.
we doo-doo that.
of course,
we're doing it in the flippin' rain again.
awwwwww, man.
so much for a P.F.D. jump-off.
it's one more furious friday at the tattbombin' silo.
reppin' that hard-style hangin' and haraguin'
with the rest of the caustic cataclysmic catalysts.
we change it up, like the seasons.
today is the day, after all.
we're breaking out the sweaters and the socks,
we're planning hallowe'en costumes,
we're decorating, and fertilizing,
and generally preparing the Fortress
for the impending winter seige.
getting busy getting busy, kids.
that's the order of the day.
with some stormswept savagery,
sarcastic shark-gluttony,
and snot-spraying sneezes thrown in for good measure.
i've got a seriously inconvenient head cold.
my whole skull feels like it's in a crockpot.
cooking, even.
something with kraut and boiled onions....
at least,
that's what i've been serving out of my sinuses....
i'm not that psyched about it, either, my ninjas.
i'm just documenting that real life.
in drips, drabs, drops, and drams.
a Perfect Fall Day, indeed.
i'm here.
spreading pestilence into the abraded pores
of the impatient and underimpressive,
and i'm doing it hard.
it's happening.
temporal shifts,
nutrient-rich eagles' egg yolk Folk Life,
ghost-circular, cyclical spirits and memories,
and woodsly goodsly mountainous marching
along the timelines and guidelines and leylines
of the secret universal plan.
equinox your socks off, mutha-b!tches.
happy fall to all of y'all;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, September 22

the last day of summer.....

...and it's cold, dark, rainy, and busted.
dismal murk and drizzling drafts, duders.
that'd be fine if i were in denmark.
i mean,
atmospheric acrimonious odious polonius-ness
makes it acceptable for something to be rotten there.
but the woodsly goodness is supposed to stay fresh.
clear, clean mountain air,
transitioning into autumny crispness,
with woodsmoke and leaves and apple accents an' that.
the sun is not making an appearance,
and the cloudcover barely clears the treeline.
it smells like wet dirt and mulch.
not hardly.
maybe it's ma nature crying over it being all over.
another 'nother summer season,
eclipsed and equinoxed and rotated away.
if it means that the P.F.D. quotient will be higher,
then the rain is more than welcome to let summer retire
like a reigning world-heavyweight-belt-wearing wrestler.
you never leave on top,
and you never ever leave with the title.
so summertime's out with a fizzle and a whimper,
and it's time for a bang-up banner-year fall season.
and falafel.
we're just 10 short days away from the fryeburg fair.
how can we bide our time until then?
wellll, on sunday,
we leave work early and head downstate to watch and listen
to the avett brothers getting rad, live and in person.
and then on monday,
dark dark dark brings some sadness, snaps, and claps
downeast to portland, maine;
and for all y'all waterbabies living below
the 'real' new england states-
on tuesday, they'll be in hamden, connecticut.
which implies that unless you're an epic A*-hole,
you'll be there to give audience.
all the expertism happens in the autumn.
tomorrow is the start of something dope.
today is the end of something else.
it's happening.
and fast.
it'll all be over before we realize it,
and we'll be knee-deep in that new hottness
before breaking fast with Tea 'N' Toast.
this is it;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, September 21


puuuuuumpkin treats!!!!!
jack o'lanternification,
to the fullest.
every single time i see some freshness,
i have got to get it for the Fortress.
for really real,
i love hallowe'en jauns:
that star-eye guy on the right?
heavy-metal hell night homeboy action.
i don't get it either,
but i know that i like it.
i write a lot,
but i'm not a writer.
i'm a storyteller,
and all my stories are true ones,
told truly by yours truly.
it's creative non-fiction.
unconscientous conciousness,
in narrative streams,
tippity-tappity typed for you face.
it's all really happening,
from the first to the last of it.
every day.
afternoon fires?
made from seasoned cedar construction debris.
nausea-inducing stumps?
to the bitter bottom-most ashes.
lunches and dinners with worthy duders from up here?
sandwiches and soups and candy flippin' beans, b!tches.
tattbomb career hunger from peer-inspired back-pat fraternizing?
sounds more like a john milton poem to me...
some things don't change.
has-been hermits,
reppin' obscurity in perpetuity,
and a few words of censure and sensation,
like a mordant midnight mothman.
dark, dirty, disgruntled, and dope.
that sh!t can't get gotten easily.
the story is the same every time:
infinite natures,
and their eleven-year intractability.
the gaps fill in themselves.
nature wins, kids.
and the true story hasn't got a happy ending.
in fact it's kind of a solo show.
punch and judy and a swazzle.
each act a self-injurious helping hurting hand[puppet],
and each aside a delusional denial.
bad, worse, and worst.
yet, so dope.
because it's all always really happening.
and it always ends the way it's supposed to. being over and done.
my grapes are a little sour,
but it's vinegar i really wanted in the first place.
the more bitter the better.
it makes the sincere sweetness even more so.
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, September 20

the stewpot.

surprise food blog!
teleport check:
butternut-white bean-escarole hottness.
...for my face.
and that's in a tomato-based broth, b!tches.
we get molto italian when the weather gets cold.
and we add in as many garden fresh herbs as we can pick.
including that oregano blossom garnish, son.
believe that.
some days are soup days, duders,
and today is one of 'em.
i need that hearty hard-skinned squash,
and the protein power of those beans,
and the buttsplosive leafiness of the escarole.
i'm tryin' to get blown up,
right off and out my A*hole,
because i'm not one.
no mammoth meat in this old stone era.
we get futuristic only,
no matter how primitive and folksy we rep.
wordimus prime, neighbors.
if i need ice age eats,
it's gonna be those acorn jauns.
oh, c'mon.
you mutha-lickers need to get better with movie references.
on the ones.
shooting shotguns is dooooooooooooope.
heavy leaded, rifled slugs sent screaming over a lake,
to F* up a semi-submerged standing spruce stump?
you know.
and a well-sighted-in red dot scope-equipped version?
i hung out with my ninja Ro-Ro,
and we hiked and mushroom-stomped and trekked
and blasted big-bore bombs right out of the warhorse 870.
you DO know what an 870 is right?
well just ask somebody who isn't a waterbaby then.
and i got this elite gourd which has a fancy name,
which i've already forgotten:
dusty, bumpy, pink and grey goodness.
early autumn excellence.
i needed it.
and i GOT they;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, September 19

avast, ye lubbers.

hey duders,
it's talk like a pirate day.
which is kind of a bummer,
since i don't speak somali.
talk like a pirate day!
as my neighbors in maine and minnesota call it:
just sayin',
they GOT they.
just to be fair to the whole third world,
and it's constituent high-seas burglars and hijackers,
i maintain a low-minded general ignorance of most
east african and southeast asian languages,
because as much as i looove inflection,
subtle nuances have never ever been my strong suit.
on the real, neighbors.
y'all want alliteration? i got you.
percussive, successive staccatto sentences? i'm yours.
vocal timbre fluctuations applied to identical syllables,
altering the entire intended message forever and ever?
and so,
instead of any indian ocean action verbs,
it's mostly caribbean make-pretend talk
for scurvy seawolves like me and mine.
set in motion like billy ocean, mutha-'uckas.
recognize, me hearty hardies!
it's not all plank-walkin' and hatch battening, though, yo-ho.
so it may help to mention that when i make
reference to yardarms?
i'm talking about the spaghetti yeti noodle stalks
that sprout out of my shoulders.
they're at least three feet apiece, son!
it's the end of my week.
y'all already know i'm doo-dooing
some doo-doo buttery tattbombs.
bursting off the poopdecks broadsides, besides.
and shivering all the flippin' timbers, too.
not to mention trying to get my wharf rat
up somebody's bilge pump.
it's not that much of a scurvy scallawag kind of rat.
it's more of a besotted barnacle,
but still...i can haul it upside your keel.
oh, c'mon.
what are you?
an aft-hole?
i do do that forecastle to mizzenmast-type jauns.
whatever that means.
today is the day.
it always is.
but this time,
this one right here,
it's got gratitude and appreciation
written all over it.
it's all really happening.
that's no joke.
making minutes matter.
a writ of warrant for worthy warrior wrighting and writing,
wringing and wreaking and wrecking,
with a wannion!
(uh-huh. with a wannion. that's shakespeare, b!tch.)
life is getting lived.
the volume in space,
and decibels,
goes to eleven;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, September 18

terriers hate rodents.

that's real.
olive the dog brought the lightning-striking
adder-quick chompa-chomp horror to our
early-release outside walk a minute ago.
viking thunder?
as fast as real life,
our precious little juggernaut of active participation
did what she was bred to do-
savage stormswept fury dispensation.
right before my face!!!!
the little squeakers of the wilds can't try to
go toe-to-toe with a really real battle-beast.
i'd almost be impressed if i wasn't so disgusted.
in an unannounced contest of nature vs. infinity,
the woodsly goodness loses to hellacious jaws of death:
awwwwwwwww, man.
skull-crushin' canine berserker fury.
you'd think his little eyes were bulging with surprise,
but they're actually exploding out of their sockets.
butt-nasty like you read about.
bite, snap, drop, in under two seconds.
olive hard-style pounded it's sad little acorn-collecting head,
and then just dropped like it was hot, son.
don't worry, neighbors,
there's more disgusting natural victory unfolding up here....
our other other decomposing rodent is also
looking pretty flippin' gnarly this afternoon:
beetles boring into your brains and butthole?
that's some gruesome sh!t, kids.
what can i say?
nature wins.
every single time.
early dismissal from work seemed like a treat,
until i got home to the Fortress,
and watched the ghost rings of the life cycle
swirl, overlap, and dissipate.
it's all really happening.
brutality, my ninjas;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, September 17

snow on the mountain.

mount washington is blanketed in snow, gang.
it's too soon.
i mean, there was snow up there until practically july,
and now it's back?
poop-boat explosions, for sure.
that's new england weather, duders.
sixty degrees down here in the valley,
two degrees up there on the summit.
i guess we're reppin' winter in september.
we're on that northern exposure action.
i mean,
we're pretty high up there on the map.
longitude and latitude,
and that's not all, y'all...
it's really about altitude, neighbors.
that pointy peak stalls the clouds on it's spire,
and they in turn unload their precipitation
all over it's crown.
y'heard, me?
it makes for pretty pictures, at least,
but i'm abstaining on principle.
keep your photo opportunities,
and give me my mutha-ucking indian summer back.
it's on my mind.
not like homesteaders' pioneering, either.
conestoga wagons and staking claims on the frontier
is turbo-dope, without question.
and not even like potato crisps,
where there's the same amount in the bag,
but they're just not as fluffy.
compact concentration is on the ones, as well.
i'm referring to settling.
y'know, like,
accepting less-than,
instead of just-right.
and just-right, as we all already know,
is precisely quantified as too-much.
the whole object is actually always more.
and that makes settling some seriously weak sauce.
it's been kind of an ongoing thing around here lately-
determining if not having duders around
if they can't pass muster during routine evaluation,
is better than having the doo-doo duders,
who seem to teem and abound,
bound around in a middling, mewling mass
of turdsplosive tepidity.
lukewarm milquetoastiness can't be confused
for true hottness.
how could it?
where are all my really-real grit-grimy ninjas at?

that's a good question.
there are a few meritous moths floating around,
but their small numbers are indicative of
their elite status.
exceptions and exemptions aren't invited.
if excuses gotta get made for your b!tch-A*,
if you're settling, instead of striving,
if terms like 'potential' get used to describe a ninja,
then you're not rad enough to ride this ride.
eleven is the only level worthy warriors represent.
just be dope is no joke, son.
minimums exist to create standards,
and standards are not exceptional, y'all.
for real,
sub-standards are, by definition, even flippin' worse.
but to be fair,
high standards don't wow me much either.
you duders know what i want?
i want high standards to seem like entry-level jauns,
and hard, loud, fresh, stormswept savage berserker barbarian
battle-beastly, lightning-striking viking fury to be the price of
admission to Folk Life & Liberty.
on the real.
to eleven like an expert.
settling can suck all the balls, y'all.
just be dope.
or F* right off.
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, September 16


there's talk of an early snap frost tonight.
for real.
we got unprepared ninjas wishing they had sweaters.
we got weak-sauce lickers shivering an' that.
i mean, the seasons are changing, like they always do.
and after summer, comes fall.
like falling temperatures, leaves, and expectations.
but frost?!
that's not cool, kids.
the biting gusts of wintry wind
whipping the already-changing leaves
aren't making me a disbeliever, either.
and that's for sure.
i'm sayin',
it's cold, neighbors.
real cold.
stupid cold, even.
i can't hang out with this chilly penguin atmosphere sh!t.
it puts the bum's rush on all the end of summer to-do's.
that means early mornings and late nights-
i planted, and mulched a whole heap of hostas,
and pigsqueak, and grapevines...
that's right- pigsqueak, mutha-uckas.
that's a thing.
if the chill night air is here,
and the perfect sleeping weather is underway,
then it's time to break out the socks.
you read that right, friends.
like, for your feet.
bare feet are only appropriate above 50 degrees farenheit.
lucky for my frozen toes,
i keep a whole drawerful in stock,
just to be handy when i need to rock 'em off.
we're on that friday night huddle-cuddle stay-warm jauns.
it's happening,
too soon,
too much,
too true;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, September 15

feels like it looks...

...and it looks a lot like autumn, my ninjas.
i told you duders yesterday that we got
some super-duper dope, new, big, sweet,
native-grown in cyle's patch pumpkins, right?
but i didn't show you just how rad they are.
let me remedy that with a teleportational representation:
if that's not expert, then absolutely nothing is.
mr. pumplestiltskin on the left is weighin' in at a whopping
31 pounds of pure winter squashing gorgeous gourdness.
the weight matches the Owe'en date, y'all.
like i said: expert.
matt got beat up today.
it's true.
hard-style pounding, neighbors,
from hip to nip.
cryptozoological tattbomb oddity jauns.
i'm no biologic anatomist,
but i'm still pretty amped to create fantastic beasts.
one albie rock kraken,
gothic-influenced and dauphin-derived:
don't get too excited.
i know it's picture of a tattoo,
and those are rare around these parts.
just don't get used to it.
sharpie marky marked,
and half-sweat erased halfway through the tentacles.
too many lines?
that's just the right amount.
he sat like a champ,
and suffered through hours of tattzap chitchat,
complete with buttholery and ballbagulation.
it's just what happens.
so now it's yet another thor's day night.
rainy, windy, stormswept, cold,
and dope, duders.
dopeness is pervasive and penetrative,
pensive, perpetual, and prolific.
here is where it happens.
all of it.
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, September 14

paws and reflect...

awwwwwwwwwwwwww, man.
nature wins,
but time triumphs.
today was jam packed with active participants.
real mutha-uckas from all over,
getting busy with the helping handfuls.
and speaking of handfuls,
check the teleportational zoologic activation:
dig it.
get it?
it's a mole paw, duders.
unmolested, and intact,
cyle came by and dropped off a bucket of root vegetables,
and a prize winning perfect patch of pumpkins,
and a rototiller for hard-style hard-tine (y'heard?)
good-time gardenizing,
and spotted that ninja belly-up
and beginning to bloat in our backyard:
outside, topside, upside-down.
maybe he surfaced because the subterranean sonic booming
of my deep-rooted loud, fresh, hardness was causing seismic
shockwaves too intense for his sensitive system?
i hope not.
i'd hate to be the mutha-b!tch who punched his ticket.
more likely,
i think the clock just plain old ran out on this holy mole.
y'see you read the last word in spanish.
palabra, amigos.
what do y'all know about tandem rock-hunting?
well, me neither.
but me and my buddy george did some cedar post plantin',
and a little bit of stump puffin',
and a teenier bit of boulder appropriation.
from the washed out rockpiles of the woodsly goodness
to the grand gardens of the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
beautification knows no limits,
and when help is at hand,
you can bet i'm shakin' it.
busy, busy, busy.
and that wasn't even all of it, either...
we've been on an entertaining explosion lately.
our young friend deanna came by
and hung curtain rods and sh!t with the wifey.
and hung around until the curtain call, y'all.
a longtime client of mine, mr. matt riordan,
and his bestie nicole from the bostonish realm
of weak-sauce asscrackachussetts are here, too.
he's gettin' tattbombed without mercy, manana,
and we collaborated on his hurtie-time imagery tonight.
that's right, hard-hearted haters,
if you ever came by,
you'd get to see the Fortress as well.
just sayin',
active is the key word in active participation.
it's all really happening.
that's the whole point.
a long day with good people,
doing good things,
having good times.
i'm grateful for the privilege and the pleasure.
wordimus prime.
does anybody know how to preserve a mole paw?
i'm listening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, September 13


that's right mutha-lickers,
i'm reppin' hard-style nerd-type jauns.
as loud and hard as i flippin' can, even.
i may put the gay in gamer,
i may even put the drag in dragon,
i may even take a whizz on wizardry,
but i've also got some serious high-rolling capabilities.
i'm talking about calculating damage, b!tches.
who's coming over to rep some THAC0?
if you don't know,
you're definitely not invited.
oh, wait,
you don't know what i'm representing on?
awwwwwww, man
you were probably popular in your youth, huh?
while you were out getting lame with your lameness,
authentic imaginarians were going questing like what!...
don't be confused, neighbors,
it would make a whole lot more sense
if you'd just check the teleport:
critical hits like a mean mutha-uckin' ninja, y'all.
how you gonna put a 'buy it now' button next to
something as exquisitely hot and tempting
as a pre-packaged POUND of polyhedral role-playing dice,
and expect a really real dungeon m-F*ing  master
not to scoople up some left-clickety-clack action??
that'd never happen.
so now THIS is happening.
it all really is, kids.
treats, special delivery, for my face.
an ounce of prevention pales in comparison
to a solid sixteen times the hottness.
look close,
they're all maxed out to their optimal valuation.
critical, son, y'heard?
i'm on that double-damage jauns.
never mind the overused urban catchphrase, duders-
this is how i roll:
often, and in copious amounts.
the moon may be waning,
but the dungeons and the dragons are waxing.
it's adventurer time, nerds;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, September 12

full mooning.

it's pullin' on my brains.
for really real, y'all.
this full moon misery and magic
is keeping me awake and away,
all night and day.
i'm sayin', my ninjas,
i slept so little,
so fitfully,
so restlessly,
so recklessly, even,
that i got out and about early-shirley enough
to do some handy-manliness around the Fortress.
i even mowed the lawn.
hard workin' yard workin' before a day of tattbombin'?
something is seriously amiss with the natural order.
circadian cycles are skewed,
and the weeble-wobbling warped symmetry is playing
hard-style games of pounding with my night times.
the drop-off is here in flippin' full effect, mutha-F*ers.
post-summertime anti-vacationary movie check morass,
and monday molasses-A* slowdown suckiness.....
sitting still under the magnetic nudges of lunar misanthropy?
werewolfen loco-lobo-rococo baroqueback mountain mayhem?
no chance.
fidgety digits, like one and one,
twin towers of upright, spearpoint, lance-a-lot, likely-as-not,
spirited memorial limit-pushing eleven-ness.....son! 
taking it past ten to the realm of berserker barbarism,
in the name of expressive savage stormswept gypsy hot fire,
under the blue-limned glowing mountainous woodsly goodness.
shapeshifting into high gear,
without the benefit of neutral or reverse,
because there's no turning back,
unless you make a three-point turn turned field goal for the win.
got that?
could be because i'm speaking in tongues,
and you're trying to read lips-
all pucker, no flavor.
you might be doo-dooing it wrong,
but tonight's the night,
and the skin-shedding padded-feet are a-prowling,
and the lungfuls of crisp pre-autumn air
are being loudly, proudly exhaled in howls.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

meat heart sweet heart.

that's what happened this afternoon.
sternum-pounding love shapes, hard.
it's not small,
you just can't see the nearby nipples, my ninjas.
unless you want to suckle some balls, y'all,
you'd better cancel that noise on the ones.
both kinds of heart shapes,
at the same time.
no need to decide, neighbors.
two-in-one-day on a monday.
pumping out the juice, duders;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, September 11

taking it to eleven.

i know there's something i'm supposed to remember today.
i just keep forgetting what it is.
oh, c'mon, now.
seated in the heart of o.g. americanism,
i'm new england until the day that i die,
but that comes with certain preclusive assertions.
just sayin', america,
if you're gonna call it patriot day,
it should probably be something about american football.
or mel gibson, at the least.
melting tin soldiers into musket balls?
tomahawk axe-warrior chopping for vengeance?
i'd donate a day to deeds like that, for sure.
maybe it's me,
maybe not,
it just seems like whatever it is i was supposed to never forget
is constantly escaping me...
if only i had some of those 'terrorist hunting permits'.
bumper stickers are patriotic, right?
sure thin.
don't get me worng, y'all-
vengeance is pretty flippin' rad.
payback with no-backsies and begetting whatever you've got.
even-trade opthamology and enamel exchange program dentistry.
you know-
an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,
and pretty soon,
everybody looks like they're either from up here,
or the minnesota iron range.
never forget i'm a smarmy mutha-ucka.
wait, that's true,
but that's not what i'm 'posed to be remembering.
getting even, getting over, and getting it over with....
for real, though,
it's already been ten years.
ten yeeeeeears.
that's on that grosse point blank-type jauns.
freakin' out,
joining the army,
fitting certain psychological flexibilities,
and becoming hit men.
sounds pretty much accurate to me.
here's something i'll remember for a while,
but can't promise i'll never forget:
that's one big panniecake of a mushroom.
here's a proportional scale for your face:
a man-hand grab-slab-sized monster.
and if you've seen those sasquatch paws in person,
you know just how humongous that mama-jama must be.
you had better believe it's full-blown fungus season, neighbors.
we've got 'em if you want 'em.
everywhere we go, y'all,
there's dirt fruits a-poppin'.
if you're gettin' a good night's sleep?
F* you.
the moon is making mega-moves on our minds up here.
the thin mountain air is letting in all the nightmare sauce,
and my scalp is tingling.
maybe it's danger sense,
maybe it's werewolf fur growing in,
maybe it's lunar ray activation of my nutrients,
whatever it is,
it's happening.
tidal waves of plasma are crashing on the shores
of my hot fire furnace,
and the steambath bloodbath of transformation
is interrupting my beauty rest.
weird dreams,
wolfen wariness,
and seasonal insomnia
make for one hell of an ugly warrior poet in the morning.
...even moreso than usual i mean;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, September 10


oh man!
the moon is looking like a big-a pizza pie.
and when it hits my eye?
that's a song, my ninjas, not a thing-
amore is for lovers.
the squinky squint of orbiting orbital lobe activation
hits my jauns more like a werewolfen wild hunt.
i'm looking for more of a huff/puff kind of thing.
stacks, sticks, bricks and some wanton bellowing.
i'm on that flat tires and berfday candles business, y'heard?
oh, c'mon, you get it-
blow outs!
brutal berserker barbarian battle-beasting
via transformative lunar moonbeam nutrients.
it's mud bowl weekend.
mud bowl.
it's not earthen adobe ceramics,
for your soup or cereal.
it's amateur football, in a sloppy sopping soil-hole.
i'm serious.
up-here people really get super gaytarded over it.
and contenders come up from far and away
to wallow and root like pigs in a sty all day long.
there's even a parade.
because fat ex-high school jocks walking down the street
is something i know i'd line up to look at.
oh, wait a second.
i'm working, instead.
too bad.
now i'll just have to settle for fat, drunk, ex-high school jocks
coming in to the studio after their drinkies and wet-dirt games,
for some surely super-sweet tattbombs.
it's all really happening, kids.
even this.
i love hats.
right on top of my head.
that's real.
hat shopping is the easiest kind...
it's like my whole skull was meant to be obscured
by as much hair and fabric as i can collect.
i doo-doo that heat-collecting, brainwave-restraining,
baldspot-obscuring type sh!t.
we just found me another 'nother new one, too.
check out my new dome canopy:
awwwwww, man.
hot hats still can't conceal that face.
looks like i just ate a mayonnaise-and-spider-filled pickle.
the squinky eye isn't helping, either.
(thanks for that pizza pie, moon.)
but you like it, anyway.
how about that hat, though?
that's some next-level eastern european jauns-
straight out of the ladies section, mutha-'uckas.
that's right.
i get busy buying b!tches' headwear.
camel colored yentl caps?
yiddish, like a fiddler,
on a roof, son!
i finds it, kids.
and when i finds it, i buy it.
y'know what that means?
i GOT they.
and if i'm lookin'
it may just be a klezmer music kind of day.
minor key harmonicas,
and my concertina squeeze-box,
and some loud fresh hardness for everybody.
clothes don't make men,
unless you're talking scarecrows,
but hats, now....
that's the finishing touch.
i'm ready for a sh!t-salad saturday,
but i'm making all these miki-fiki lickers pay
a steep price for the pleasure of my unpleasantry.
savage stormswepy gypsy soundtrack?
hats off to those who can hang out;
never quiet, never soft..... 

Friday, September 9


to the ninth level,
full circle multiplication,
exponential experimental existential just-be-dopeness,
nine times in a row,
all at once,
in an inverted upside-down roman-type numeral cross.
IX x XI, etc.
and then revolving all the way back again to eleven.
is that numerology?
i'm sure i don't know.
but what i do know is that today's date indicates
a quantifiably copious quotient
of ferocious hot fiery fate-fulfillment.
and that's on both american and european calendars.
what happens next is anyone's guess,
except that all of it really is.
and it is happening hard.
that's a non-negotiable factor of warrior poetry.
what gets composed today will directly impact
the evolution of each and every subsequent day.
concentric circles, expanding outward, my ninjas,
viewed from the side,
they make a cone.
and that funnel of freshness
is destined to let the flavor flow down and out
from the fount of foulmouthed feasance.
from my face, for your face.
a steady, consciously unconscionable, streaming, screaming,
torrent of abrasive, invasive, effusive philosophy-
and you mutha-'uckas better get with the stockholm syndrome,
or y'all may not make it to 9-10-11.
that's a thing.
a funnel in reverse is a bugle, b!tches.
remember that.
if you're not feeling the flow,
you're probably blowing it.
hot fire?
berserker barbarian battle-beastlinesss?
hard styles?
i'm presuming and presupposing that today is the day.
a high-water marker for active participants,
measuring merit for worthy due-paying duders an' that.
i guess,
in a way,
i am pillaging and plundering.
the unforgivable thatched roof?
small worlds and suckie personalities.
just be dope, or F* right off.
the scorched-earth policy of wreaking wreck on the
wastrels, whiners, and wallowers is in full effect.
effective immediately.
my workday may be a predetermined composition
of weak-sauce wallflowers, waterbabies,
and less-than-ten-state travellers.
but if so?
i guess i'm gettin' rad nine times over,
and taking it to eleven as an instructional example.
you guessed it, neighbors.
scalding skaldic stanzas on victorious viking virtue,
excruciating excoriation for all the other other ones,
and expert extrapolative variations on the current coded codex
of our own transliterative lexicon.
and just so we're all clear:
any haters on THAT hot fire can definitely suckle my clankers.
the full moon pull is really something this time around, kids.
the late-summer wolfen beast times are here.
longer and stronger than usual, it would seem.
and earlier, too.
too bad for all the sheepish suckholes,
because the wolf in wool stockings is on the prowl.
today is the day,
and i'm spitting hot fire until it's over;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, September 8

dangling hangers.

long nights,
hard times,
dark skies,
late dinners.
these days, kids,
there's a real lack of inspired awesomeness.
the future showed up,
and turned everybody into an A*hole.
back in the barbarian days,
if you didn't die,
you were pretty flippin' busy.
mostly trying not to die.
but that was enough.
it's instantaneous electronic convenience,
and remote-access pseudo-connectedness,
status updates and make-pretend unbelievability.
i don't know about all of y'all,
but i could totally go for some lightning-striking viking.
running around with torches and sh!t,
testing the worthiness of the rest of 'em.
fixing to see who is fit enough to continue,
and flushing out the doo-doo buttery waterbabies who aren't.
showing gratitude and appreciation for What Is.
mostly by axe-warrior berserking all over the flippin' place.
setting fires,
all that good stuff.
no raping, though.
that's just not cool.
i'll draw the line at some guilt-trip cuddling.
maybe some it's-been-awhile gettin' it done jauns,
but none of that non-consensual hard-style pounding.
the raging stormswept savage gypsy fury,
and the over-the-top eleventh-level  participation
are kind of what i think i need.
anybody got a thatch-roofed village
full of well-provisioned peasants
and a gone-to-seed militia of poorly prepared pikemen?
ah well.
it's probably for the best.
i get tired pretty quickly,
and all that explosive interaction is kind of
too heavy on the socializing for me, anyway.
for the record, though,
if you don't want your simple village burnt down,
stop making your houses out of dry grass, dummies.
seriously, use your head.
oh, man!
i got an aftermarket wiener today.
go ahead and reread that, duders.
i really did.
as a gift.
it's got a suction cup and everything.
it's for a special project,
and does NOT involve anyone's orifices.
jeez. you guys are so immature.
honestly, though,
i have the best clients in the whole wide world.
they really listen, neighbors.
and that's something these days.
i mean it.
just mentioning a konkey dong, and my need thereof,
in casual conversation with my comrades,
and then getting one, special-type delivery, the very next week?
that's a special bond, b!tches.
george and katie know how to make a mutha-'ucka feel special.
in addition to the numerous other 'nother other adult-specific,
age-restricted novelty art and artifacts adorning my workspace,
i've also got a snuffleupagus sausage dangling on my mirror.
for some reason,
my clients don't or won't mention it.
it's like that 'elephant in the room' scenario...
..except with a huge, pink plastic pearlescent pop-outtie one, y'all.
i thought it'd be a real conversation starter,
but it's kinda having the opposite effect.
i know.
i don't get it either.
i would be unable to comment on a swaying silicone salami
pointing straight out at my tattbomber's paper towels,
but i think i must attract a clientelle with uncommon restraint.
or somethin'.
the real fun starts once the upgrades get added on,
and the hang gets hung in out-of-the-way locations.
like a where's waldo of wieners an' that.
hilarity may or may not ensue.
thor's day is over,
no pillaging at all,
but a couple of phonecalls
from some far off friends,
have fueled a pretty decent day.
well, that,
and the humongous wangus khan.
a couple of little gestures of affection,
and one pretty big one.
(that's what she said);
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, September 7

bountiful blooms of woodsliness.

yellow wiener pop-outties!
you duders like that slick slug slinking alongside the stems?
hungry non-shelled gastropod mollusks, mutha-'uckas...
they get sneaky on the nature treats.
for really real, y'all.
mushrooms get raided hard by those slimy slitherers.
the cycle is pretty vicious.
at least,
it seems to go poorly for the delectable nodes,
and the slugs seem merciless in their faceless digestive urges.
nature proceeds unfazed by the cruelty.
she wins, after all,
and she keeps making more of both:

rain and weird temperatures are what's needed
for mycelial fruits to burst out of the earth.
and we got that,
so we get that.
there're molto kinds of 'shroom blooms out there.
out there in my yard i mean.
the Fortress is a fertile field for fungus, friends.
alliteration aside,
secret underground awesomeness eruptions
are absolutely what's really happening.
in other news:
travel to as many states as you need to,
but don't front on the hottness.
minnesota pride tattoos?
maybe like the rainbow parade or somethin'.
just sayin',
representing the big flat prairieland?
unless it's a tribute to the home companion,
it's not really that justified, now is it?
hey, hey now, calm down.
it's not wrong to like where you're from,
it's just wrong to assume it's more expert than here.
sorry, kids-
everywhere not new england is like pretend 'merica.
especially the mall of 'merica.
and every other state's pride of place
has got not one single thing
on New Hampshire pride tattoos.
i don't care how many lakes you loons
lounge around in......
Live Free Or Die takes the cake.
hands down.
that's better than whatever anybody else has got.
(i'm talking to you, maryland)
word up.
it's common knowledge that if your state
has a professional sports team, or two, or four,
it's not invited to our makeout party.
no way.
i'm not saying that every 603 area-coded
tattbomb is what's up;
the weak sauce still flows, sometimes, too.
and i mean that.
y'know how when one of your buddies stops hanging out,
we say he sorta 'fell off'?
(as in: the scene, the face of the earth, etc.)
the old man of the mountain,
the granite statesman's high profile profile?
the duder depicted on the quarter?
he fell off.
...of the mountainside.
awwwwwwwwww, man.
and memorial tattoos are not the same kind of hottness.
not once,
not never.
...with the singular exception of my ninja m-dog's
R.I.P. MITCH buttcheek tatty-o,
honoring the memory of our still-living buddy mitch.
pre-emptive falling-off tributary tattoos?
styles that hard get a free all-access pass, for sure.
but that's pure HAMDEN, and that's a unique animal.
live free or die?
old man of the rubble pile?
land o' lakes?
'buttery, neighbors.
looks like our weekend is well-rained out.
it's still sopping wet,
and seeping inward.
apart from the mushies,
the rest is mostly just mushed.
weeks end,
weeks begin.
circles, kids.
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, September 6

this is when it starts.

early september.
still summertime,
and also,
the beginning of hallowe'en appreciation.
check these duders out:
betcha didn't expect black pumpkins, huh?
well, now,
i didn't expect you to be racist either.
that's a bronx-type cheer/jeer,
not a so a-spooky ghost wail.
we bring the darkness to the white mountains, ninjas.
primitive new england craft-type jauns,
in mutha-flippin' full effect.
that's what's poppin'.
questionable dietary choices abound, neighbors.
candy beans and cookies,
super-pizzas and soda pop,
coffee (gasp!) and lemonade.....
mixed together, y'know what you get?
upset bellyhollering.
sleep is off the menu,
and wizardly nerdbook anthology time
is taking it's place.
i went back over my new friend's house,
and had another 'nother new good time.
you old friends had better bring the big action,
because once replacements are lined up,
we start cutting second-stringers loose.
get off that bench you're warming,
get up to the woodsly goodness,
and get busy gettin' busy.
the expertism roster may get restructured soon,
and i know y'all don't want to be put on standby.
that's one weak sauce second away from O.T.L.
be aware,
and be there when it's reckoning time.
big changes, seasonally and otherwise-
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, September 5


celebrating labor by laboring?
i doo-doo that, duders.
like it or not,
movie checks don't take holidays...
you want 'em?
you have got to earn 'em.
no helping handouts for would-be wealthy ones.
y'know what that means?
all flippin' day long,
i tattbombed like an EXPERT,
loud, hard, fresh, and brutally barbaric.
if i've gotta spend a long weekend working,
then the thunder and lightning-striking have got
to be the brought to bear.
bared teeth and claws, even.
like a battle-beast blaster,
brute force zapping and warcrying until the job is done.
appointed times and places,
at the studio, in the skin, in the woodsly goodness.
labored A*
that's how i'm feelin' at day's end.
it's raining like a dirty deluge,
and it still hasn't cooled off enough to make
breathing in and out any easier.
it's all labor, today.
rain makes vacationers flee the hills for southern climes.
it's deserted, my ninjas.
a late summer ghost town-type situation.
this was it,
and it was rained out.
sorry about your cookouts, meatholes.
yard sales?
we're reppin' the venal vestiges of summertime.
we're still here, kids.
it's all really happening,
concentric smoke rings and circles of spirit and memory-
fall is fast approaching,
and the last grab at sweet moolah has been made.
until tomorrow.
the weekend for real ninjas is here;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, September 4


doubly unlucky?
it's post # 1313.
so it would seem, neighbors.
i've got in-laws out the wazoo.
mamas and sisters and brothers and babys' mothers,
and the offspring of the mothers as well.
and it's so a-sweaty.
it's humid like armpits,
like trailer park fistfights,
like basement houseparties overfull with fat mutha-'uckas.
i'm tellin' y'all,
it's a steambath of b!tchbaggery,
and the sun isn't even poppin' out.
overcast stinkbomb weather,
poop-boat 'tards cloggin' the scene,
and greasy pores gettin' clogged with sebaceous sauce.
it's gross outside,
and it's even seeping into the folds and creases of
the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
it's sticky.
it's SO sticky that even my candy beans are tacky to the touch.
that's no joke,
and it's no good, either.
and i was counting on candy beans to see me through, too.
it's a sauna of suckiness,
and a sh!t-salad sandwich of spouse's siblings and such.
family togetherness, after a fashion.
1313, my ninjas.
a whole burly buttload of doo-doo butter.
it's happening, kids.
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, September 3

true stories, told truly.

even if sometimes the fortunate fortune
is more than a little lost in the translation:
it's so true.
every gathenn i've ever been to?
totally welcomed,
with open arms, even.
well, neighbors,
now you know what i did about dinner.
you've got to get that sesame tofu jauns in your mouth.
especially after a doo-doo buttery b!tchbag of a day
dodging jams of traffic,
and jamming dodgy duders,
and trafficking tattbombs on dirty d-bags,
and getting the F* out of dodge.
oh, c'mon.
it's true, my ninjas.
as far as end-of-summer last-hurrah-type jauns go,
was a washed-up washout of waterbabyish weakness.
somebody must've misprinted a notice
in the announcements section of the small,
shoddily edited up-here newspaper, too.
that's actually pretty common.
illiteracy is how these up-here 'necktards get busy.
i can write that,
because they can't read it.
about a billion and a half boatloads of buttholery
passed by our secluded Fortress this morning.
for serious, son.
out-of-towners, turning around as confused as can be,
in a seemingly endless roundabout search
for lame-cake labor day yard sales.
NONE of which were happening in my driveway,
in the woods,
off the main tract of tracks.
i'm sure my sawdusted and dirt-toothed
sweaty woodstackin' axe-warrior crazy eyes
weren't their only hint as to the misprint.
only one old lady actually rolled down her window to ask
about the yard sale that was pretty flippin' obviously
not occuring in my woodshed.
the rest got a good gawking gander
at your favorite warrior composer of northern extremism,
and sped away with all due and undue haste.
i'm just sayin',
it's pretty much universal law that yard sales have sh!tty
hand-lettered cardboard signs, right?
for real.
if you don't see a sign, mutha-'uckas,
what makes all ya'll think that there's some unadvertised
mystery deals going on up on the dirty dirt roadways of the
out-of-the-ways away woodsly goodness?
ah well,
i just know those duders were feeling pretty envious
of my masterfully arranged log ends and layers.
i mean,
unless they were A*-holes.
in which case,
they can make like the haters they are,
and suckle it.
tomorrow is my littlest sister's berfday.
that's exciting.
because it gives me a reason to bake a cake,
even if she won't be up here to eat it.
(that means more cake for me)
my brother-in-law robert,
his baby mama sharon,
and their sons harlen and oakleigh
are all coming up to belatedly celebrate rob's berfday.
which is today.
another 'nother gathenn, kids.
and i'm always welcome.
you know it;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, September 2


i think some readers need some clarification
on a singularly old school notion
of the hardest of hard styles,
and the most hamden, connecticut-based curses
in the arsenal of really real worthy warrior poets.
before some of you guys assume i'm talkin' about YOU.
i'm not.
i promise.
but if you weren't sure,
that sort of says something, doesn't it?
y'all need to get right, kids.
on to today's main action item:
i'm hearin'/reading about some folks being off the List.
off the List?
ohhhhh, man.
that's not something battle-beasts take lightly.
i mean it.
don't even assume everybody starts out ON the List.
you've got to just be dope enough to get listed in the first place.
recognize, son.
don't take people off of what they can't ever hope to be on.
on the ones, my ninjas,
removal of the name from the List
is so much more than just striking letters from the roster,
erasing from the rolls,
of crossing off of the credits an' that.
off the List means OFF THE F*n' LIST.
as in:
no more chances.
as in:
get gone and stay gone, or be gone.
as in:
if we see each other in public,
you'd better mutha-flippin' cross the street
and start pep-steppin' in the opposite direction.
as in:
you'd have to take a bullet for me;
large-bore hollowpoint into the braincase like,
to even be considered for posthumous stand-by status,
as an optional worst-case alternate
should another 'nother neighbor get bumped
for failing to live up to the List's viking virtues.
you can't just toss that term around lightly.
it's not for casual bandying.
it's a mighty curse, friends...
as such,
you've got to rep that 'never forgive' sh!t,
that hardest-heart-of-stone-type jauns,
the kind of jammie-jam where if somebody
unknowingly even momentarily mentions
the name of a mutha-licker who has been removed,
you say: who? real hard-and mean like-
over and over and over until suckas get the point.
Off The List renders weak-sauce waterbabies
as non-entities, and enemies of the hottness,
in perpetuity, forever and ever after.
what i'm tellin' you is that you'd better be sure
before you issue the edict.
because that jauns is molto permanent.
and if you can't commit to a style that hard?
you can't have a List.
that's the rules.
decreed, duders.
now, of course,
when it comes to those no call/no show b!tches?
there'd better have been a life-threatening, horrific accident,
or a biblical-type natural disaster,
or a giant radiation-soaked monster/alien invasion-abduction,
or else we can't hang out ever again, either.
that's obvious.
i want to see scars, missing limbs, death certificates,
smoldering holes in the earth where your house was,
or a stretched out u.f.o. probed butthole,
with 'daddy's house' in laser-etched hieroglyphs,
or else you've lost tattbomb privileges.
and that's the treatment for diapery nancypantses
who wouldn't ever ever ever be considered
as List-worthy candidates, y'all.
september seems to have sparked some
seriously reawakened old world viking fury
up here in the woodsly goodness, i guess.
the spirits and memories are unearthed, ninjas.
that flood must have washed 'em out,
and woke 'em up.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, September 1


rabbit rabbit.
i said:
rabbit rabbit.
one more time?
ohhh, okay:
rabbit rabbit!!
that's right mutha-'uckas.
it's the first of the month.
and the muttered echo of our good luck exclamation
was the very first flippin' thing out of my mouth this morning.
you know how it goes, guys.
the calendar gets flipped,
the magic word gets spoken (twice),
and then a whole heck of a lot of awesome ensues.
word up, neighbors.
it's september.
again, already.
summer officially gets a few more weeks,
but that sort of save-the-date doo-doo butter
isn't fooling anybody.
once school is back in session,
it's all done, neighbors.
try scoopling up a busy businessday when all
the out-of-towners are back home,
and back in school.
awwwwww, man.
it's a hard style, but not an impossible one-
for really real;
i tattbombed all day long,
i made those movie checks,
and i even stacked some morning wood.
it's a true story though, yo...
nothing celebrates a new month like
sweaty manual laboring in the a.m. hours.
follow that up with a stay-late workday,
and a calm, soothing evening at home,
and you've got worthy warrior life living
at it's flourishing finest.
it's all really happening, kids.
it's dark out earlier.
by itself, that's not so bad.
but put the dimmer on daytime set to stun,
and the slow leak of light at length,
followed by a fatal dose of season change,
and spetember seems more sinister.
like a terminal diagnosis on warmth.
that IS a hard style, y'all.
lucky for us,
that shed is even fuller with fuel for our furnaces,
and there's more where that came from, too.
every day, we do a little,
and every day, it gets a little easier.
every day, duders,
especially today.
happy september;
never quiet, never soft.....