adios, november.

cranberry apple pie?
hell yeah, duders.
i've got graham crumble oatmeal streusel sh!t
all over the flippin' place,
especially in my face!
why is there a deep-dish delight
fresh out of the oven, lovin' itself
all over my bellyhole?
because i'm celebrating, suckas.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
this is it.
november's dregs,
the last legs,
the long kiss goodnight.
and that calls for a second slice, i think.
 i can't overstress the hard-hearted style i rep
when it comes to the long nights and rough seas
that this month shoves up my A*-hole.
no me gusta, neighbors.
so here's to december,
and the holy sh!tloads of holy nights an' that.
it's never not happening, y'all.
all of it.
all the time.
it's neverending,
and it's all true;
never quiet, never soft.....

chappy goat.

i've been getting a little sketchy lately.
for serious:

c'mon.
ham-hand-headed tooth anthro-homo animal.
yeah.
and that's not all.
teleport:

capricornus, kids.
the sea-goat.
the penultimate non-belonger.
i found a sketchbook, neighbors.
and bluish pencil.
and i remembered a little something-
i used to make that arthur happen.
and it turns out,
i even sorta remember how to.
at least,
with a little practice,
it's all coming back to me.
the sun is out,
the temperature is warm,
and i'm wasting it and whiling away
whilst waylaying and laying waste on
some blank white rectangular slices of pages
with blue pencil editorial marky-marking.
sometimes,
you have to doo-doo that sh!t, duders.
for old times' sake or somethin'.
i guess the F*, ninjas.
*
creating,
as a last ditch defiant doodled death threat
to november.
today is the day, kids.
the last day.
november can officially suck my balls,
like a minky, mincey, meek, mutha-lickin' 'uckhole.
that's word.
where you at, december?
i'm waiting;
never quiet, never soft.....

monday?

i got caught up in some sh!t, duders.
that's right,
it happens sometimes.
nerd book engrossment,
word-eater nutrient enrichment,
and fantasyland dwarven groundling enjoyment.
what's that?
yeah.
revenge of the dwarves.
it commanded my attention
on an otherwise A*-bag day.
it's not exactly short,
and it's english-language-translated from the original german,
and it's the third one in a series,
of which i've already read the others,
and eagerly await new installments,
and it is pretty dope, y'all.
it's not like i didn't have plans, my ninjas.
it's just that november did what it does best-
craptivate the powers of participation.
yep.
only a few more hours of that noise, neighbors,
and us worthy warrior poet-barbarians
can get expert with the holiday gift-giving hottness.
november has no place on the XI-mas agenda.
nor any status with my elite evening festivities.
just sayin',
instead of enjoying my self with a bonfire and a cigar,
the hot fire and sour stink stumps were rained out.
warm temperatures are in effect, too.
it's a clammy calamity of late autumn awfulness.
and the soggy-bottomed snowmelt rainstorm flooded
the woodsly goodness with mud and leaves and grossness,
....and fog, kids.
more of that misty moisture and it's obfustication.
when the elemental forces of ma nature are hollerin',
i listen.
so instead of tippity-typing about anything,
i read about dwarves.
they rep axes an' that, and chop molto heads, too.
i'd say it was a better investment of my energies,
and a greater reward for my expenditure.
nerd book reading night, son.
we GOT they.
***********
it's the weekend,
as far as the white mountains are concerned.
two days of doo-dooing anything but work.
which, lately, is the same as going to work.
or rather, going to job,
since working doesn't happen there.
however you define it, y'all,
it's not happening today.
the mountainous elevation of our realm
is eye-level with the clouds.
yuuuuuuuuuuuup.
we're still in a holy-smokescreen of foggy funk.
i can't see sh!t, friends.
however,
there are still a few hundred pages of dwarven battles
calling my name from upstairs.
i think i know what's on the menu for today.
sometimes,
it helps to just let november slip away;
never quiet, never soft.....

the fog.

thick and soupy,
impenetrable,
dense, opaque, and dangerous.
duders,
there's a fog as solid as can be
sitting right on top of us.
i kind of like it, too.
everything that appears does so
as if it's making a bold debut.
emerging visuals like surprise party
solidification from the vapors an' sh!t.
it's pretty dope...
but not as dope as sitting in traffic,
all mutha-b!tch-lickin' day long.
i did that.
homeward bound babies from the realm
of the weakest sauce slowly seeping
down to their diapery demesnes,
and that fog from before?
yuuuuuup.
it saw fit to cause multiple molto minivan pile-ups,
which in turn made even more traffic.
in one of 'em,
eight cars were mangled in a molten metal mass,
but i didn't see any blood or anything, neighbors.
y'know?
if i'm standing still for 45 minutes,
i demand fatalities!
oh well.
the road and it's tempermental elements
sought to stir up some logistical nightmares
for my face, for my plans, and for my well being,
and yet here i am, again.
returned to the worthy woodsly goodness,
but without my perfect pair of progeny.
awwwwwwwwwww, man.
my stormswept savage sorcerous scions
have been returned.
that's probably the lamest part of spanning a whole
entire day behind the wheel of a vehicle:
driving away from my two most favoritest
small peoples in the whole entire everywhere.
the hardest styles, guys.
that's what's rockin' in the Fortress right now.
***********
harvest and maple are back home,
and so am i.
distance, y'all.
i can't hang out;
never quiet, never soft.....

panniecakes.

light and F*ing fluffy.
yes.
a sh!t-salad week of weak sauce,
with intermittent episodes of explosive ingestion.
saturday?
big flippin' deal.
panniecakes?
actual big deal.
teleport?
check it:

c'mon, kids.
reppin' the only acceptable B grade,
and that's only because it's actually more expert
than that extra-fancy nancypantsy A-type syrup.
those're some of the loftiest golden discs of dopeness
this side of the griddles of the gods.
hubris is for waterbabies, b!tches,
we're dealing with facts over here.
panniecakes are what's up.
i need that powerful eagles'-egg-replacer nutrient jauns
to bring the thunder and ride the lightning,
and sit around all day at the studio,
doing my best to berate, belittle, and begrudge
any and all attempts to be endearing.
sorry, ninjas,
but today is not going to be your day.
the pannieman has got a hard-hearted style,
and even that maple-tree-bled expertism won't sweeten it.
***********
neighbors,
the woodsly goodness is pretty crowded.
i guess that's because we live in the ever-pumping heart
of the tax-free holiday shopping outlet experience.
that's a thing, guys.
mutha-holes from all over new england are clogging up
and bogging down the flow of Folk Life,
whilst stimulating the avaricious commerce agenda
of the holiday-spirited seasonal affectations.
that's real.
basically,
about a hundred thousand A*-lickers
are driving like F*tards,
and generally congesting the headspace, airspace,
and open spaces of this most excellent of places.
there is nary an air of holiday festivity to be whiffed.
just marshmallowy coupon-clippin' moms
and shallow, callow, sallow browbeaten b!tchbiscuits
shopping until they begin dropping.
and they're everywhere
...except the tattblasting epicenter of
my daily grinding trench-warfare occupation.
awwwwwwwwwwwwwwww, man.
when it rains, it pours,
but even when the sun is out,
there is still a raincloud directly over my head.
there may be a silver lining,
but then again,
silver is poison to werewolfen warrior poets.
jeeez.
it looks as if somebody is bound and determined
to stay in the half-empty side of the cup, huh?
oh yeah?
suckle, son...
you should see my pockets, too, duders.
those flappy denim pouches are all the way empty.
it's all really happening.,
my women-at-arms, and myself,
participating in what constitutes some semblance of activity.
don't blink, or you might miss it, y'all.
however,
i think there's talk of the XI-mas tree being activated tonight.
so there's that, at least.
brutal days,
long nights,
real times.
november, friends.
just sayin';
never quiet, never soft.....

stay black, friday!

while you and i were sleeping,
the wifey, harvest, and maple
were getting involved in some things.
4 a.m. friday, duders.
yep.
it's not just for AVAIL anymore, i guess.
the womenfolk of this Fortress
were up, at 'em, and on the road-
working the angles on some black operations, y'all.
XI-mas shopping?
not quite, kids.
but still first in line,
and foremost in spitefulness.
that's a thing, too.
on the ones,
if and when you need a new washing machine,
and a brandy-spankin' new clothes dryer,
because yours have sh!t the bed suddenly and completely,
and somebody is offering the super-hottness
at less than 1/3rd of the normal price,
BUT there's only one available,
and it gets gotten by whomever arrives earliest?
then you don't sleep, suckas.
you wake up and activate,
with aggressive retail purchasing power,
and a side order of contempt
for the 'buy nothing day' weak sauce.
well before the break of dawn, my ninjas,
these triumphant commercial competitors
crept off with some epic black friday deals.
capitalist consumerism is rampant up here.
which is okay with me,
because my early birds won the worm.
in a few days,
my laundry will be cleaner, drier, and better-off
for the efforts made by my victorious valkyries today.
cultivated coincidences, kids.
we need, they have, we get.
blacktivation of all friday-related nutrients, for certain.
*
ohhhh, man!
when was the last time i did a tattbomb?
i'm pretty sure it was last saturday.
huh?
yeah,
that sure does seem like a hard style.
once again: november, neighbors.
those movie checks are catching wreck, in full effect.
ouch.
just when the appliance-related euphoria is at it's acme,
a hot wet mess of What Is kept the elation to a minimum.
november is a dirty b!tch.
if it can't F* you at the drive-through,
it F*s you at the sit-down.
it was buy nothing day for me, y'all,
whether i liked it or not.
yesterday was an epic success.
today was a sh!t-hot mess.
real life, y'heard?
without the bitter,
the sweet's just not as sweet.
it all happens,
in varying degrees,
through various and sundry decrees.
black friday was pretty dark, indeed;
never quiet, never soft.....

thanks, given.

plentiful, bountiful, copious, capacious,
resplendent and excellent.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
we doo-doo that cornucopian cuisine sh!t.
so much food.
almost too much, even.
which is to say-
the right amount.
after all,
we're showing our gratitude and generosity
like bingeing barbarians with viking values
and lightning-stiking thunder bringing virtues, right?
you know it, my ninjas.
the menu was expert,
the volume was loud,
the food was fresh,
and the style was hard.
all the elements and ingredients aligned
to create a moment of pure activated participation
that went all the way to eleven.
since i usually never post enough pictures,
i'm prepared to overcompensate right now.
shark-glutton explosions from the future?
check the teleport, and loosen your belts,
just seeing the heaping helpings should expand
your minds, and your waistlines:

the wifey sure knows how to set a turbo-sexy table, y'all.
it's because she's the best one.
and that's a fact.
what do you ninjas know about cranberry sauce?
did you say orange zest?
c'mon,
that's amateur action.
and that's not invited to our party...

we rep the northern new england flavors with authority.
maple syrup, apple cider, brown sugar....
that's right.
it's a thing.
how about gravy?

brown and mushroom-type jauns, yo.
rue the day you don't taste my roux, duders.
double gravy is what's up.
and speaking of what's up-
butter-braised baked brussels sprouts know what time it is-

awesome o'clock, son!
baby cabbage nubs need company,
so we activated the nutrients in a big-A* pan.
parsnips, celery, rutabaga, swee' potatoes, onions, carrots,
and sundried cranberries,
plus apple-smoked sea salt and herbs!
too much?
no such thing, baby.
*
neighbors,
we had a tofurkey, too.

slabs of rice-mush-injected beigeness.
whatever, F*ers.
'taters, baby carrots, and onions always accompany the roast.
those round balls of 'furkey remind me of rocky horror every time.
what a guy, makes you cry......
....und i did.
now what do you guys know about
butternut squash/swee' 'tato/tempeh bacon homefries?

well now you do.
with smoked paprika for extra worthiness!
now try to comprehend the level of hottness that gravy adds.
does your brain hurt from trying?

DAS IT!
we're not afraid of starch up here, friends.
put it all together and what do you get?

EXPERT(e)
did i mention the garlic mashed potatoes
and the collard-type green leafies?
we GOT they, guys.
and the soysage/maple cornbread stuffed dressing?!
it goes beyond eleven.
fact.
-
how do i show myself as grateful for the time i've been given?
what do i do to give out some praise and thanks
for my peoples and the places and things and all of that?
which gesture do i display as a symbol of my
full-blown professional appreciation for What Is?
wow.
good guess.
exactly.
i choose the wrench:

awwwwwwwwwwwww, man.
second helpings, mutha-F*ers!!!
warrior poetry in gravy-soaked stanzas
of raging gastric stormswept berserker gluttony.
wu-TANG!!
that's like seven pounds of food in two plates.
*
did somebody say pie?
why, yes,
i'd LOVE some pie.

pumples, perfectly set, insightfully spiced,
and not one little tiny bit runny.
huh?
is that it?
what are you?
an A*-hole?
c'mon.
of course there's a little tiny bit more.
the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress is a fully-functional
utilitarian compound for really realness.
-
want to test the mettle of our metal?
it's cast iron, b!tches!

don't even act like that's not dope.
chestnuts roasting on an open flippin' fire.
indoors.
***********
y'know what makes it worth it?
my family and my peoples and our place in the world.
don't think for one second i take any of it for granted.
no way.
fat, ugly, and happy.
sated, for the moment, on real life.
it's all really happening,
that's the whole point;
never quiet, never soft.....

1400.

that's a lot of blogging.
fourteen hundred different times?
yeah!
some things are awesome.
like molto blog entries.
like woodsly goodness.
like vegan nachos.
that's right, duders-
when we cook up some dinner,
for ourselves and for our peoples.
we get expert.
recognize,
via the teleport:

they give me the nutrients, neighbors.
i know how to activate some heroic nacho libre sh!t.
we doo-doo that as a matter of fact.
two kinds of chips,
two kinds of faux chee',
three kinds of sauce.....
pounds and pounds of south-of-the-border pounding,
from just south of the northern border, at that.
*
on the route north to the mountains on wednesday
harvest took pictures with her robobotron jauns.
real-life documentarianism is hereditary, son.
that's those barbarian genes for recreating scenes an' sh!t.
what's really real?
winter wonderland highway activation!
we GOT they:

c'mon.
on an angle, lookin' all high speed an' that.
huh?
yeah,
it IS beautiful.

duders,
the scenic sexiness almost made up
for the treacherous trek.
...almost.
*
the snowy valley we're nestled in
is looking pretty flippin' rad these days.
in fact,
we woke up to THIS eleventh-level super hottness.
teleport, from the here and now, via the future:

yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
Folk Life & Liberty in F*ing full effect, friends.
the secret universal plan is unfolding
and expanding whilst not expounding
on the spirits and memories of all of this.
there's more.
there always is;
never quiet, never soft.....

an etude of gratitude.

give thanks.
y'know,
for all the well-lived worthy warrior poetry
and Folk Life livelihood,
and liberty,
and really-realness.
today is the day for it.
just sayin',
if you get a dedicated cycle specifically for
letting the secret universal plan know all about
how much you like being alive,
and for all the contents contained within that life,
and you have that family togetherness obligation,
and the active participation of breaking bread,
sharing that conversation and appreciation,
and reviving a little of the awareness of What Is,
then i suggest you get busy getting busy.
*
you ninjas can rest easy knowing i'm on it.
on what?
all of it.
hard-style eleven-type no-limit culinary expertism.
multiple types of hottness,
oven, griddle, cookstove, AND woodstove activation.
that's right, neighbors-
we've got chestnuts roasting on an indoor cast-iron jauns.
yeah, i know,
that's future primitivism from the present day.
word up.
i'm even making roux for two kinds of gravy.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
not everybody takes it tothe next level, though, yo.
people actually poop out a tube of red jelly
from the inside of a can labeled cranberry sauce!
more like weak-sauce, y'heard.
i'm sayin', b!tches, that sure sounds like box mix, to me,
even if the box is a tin cylinder of suckiness.
that kitchen-diapery nancyness ranks right down there
with those non-participatory 'bag of stuffing'.
just add water?
waterbaby, maybe.
i add lightning, and hot fire, and nutrients to my big action.
y'all hang to that budget doo-doo butter,
i'm all set.
c'mon.
i'm on that homemade showoff sh!t.
i can't help it, kids.
food and i have a very abusive relationship.
i'm gonna make a fancypants feast explosion,
teleportational high-end classy soiree-type jammers-
but i'm still gonna swallow it down in sharky mouthfuls.
awwwwwww.
brutal viking party time, friends.
love and hate and barbarian business.
destroying something beautiful,
nourishing something ugly.
it's what's happening.
and i sure am thankful for the opportunity.
i've got more cooking to do.
a lot more.
peeling, sauteeing, boiling, broiling, roasting,
and a whole other 'nother other bunch
of batches of bigtiming utensil-laden preparations.
it's all really happening.
more on that, later;
never quiet, never soft.....

eleven inches.

that's a thing.
eleven inches of sodden sullen snow.
yuuuuuuuup.
november hits hard when it feels neglected.
no small wonder that the first
and last legs of my journey would be buried
under heavy duty doo-doo butter blankets.
that sloppy bough-bending b!tchsap
covering the woodsly goodness
and smothering my positivity
in a deep freeze of disgruntled ire.
neighbors,
i got snowsplosions for my face,
and thick wet mucky sh!t for my trip.
hard styles and wintry mixed-up weather,
making a solid batch of ballsucked salad
and the weakest of washed-out sauce.
it looks like some sparkle-magical hottness, however.
seriously.
picturesque.
i'd show y'all,
but you don't deserve it.
sorry, kinda.
***********
harvest and maple are here, my ninjas.
the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress is occupied
and reinforced and expertly activated
by superiorly worthy family togetherness.
c'mon.
me and my peoples....
the really real ones who know what's up.
it's only midafternoon,
and i'm wiped out.
it's what's really happening, y'all.
it can't ALL be epic heroics and full-on frenzy...
i accidentally stayed up until 4:30 a.m. reading
a pretty rad nerd book as hard as i could-
and after my standard dynamite T'N'T breakfast
i just spent the whole day in the car,
white-knuckle ice-sliding downhill to the border,
deep into the impenetrable foggy-bottomed lameness
of middle massachussetts,
and then back up and at 'em again
against the pull of gravity.
home is where i'm at,
and there's no place like it.
i'm ready for whatever is next;
never quiet, never soft.....

pumps.

pumpkin pie?
yuuuuuuup.
everybody knows a good pumplestiltskin
needs to hang out for a little minute
to set up, coalesce, and activate
before the slicing and the dicing and
the swallowing can be fully appreciated.
that's a thing.
go ask your grandma, duders.
...so,
with the foresight and knowledge of a whole
multigenerational baking coalition,
and the internet, at my disposal-
i'm on that mama-jama right now.
word up.
that means maximum firming in the fridge,
and thus maximum soul-satisfying flavor AND texture
...for your face.
now, if you're one of those nasty ninjas
who prefers a runny slice of pumplemagic,
you can suck 100% of all the eligible balls, y'all.
that's the truth.
you neighbors know the secret?
what?
nope.
that's not it.
the spices are important, i'll grant you that.
a little less ginger, a trace of cloves, pure vanilla extract.
blahbitty blah blah blah.
yeah yeah yeah.
that's common knowledge though.
the secret to expert eleventh level hottness
comes from overcomplicating the recipe.
duh.
c'mon, mutha-suckas...
too much IS the right amount isn't it?
yeah! that's the spirit of the thing.
you're catching on.
you take any ordinary recipe-
got one?
good.
now disregard everything but the pumpkin
and the oven temperature.
it's not that difficult-
if you don't have at least three kinds of sweeteners,
an extra uncalled-for smootherizer,
two binding agents,
and more filling than the crust seems capable of handling;
well,
then maybe you don't know how to get busy, b!tches.
and you know you want to get busy, dontcha?
naturally.
i'll show you how a warrior makes a pie, kid:
if you're nearby on thursday,
and want a sliver of that pure uncut expertism,
you know where to find it.
it will redefine your culinary concept of  gratitude.
fact.
***********
in other news...
i used my petrochemical-powered,
two-stroke hurricane bobotron today.
miniature cyclones for lawn and garden beautification.
it's not exactly a measured response to having
those castaway solar panels from the trees
littering and mouldering on my curbside appeals.
but,
real life calls for real participation, kids.
which, in it's own turn, calls out the winds of war,
and change, and answers-
blowing leaves all over the flippin' place,
in piles,
in rows,
in flippin' full effect.
there's snow on it's way tomorrow, yo.
that's when the leafy deadline comes due.
not that i'll even give a sh!t...
i'll be on the road,
braving the hazards of A*tards on their way
to eat up on some sexiness with their kinfolk.
dead birds an' that.
get it?
take it easy.
sexiness with kinfolk up here isn't that crazy, though, to be fair.
ugh.
whatever else happens tomorrow,
there will be slow goings, big doings,
and family mutha-F*ing togetherness.
we doo-doo that here in the woodsly goodness.
where're you at?
just sayin'.
*
bakin' up some goods.
preppin' the whole dang kitchen
for a b!tchin' battle-royale.
and doing the dishes.
domestic bliss-type styles are getting rocked.
the woodstove is blasting some heat,
shedding some light,
and keeping us in high spirits.
the spirits and memories of these mountains
are nestled in around us,
new england hottness is happening,
complete with snow, sleet, and rain.
i guess november demands to be heard.
i'm not listening;
never quiet, never soft.....

cornbread.

you can't have cornbread dressing
stuffing up your pipes on american
thanksgiving day glutton festivals
without cornbread.
and you're supposed to let the bread
get a little baby bit stale,
so that it absords more of the brothy activational nutrients
and elevates the flavor quotient to eleven.
c'mon.
since you ninjas all already know how much i love
to get busy like a barbarian baker in my ever-lovin'
preheated oven-enhanced kitchen,
you can probably guess that i've already begun
the pre-thanksgiving preparations.
which, of course, include maple-sweetened cornbread.
yeah!
and don't call it 'turkey day' if you expect me
to answer you with any hint of civility.
food-specific holidays are one thing,
but some jive-A* genocide sh!t is a whole other animal.
y'all should give thanks about how i don't bring the
loud fresh hardness directly at your face
like a maverick of vegetarian vengeance an' that.
word up.
oh, take it easy...
i don't usually get too heated about other peoples'
good karma and clean colons...
i mean,
if you don't want either, that's you, duders.
i avoid the meat department like you avoid salads.
no problem.
right?
right.
but the morguelike scenario at the grocery store,
with frozen dead bodies everywhere?
gross and a half, mutha-sons.
i can't hang out.
on the ones,
a pile of rock-solid icy carcasses?
that's officially nasty.
even if you cook it,
even if it's delicious,
even if you're hungry-
meat is rotting flesh chunks that you put in your mouth.
fact.
that totally makes me get a little nauseous.
fact.
i'm repping corn and bread instead,
at the same time.
skills?
maybe.
***********
november got me again.
i sunbathed away my day,
out in front of the studio,
trying not to simmer in my own hard style.
don't worry, neighbors,
it's supposed to snow all day
on my drive to asscrackachussetts on wednesday.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
doo-doo buttery roadways, kids.
secret universal trials and tests, i guess.
i'm ready, if a bit unwilling, to make it happen.
hear that?
the cornbread is ready;
never quiet, never soft.....

dirty.

greasy chinese food you say?
i don't believe it.
how did you know?
that is exactly what's creating some epic turmoil
inside the boiler-room of my robobotronic
futuristic finely-honed chassis of warrior workmanship.
roiling gastric juices,
like a savage stormswept sea of devastating digestion,
'garious glutition, and perilous peristalsis.
yuuuuuuuuup.
it's a regular wrench in those aforementioned works.
it's that too much of not enough jauns, duders;
huge doses of some of the oiliest doo-doo noodoos-
and the next thing you know....
b!tchballs of buttery overreactivating are in action.
awwwww.
c'mon.
you don't like hearing me bellyache about my bellyaches?
sorry, neighbors,
it's november.
take it or leave it.
***********
thanksgiving?
i don't know, y'all.
i will be force-feeding my face with copious quantities
of starchy squashes and tubers,
and possibly accompanied by some zots,
but i will NOT waste my vegan marshmallows
on sweet 'taters.
food bread isn't invited,
and dessert treats on regular food can't come over either.
(decreed)
the usual assortment of hottness is on the menu,
and the sisters of magnificent valkyrie virtues
are gonna be here, too.
that's right.
my girlie girls, harvest and maple are back to being
a part of the gratitude and generosity of woodsly
goodsly giving thanks with active participation
and professional appreciation.
we do that up here.
*
i had a zero day at work.
no.
not at the zombie defense headquarters.
that's a ZERO day.
see the difference?
i'm saying i had a nil set,
a bust-out,
a heaping helping of painful life in full effect.
i know.
and after that bootful of butthole,
i waded through the mire of a heroic trip
to the super-duper-market,
just like all the other housewifely types,
to stockpile my feastly ingredients an' that.
and then the final squish of slimy chinese blops,
just to make sure that all my ins and outs are sure
to spit hot fire like the golden sesame tofu dragon.
this is what really happens in real life.
no platinum plated sledgehammers for us,
only oxidized and realized wrench-worthy warrior poetics.
recognize-
i rock a hard style whenever possible, kids.
and it's all really happening:
broke, busted, digusted, disgusting and ball-busting.
every day in every way, y'all;
never quiet, never soft.....

breakfast is important, too.

i'm eating pizza.
and it is delicious.
real talk, guys.
hippie-type expensive organic do-goodery jauns,
for my face!
yeah!!
i'm rockin' a slice or eight of flatbread pizza.
(the first time i typed that, it read flabtread. no thank you)
flatbread believes in feeling positive and other weak sauce.
but look at this cool thing!
that helps out my feelings toward this pizza.
it has the cucch's name on it.
remember that guy, my ninjas?
think really, really hard.
i'll give you a hint:
he's EXPERT(e)....at moving away.
now do you remember?
yeah, that guy.
he used to be around,
which was pretty fresh.
now he's not,
which is not so fresh.
but sort of like just about everybody else,
i guess.
y'know,
NOT around so much an' that.
geographically inappropriate, i'd say.
still,
this pizza has got it poppin'.
even if we're shoveling it down our throats
without the benefit of a live woodsly audience.
awwwwwwww, man.
***********
saturday night,
and it's far from all-the-way-live.
there's still a bunch of F*ing wind blowing,
harshing up my fire-making plans for evening hottness.
that's no joke, neighbors....
the hot fire count is dangerously low up here.
i mean,
the woodsly goodstove heat-throwing ironbox
is pumping out those activated b.t.u.'s,
but the outdoor appreciation action is actually
at an all time record low for fall season night-style
hard, hot, barbarian bonfire blazing.
it's just that i don't want to burn down the forest.
the mountains can take care of themselves, kids,
but the dry leaf tinder coating the rest is just begging
to be conflagrated into the future of a hellishly hard style.
that's a thing.
maybe i'll do it anyway.
november makes wrenches of us all.
*
fruit brute.
look it up.
before you were born,
it was a companion brand to frankenberry,
and count chocula, and boo-berry cereal.
i swear it's true.
i put the fruit brute on somebody today,
and his replacement, as well.
that's the yummy mummy.
no joke.
just when i want to go ahead and hate every single thing
as hard as i possibly can,
at the top of my lungs,
with all my might,
a dude with too many e's in his name gets
totally rad on some life-altering decisions.
five kinds of cereal mascots,
five tattoos,
one actively activated participant.
add it up.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
it makes eleven.
yes,
i'm pretty flippin' excited.
no,
i didn't take a picture.
yes,
it still really happened.
it all always is;
never quiet, never soft.....

day in, day out.

grinding, y'all.
that's right.
grinding.
that's that rough sh!t;
eking, and winnowing, and scraping,
scrimping, and mustering, and
barely crossing the finish line.
y'know,
grinding, like i said.
i'm reppin' hard on that daily flippin' grind.
it's never easy,
it's never smooth,
it's never quiet,
and never soft.
your grind and my grind aren't the same, dog.
-
yuuuuuuuuuuuup.
another 'nother day of doo-doo buttery doings.
i GOT they, in full effect, in fact.
tattbombin'?
yeah.
i did some of that.
drawing with my marky-mark 'em markers,
and bringing just a little tiny beginning bit
of big burly business to bear...
teleport?
okay, but just a little suspenseful taste:

chronic draconic tonic,
for what ails all you ninjas.
that is,
if what ails you is an unhealthy craving
for coiled up camel-horse-snake monsters.
i hope so.
because that's all there is, neighbors.
you can't see it, and i won't give it away,
but there's background activation in this one.
huh?
oh, shut up.
the grind doesn't play favorites,
and it doesn't get expert(e').
***********
duders,
it's below freezing. 
i'm not into it.
even the treats i got in the mail today
(gun parts, of course)
can't deactivate the frontline frostline frontier
of netherworldly novemberian nonsense
that the thermometer is showing us.
as a matter of fact,
even the sparkle magical candy beans
aren't making a dent or even a dimple
in the dearth of exterior hottness up here.
we're roasty-flippin'-toasty warm by the fire.
we're illuminated by the lamps, lights, candles, and torches.
it's friday night.
it's all really happening.
don't hate my grind;
never quiet, never soft.....

novembarbarian?

oh, what?
a four-hour appointment cancellation?!
BOO-YA!, all y'all A*-lords,
it's a surprise attack of the weak-sauce!
welcome back to work, b!tch-hole.
...good job, november,
you got me again.
yuuuuuuup, ninjas,
it's a hard-style thor's day thursday.
and it's flippin' windy, too.
that's compounded confounded craptardation.
it blows in some answers about war and change,
whilst simultaneously sucking all the balls.
y'heard, neighbors?
yes.
that's some sh!t.
***********
there's only a few hours of daylight these days,
so,
when the sun decides to take a sabbatical,
i'm a little bit put out by it.
all-day grey,
with blowing leaves and blown-out blowhards
oozing their waterbabyish sauce all up and over the place
makes for a loooooooong, dull, yawning, chasm
of that doo-doo buttery do-nothing doldrum jauns.
thank heavens for that extra cup of hot black tea.
that's right, kids.
i activated the barbarian break-beat heart beats,
and cut the cables to the brakes on my heartbreaks,
and motormouth manhandled my tour of duty
until it was time to break north.
we've got three kinds of candybeans,
four kinds of licorice treats,
fancy sodas,
authentic and imitation ghetto-A* oreos,
and a triple order of vegan marshmallows.
what are we on about?
how about some severe sugarshock aftershocks
to accentuate the fallout from yesterday's
infinitessimally felt earthquake action.
uh-huh.
apparently,
while i was getting nauseous from my
nicotiana tabacum sausagefest,
the tectonic tempo was shudder-stepping to
a different song than the mountains were singing.
that's a thing.
*
now.
it's nighttime,
and it's our time.
the world, it turns out,
IS a vampire,
but it isn't blood it's sucking.
no way.
wanna guess what it does suck though?
yep.
chocolate salty/schweddy/brass, whatever;
if you've got 'em,
keep 'em secret, keep 'em safe.
real talk, duders;
never quiet, never soft.....

soup is good food.

rainy?
yuuuuup.
grey?
of course.
fulfilling?
abso-flippin'-lutely, neighbors.
i had some dentist times for my face,
with an upgrade on my wisest of teeth,
in complete pseudo-enamel colormatch finish,
and that was just the start of a full-on busy day.
that's right, y'all.
positive dental appreciation,
pearly whitish horse-bucking chompy-choppers,
all re-activated and enhanced.
real ninjas can't be havin' that up-here grill, y'heard?
the cigar shop was the next stop,
getting those primo stumps, son.
then,
the gun shop got it poppin' like caps an' that.
me and my buddy george spanned some time,
rocking stogies and packin' those lead-slingers,
all throughout the eastern edge of new hampshire.
that's how warriors go deep behind enemy lines
on that new england no-prisoners november-type
escalation of aggression jauns.
word up.
we scoped the scene,
we stunk up the truck,
we experienced some hard-style autumn reality.
it's cold.
it's wet.
it's pretty mutha-uckin' dismal,
but it's all really happening,
and that's the whole point.
you know it.
then we did some amateur gunsmithery.
swapping components,
on that futuristic custom battle-beast sh!t.
like i said- it was a busy day.
(at one point we even went and got pizza)
active participation, on a wednesday, kids.
speaking of wednesday....
it's soup day in tamworth!
i think that's a thing.
it was today, that's for sure.
down on the farm, with casey and cyle,
for belated berfday happy-happy hangin' outs.
did somebody mention the homemade biscuits?
i hope so.
if not, i'm on that second-helping touted all-aboutitude.
and F* you so hard if you aren't all about that hottness.
how about hubba-frickin'-bubba chewing gum??
we GOT they.
some kind of double-nutrient ghettolicious goodness,
all up in the entire area surrounding your head.
...that includes your 'ucking FACE, b!tches...
expansive spanning, with our peoples, y'all.
we doo-doo that grateful and gregarious get-together sh!t.
busy.
i said it.
the fire is roaring over here,
the gun parts and the shotshells
and the magical new strawberry oreos
have all been put away until tomorrow.
good food,
good folks,
good times.
shove that where the sun don't shine, suckas....
which is to say:
right up your november;
never quiet, never soft.....

the candybeans help a little...

duders,
it's warm out.
balmy, even.
i'm not complaining, at all.
like, AT ALL, at all, about that action.
warmth is a good thing,
especially during the grey gaytardation of november.
but this sweet temperature activation?
it isn't quite the hottness,
but it isn't the gelid iceheart-attack, either.
that's word.
i'll take what i can get, when and where it's available,
and if that means a trip to maine,
well then, so be it.
that's right neighbors-
we went down to portland and ate ourselves a great
big fat gluttonous faceful of vegan deliciousness
at the ever-lovin' green elephant.
don't you worry your silly little noggins about it, y'all.
i worked up an angry mechanic-man's appetite
whilst changing our journey-incurred flat mutha-flippin' tire.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
you didn't think november wouldn't try to F* our A*s,
did you?
wait....did you?
c'mon.
that wouldn't be very wrenchlike at all, now would it?
right.
it's cool, i'd hate to enjoy myself too much, if at all.
uh-huh.
we also did some fancypantsed lefty-type cityside
hipster-staffed organic grocery shopping.
i know, yo.
we had to kill some time...
(even after the roadside assistance jauns)
we stocked up on all the treats, my ninjas.
and that includes a bunch of backup boxes of our
very favorite irish breakfast blended tea,
y'know,
for sipping that sumptuous cuppa
with our morning toast an' that;
aaaand some irish candybeans with 'natural' flavors.....
which are sugary as heck,
but also kind of gross,
not that i've stopped munchin' 'em up yet.
it's exactly that kind of self-induced character development
that gives me what i need to hump the busy buzzing beehive
i've come to know as november.
hard styles,
overfull bellyholes,
sugary nutrient activation,
and another nother other day over and done with.....
before you know it,
it'll be tomorrow,
and that's what's up.
digestion beckons, b!tches,
like a bomb-threat siren from my insides.
take cover,
take care,
and take notice-
it's all really happening,
from the mundane to the arcane,
every single minute,
including this one;
never quiet, never soft.....

hibernation.

how many hours of sleep is too many?
i'm just sort of wondering,
because i want to dominate the limit.
half a day?
more?
i'm ready, y'all.
hibernation, in full flipping effect.
getting all up on that hypersleep.
y'heard of that?
i'm almost entirely certain that's a thing, duders.
y'know,
like in deep space;
hard-style sci-fi superheroic semicomatose sh!t.
from right now until december.
this november crap is taking waaaay to long
to run it's course,
and i, for one, am fairly well sick of it.
the countdown to pilgrims in buckle-fastened shoes,
and piles of A*-packed sexy dead bird corpses,
and more raking,
and less light,
and longer nights,
and suckier days?
neighbors,
i'm kind of all set with that noise.
for really real.
don't get me wrong, kids-
i'll endure it, and overcome it,
and wallow in the worst of the weak-sauce
in the in-betweens and meantimes, for sure.
that's the warriors' way, after all.
it's just up to us to turn the barbarian jauns up
to eleven.
word up:
berserkers don't care about being bummed out.
they care about axe.
and chop.
and face.
end of list.
if nothing else,
i'm well rested,
so there's not much in the way of excuses
for not bringing the mutha-b!tchin' thunder
down on all the unsuspecting sauce-lickers
trying to rep on november as worthy in any way.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
a tippy-tappy typed pep talk,
for my very own face, F*ers.
it's the weekend.
there's that.
it's time to trek down to the green elephant,
and stuff my stupid mouth full of vegan overachievements.
there's that, too.
what's up, november?
you can't hang out with this newly activated expertism.
you won't be dope,
but you also won't F* right off?
unacceptable, son.
i'm gonna occupy november, then.
like a righteous 5%er.
that's that pure wu-TANG sh!t.
decreed, duders;
never quiet, never soft.....

obvious, inaccessible.

duders,
there are only hard styles available.
just sayin',
the days are getting molto dark,
and so is the general mood in these mountains.
i'm on that grim viking skald sh!t.
pointed paeans to the pugnacious essence of autumn.
we GOT they.
the trees may just be going to sleep,
but that shed vitality sure looks a whole lot like dying to me.
burning leaves like funeral pyres,
breathing in fire,
blowing out ash,
distilling the infinite nature of nature in a crucible...
for serious.
sitting outside in the starlight,
puffing on some pitch black stink stumps,
letting that sour smoke stink up the scene y'all.
coils of ghost ring smoke rings,
rising and reeking and infusing everything.
it's a rough kind of purposeful relaxation,
more harm than help.
if it doesn't hurt,
you're just not using the right wrench, kids.
hot fire, cold weather, and long nights.
it's all there really is.
that's pure november.
and it is the worst.
***********
neighbors,
deep-cover reclusive, elusive, illicit
hermit action is what i'm doo-dooing-
just for you.
on the ones,
you folks can NOT hang out
with this surly, burly barbarian brutality.
the few unlucky long-time ninjas i know
will be well aware of what i'm talking about.
old-school albie rock action.
like from the before-times an' that.
ask a mutha-ucka about it if you don't know....
like an overzealous editor-
finding fault in everything,
and taking whatever's left out on everybody else.
you like it,
i love it,
and it's what's really happening.
the dwindle, friends.
an effortless ebbing of expertism,
replaced in word and deed
with inelegant, insensitive activation.
the hardest styles,
the loudest curses,
the freshest flavor...
...of bitterness.
shhhhhhh.
y'hear that?
that's the sound of nature, winning;
never quiet, never soft.....

putting the 'NO' in november.

awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww, man.
november got me again.
the suckiest month thwarted each and every attempt
at super-hottness and turbo-dope expertism.
11-11-11-?!!?
pretty much eleven kinds of sh!t-salad sandwiches.
it was interminably terrible, y'all.
three times over, and back again.
this is real life, documented.
it was so F*ing disappointing,
i sent myself to bed at immediately o'clock.
hard styles make hard hearts, kids.
and i've got a white mountain-hewed
grey granite golem imprisoned in my rib cage.
ouch.
my bad attitude started early, crept in, coiled up,
and kept at it until i crashed out.
the albie rock show had all the charm and wit of
a spanish inquisition witch trial.
and it turns out,
misery doesn't really enjoy entertaining that much.
i eschewed the comfort of company,
and did my dirt all by my lonely....
the only thing missing was artex
sinking in the swamp with me, duders.

---
dear november,
you win.
xoxo,
-albie
p.s.
suck my balls.
---

it's all really happening, neighbors,
each and every sour steaming heap of it;
never quiet, never soft.....

p.p.s.
it's impossible to look forward to anything
when you're an expert-level eagles' eggs nutrient activator
from the future,
because it's actually only ever an imperfect memory
hindered by hindsight.
perpetual motion, in a backward direction, y'all.
cold hearths,
cold hearts,
cold dinner,
cold nights.
ice age type raging stormswept savage gypsy tundrascape,
with post-full-moon inverse magnetism,
and a whole heaping helping of hard-style hypobaric
dents, dings, and depressions.
optimism is for deluded waterbaby pants.
fact.
What Is is what's up.
i should've guessed it, really.
i mean,
victory is wasted on good storytellers.
it's the failures that defines us, duders...

i'm on that high-contrast thick-outlined
definitive jux, ninjas.
i take defeat to eleven.

eleveneleveneleven.

eleven.
eleven.
ELEVEN.
yeah!
today is absolutely the day.
the big day.
the high holy day of worthy warrior poetry,
the super-sexy sabbath for lightning-striking vikings.
the wild hunt of the berserker barbarian battle-beasts!
11.11.11.
XI-XI-XI.
c'mon, neighbors,
it goes to eleven three times!
in a row!
for your face!!!
what-whaaat?!!
a mutha-flippin' triple EXPERT activation, mutha-F*ers!
excess is the name of the game today.
over-the-top indulgence in all forms of expertism.
one louder, one harder, one fresher, b!tchbags.

***********
we've got to celebrate!!
how about $11 for an XI tattoo?
i'm down for it, if you are...
i've got some weak sauce to emboss first,
but after i punish my audacious appointments,
we can hang out tonight and have a tattbomb party!
naturally, however, we should really take it to eleven:
sooooo,
how about free wiener tattoos?
no,
not ON your sausage, son-
a free tattoo OF a man-banana!
that's right,
one konkey dong of your choice,
on the house!
huh?
no, not daddy's house,
unless that's where you want it.
if you're around,
and you're ready,
it's all really happening!
today!
too much is the right amount.
three times over and back again!
it'll be a hundred years before that happens again.
true story, duders-
the calendar doesn't lie,
and it usually doesn't co-witness
with the european version either.
switch it up, flip the script, mirror image that jauns-
day/month, month/day,
it's eleven freakin' eleven;
and that's dope.
*********************************
(^3x the butthole dots!)
what about when the clock strikes 11:11?!
holy sh!t, my ninjas,
i'll be positively off my A* with caffeinated
stormswept raging gypsy thunder.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
i'm drinking coffee today, kids.
that's next-level activation from the future, y'all.
dark roasted pitch black unfairly-traded tarwater,
with an extra shot or three of espresso....
freshly ground daily grindcore gastric guernica, guys.
if it doesn't hurt, it isn't worth it.
remember that.
the full moon begins to ebb tonight,
but not enough to dull the werewolfen blitzkrieg
of off-the-charts opulent gluttony and decadence.
kids,
when it's time to get busy,
it's time to get busy,
so get busy gettin' busy.
making moves, making mistakes, making the magic happen;
that's a triple threat custom-tailored to triple-eleven.
*
will there be spinal tap on tap and in stereo,
cranked up on amps that go past ten, all day long?
c'mon,
what are you?
an A*-hole?
of course we're gonna break like the wind, kids.
we're experts, after all.
today is the day.
i can't overstress that fact.
11-XI-eleven.
we go to there, friends,
and we're waiting for you;
never quiet, never soft.....XI

the fullness.

my legs are lookin' more double-jointed
than their usual knock-kneed spindle-type jauns.
what?
yeah,
they're not extra-bendy, at all,
in fact,
they aren't even very bendy whatsoever-
they're actually pretty sore from all yesterday's yard labors;
it just feels like i've got an extra spring-piston angle in 'em-
as if i'm on my tippy-top toes an' that.
that's hind leg transformation, y'all.
y'know,
like anthropomorphic lycanthropy,
that perfect blend of canis lupus and homo sapiens-
c'mon, neighbors!
werewolves have that extra 'nother other sh!t.
all the better to run around all naked under the
swollen pop-outtie pearl beaming it's beatific refracted
activation down on all the battle-beasts below.
okay,
so maybe there's not an extra bend,
but my clod-hoppin' clown-sized flippers
are feeling a lot more bestial today.
and that's surely because today is the day, duders,
and moreover,
tonight is the night to get EXPERT with the nutrients
of that polarity magnetized hair-growth,
and fearsome, feral, full moon howlin' wolf fury.
remember your grandma?
yuuuuuuuuuuuup.
if you make it to the woodsly goodness tonight,
don't get confused by these great big eyes,
ears and mutha-flippin' tombstone teeth, friends....
all the better to go to eleven with.
and remember,
there're no goodly woodsmen waiting around to save your A*.
fact.
*
the november blues,
under stormclouds,
covering that special blue light whitebulb in the sky.
figures it'll rain away the best moon this month.
that's really weak sauce.
that's pure november, my ninjas.
the weakest sauce, indeed.
***********
it's back to work again, y'all.
after working all weekend.
i've got a tall stack of new nerd books,
i've got a bunch of groceries that need cookin',
i've got a whole yard about to get re-covered
in rainfall-dropped thick, slick, heavy oak leaves.
duders,
those oak mutha-'uckas are no joke.
on the real,
every other kind of leaf crinkles up and disintegrates,
but these mighty red and white jauns over here?
cardboard boxes couldn't withstand the elements
nearly half as heartily as the brown carpet litter
all over our mountainous meadows.
the least dope color changing atumn shedders
are the hardest-style decomposers in the forest.
it's their tannins an' sh!t, yo.
that's what causes them to rep that deep leathery hue,
and what lets oak leaves produce such voluminous,
heavy smoke when burned.
i'm on that hot fire fog creation action, tonight, my ninjas..
full moon rainy leafpile bonfires?
dopeness.
that's all four elements, at the same time.
that's woodsly F*ing goodness,
and that's what's really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

getting blown.

leaves, duders.
c'mon.
i repped a leaf blower for hours, y'all.
that's right.
a leaf blower.
y'know why?
because i'm a homeowner,
and because i get busy with that curb appeal,
and mostly because raking sucks balls,
and if i have the EXPERT technology
to go and do a blowie instead,
then you mutha-b!tches better believe
that the scrapey grass-forks can leave these balls alone.
word up.
responsible adult chore-type hard-work yard-work sh!t.
using petrochemical combustion,
and whirlwind cyclonic fury,
gusted and busted,
to save my elbows at the expense
of the environment.
i was the answer, kids.
die antwoord, if you know afrikaans.
overall, y'all,
it was yet another 'nother wasted day,
foolishly spanned in the hardest style,
laboring in anomalous 70-degree november hottness.
i even mowed that mutha-F*ing lawn,, kids.
that's that mulch magic mush jauns.
lawn food!
i doo-doo that nourishing nutrient activation.
seriously, though.
i motor-power pulverized my palms.
vibro-smootherizing my skin so soft,
the better to b!tchslap the sh!t out of any and all
would-be naysayers and non-participaters.
huh?
juts sayin', neighbors,
i worked like a futuristic robobotronic MAN, today.
i would be impressed right now if i didn't know better.
....but i do.
***********
did somebody just ask what i know about romance?
i know all about that noise, my ninjas.
in fact,
i am a most considerate and appropriate romancer.
that's real.
for example-
when the skankiness of wannabe urban A*tards
starts encroaching on the epic excellence of
the world's most awesome woodsly goodness,
really-real warrior poets start making things warmer...
...by packing heat, for your face.
DAS IT!
i traded an ol' busted jauns for some new hottness.
check the teleport:

yuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
that, friends, is a ruger lcr.
it holds 5 rounds of especially special-type
.38 caliber +P sauce,
but it definitely goes to eleven.
wooooooooooord.
advanced space-age polymer technology,
ultra-lightweight hammerless personal protection
for my wifey's well-being and piece of peace of mind.
that's how we reinforce that Folk Life business.
fortified live, like survive the apocalypse.
she got a gun,
and when she arrived from her days down
on old cape cod, she brought me a treat, too.
that's right.
i got a sexy sweater.
two forms of heat-indusing generosity.
now that's some sh!t, ninjas;
never quiet, never soft.....

re-activated.

ZERO HEAVY INDUSTRIES.
you know it.
sometimes,
it's okay to work through your weekend,
especially when work means baller-A*
battle-beast bullet-blasting some hot leaden
salami slugs shots from your very own
defense system ordnance weaponry.
c'mon.
we get busy, my ninjas.
we get molto busy, like barbarian businessmen.
that's how we doo-doo that business, actually.
straight from the future,
directly at your mutha-flippin' face,
like a stepping razor an' sh!t,
as loud, fresh, and hard
as a team of worthy warrior poets can.
zombie defense is no joke.
never mind all the chuckletards playing it for laughs...
we're on that next-level real-time propaganda jauns.
for serious, son.
check the teleport:

that's it, soak in that turbo-sexy
regionally-appropriate camouflage awareness.
we make personal preparedness in harmony with nature.
because nature always wins, neighbors.
that's authentic new england snow, in there, too.
recognize.
don't sleep on that training,
don't wait on that purchase.
today is the day,
right now is the right time.
if you aren't getting ready to survive,
you may as well lay right down next to a napkin,
and serve yourself right up-
rare, tartare, or sushi-like.
just sayin'-
do you want to get your whole head eaten right off
by the cannibalistic undead carcasses of what
used to be your friends and neighbors?
me neither, yo.
don't be dumb.
that's word.
for example,
when i'm on that eleventh-level crisis responder sh!t,
or getting geared-up for assessing and addressing
the plausible collapse of social order as we know it,
or even just going to work,
i keep a respectable amount of readiness in the
rear of my responsibly adult station wagon:

wordimus prime, kids.
we keep it really real in the woodsly goodness.
it's dark out, duders.
from dawn until dusk and back again,
we rock steady, and we rock hard.
not to mention the fact that my main ninja ro-ro
gets EXPERT with that flash photography.
he's got explosivo umbrellas, and black-magic glass,
and remote control robobotronic equipment,
and he knows how to use it.
on the ones,
check out this trio of rough, rugged, and raw-style
lightning-striking zombie defenders:

yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
that's how you rep the future like a MAN.
times three.
beards, mutha-b!tches.
that's how you know it's good stuff....
unless you're a waterbabyish weak-sauce nancypants,
you are getting the hugest, pop-outtiest high-noon rager
about how completely fluent in applicable science we are.
if not, well,
zombies will bite and swallow you.
and that's not cool.
if i were you, i'd do something about that.
in fact,
i'd probably contact the professionals.
immediately.
ZERO, y'all.
the answer is right in front of your faces.
make some moves;
never quiet, never soft.....

moonflower.

duders,
it's happening again.
twenty eight days later an' sh!t.
we're back on that wax attack,
the werewolfen lead up,
the lycanthropic appetizer,
the pushy pull of the tidal wavelengths.
neighbors,
the luxurious luminescent lunar cycle,
at maximun tight and brightness is hard at work...
the fullest and the roundest and the most expert.
it's berserker barbarian battle-beast activation,
and futuristic hard-style pounding, from space.
cosmic radiation,
transmitting from the orbiting dispensation station,
near-perfectly swollen in a circle,
high above our heads,
revolving around and around, merrily,
for plenty of passing volleys of transformative ray beams.
can you feel it?
or are you a non-believer?
c'mon.
i'm sayin',
i can't sleep.
and when i'm asleep,
i'm dreaming about some seriously animal-type action,
and all the in-between jauns have been howling
like the whirling wind on the moors in a horror movie.
today is the day,
and tonight is the night.
i've got a serious case of november,
an even more acute recurring inflamation of the wolfman,
and a lethal strain of expertism.
i can't tell if i'm shapeshifting,
or if my gums and my hairline are just receeding.
awwwwwwwwww, man.
getting older as the skies get darker,
and the year groans to a shuddering cessation.
bleak, y'all.
it's a bleak season,
blue-lit by the cheesewheel above us or not.
*
it is my weekend, though.
officially.
starting now.
what am i going to doo-doo with my time?
squander it?
spend it freely?
while it away?
nope.
i'm gonna spend it wisely,
spinning straw into gold.
that's right, folks.
it's a working weekend.
theoretical design-type business.
guns, zombies, cigars, dress-up, and make-believe.
for real.
***********
if you see a big hairy wolfen-type ninja run by,
with big big teeth,
and too-long of arms,
and a big mange patch on the back of it's head,
be easy.
maybe there's gonna be a brutal stormswept raging
wild animal mauling mayhem extravaganza,
or maybe he just misses you a little tiny bit,
and he's ready to fly by,
by the light of the moon,
and get a glimpse of what's poppin' in your 'hood.
but probably it's the mauling, really.
i mean, c'mon.
why does your glass always have to be half full?
stop that noise, b!tches.
keep your silver linings and your silver bullets to yourselves;
never quiet, never soft.....

time travel.

we've leapt into the past, duders!
the clocks retreated, regrouped,
and recommenced the countdown to tomorrow,
but that other 'nother hour is not gained,
we're just living sixty minutes behind schedule.
it's like a quantum chronological do-over.
ya'll may not realize it,
but if you spent that extra hour in bed,
you probably did something lamer
than you otherwise would've.
...if you'd have stayed in the future, i mean.
just sayin', neighbors.
what about the worthy warrior poets
and goodsly woodsmen and women?
that's it,
like, what's poppin' with those really real ones
you all know and love as Folk Life & Liberty Fusiliers?
well,
we're not letting any temporal fugue state deactivaction
stop any of us from remaining firmly affixed to the future.
we check the teleport regularly, my ninjas,
and that reactivated golden hour is never used for slumber.
daylight only ever needs saving from itself,
and when it's all over, (like it is today),
it becomes a spending spree of minutes previously invested.
you never accrue interest on daylight savings, kids.
that's why we take our time by storm,
and offer no quarter or even spare fifteen minutes.
oh, you like it.
anyway,
i stop watching my watch and start the stopwatch
to witness how close to the ticking time-balm you let
yourselves get with those shut-eyed shudders.
extra hours?
c'mon.
our eyes are open up here,
swimming up the timestream,
like spawning salmon.
wait a minute, (you've got your hour, after all)
that means we probably die at the end,
after some hard-style pounding,
just like salmon.
awwwwwwwwwwwwwwww, man.
it'll be worth it, my ninjas!
don't sleep on this expert activation.
i'm flippin' mutha-flippin' rose-colored
hourglasses upside down,
and i'm repping streetwise counterclockwise
cointelpro on the spanning of modern times.
long nights made longer,
afternoons grown shorter, sweeter, and darker,
it's all really happening.
the concentric circadian cycles, y'all,
overlapped a little tiny bit extra last night.
that's that ven diagram sh!t, ninjas.
the resulting cohabitation of both loud AND fresh
creates a whole 'nother something else:
hardness.
and the location, just like on a clock?
...your face!
word up.
***********
fortunate?
perpetually.
i'm a lucky duck most days.
but sometimes being a soldier of fortune
means cracking up and finding out
some secret message type jauns.
i find myself discovering some ugly truths.
teleport back to the future:

neighbors,
you know me...
i've always been favorably inclined to
optimism about mankild.
fact.
*
shooting guns.
...expert.
tattbombing.
...expert.
woodstove fire.
...expert.
time travel.
...expert.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
pretty sure today is gonna be expert.
it's got all the ingredients,
it's got all the equipment,
it's got it going on.
today is the day, duders;
never quiet, never soft.....

remember, remember.

blowin' sh!t up, ninjas.
that's on the schedule of events today.
no,
i won't be wearing a guy fawkes mask.
i'll be occupying north conway, for sure;
taking up space with loud, fresh, hardness...
...for your face, of course-
but,
i'll mostly be preoccupying my brainwaves
with brutal berserker barbaric capitalism.
that means the only bombs that'll get dropped
will be tattbombs, duders.
it means the only parliament we'll blow up today
will be that funkadelic jauns, y'all.
wooooooooord.
...y'heard?
barbarian capitalism!!
what's up with viking-style jack-moves for those movie checks?
lightning-striking thatch-roof barn burning
bearded battle-beast business, b!tchbags.
what?
is there room for one more?
most assuredly, mutha-lickers.
the object is always more.
sorry guido, but that vendetta mask
is not invited to my moustache ride-along....
besides,
V for vagina is not what's up today.
it's a sinister sausage attack,
inflated, enfiladed, flayed, and filleted from all sides.
ouch.
on second thought,
that is pretty flippin' terrible to even imagine.
but still, no masks.
***********
well, neighbors,
it's a sleepy, ice-frosted saturday morning.
we've got colors getting muted more each day.
trees shed their clothes and get naked and ready for sleep.
that leaves crunching leaves underfoot, (c'mon)
both dry and slippery all at once.
tomorrow it'll be a raking yardwork maintenance nightmare,
but today,
those discarded photosynthesizers are gonna be a smoky
sacrifice to our november embers.
hot fire,
stinky stumps,
lamps and lanterns,
and a whole bunch of fruitless occupation.
get it?
double entendre, like a mutha-F*er, son.
*
remember, remember the fifth of november.
i'm hoping for some hottness
that can activate an unforgettable furor, frenzy,
and freshness for the fifth, my ninjas.
i'm ready for anything,
hoping for everything,
and expecting nothing.
sounds like i've assembled all the ingredients
for a sh!t-salad sandwich.
awwwwwwwwwwwwwwww, man.
maybe if i listen to beethoven's fifth,
whilst drinking a fifth of white lightnin',
on fifth avenue?
what's up saks?
of course, i'd spell it sacks,
and let the rest of the world start a-suckin'....
inappropriate?
c'mon.
who said that?
yeah?
well i plead the fifth, kids.
all right, now that will do;
never quiet, never soft.....

ripper.

november is not as expert as october.
it never is.
that's for real.
who thought of making such a cold, grey bummer
out of a whole mess of fading, failing autumn days?
on the ones,
that mutha-lickin' inventor is fired.
word up.
the only month that doesn't go to eleven
IS the eleventh month.
that's sort of a clever plot twist, really.
nobody saw that one coming.
*
duders,
it's friday,
nothin' fresh is poppin',
it's dark outside,
and it's a little tiny bit snowing.
c'mon.
that's november, y'all.
did i ever tell you ninjas how it's
my least favorite month?
well, i should've,
because that's a true story.
we'll survive, neighbors,
but we'll complain the whole time.
that's how we make lemonade.
y'know,
with piss, and vinegar,
spoiled and turned from sour grapes.
in the meantime,
we've got a roaring fire,
lighted, ignited, and excited,
and a few leftover blops and blocks,
and a determined sugary sweetness
that should see us through until tomorrow.
then,
it's gunpowder treason and plot jauns.
for sure, my ninjas,
days of fire and scheming and sh!t
are pretty much awesome.
celebrating the hanging and drawing and quartering
is a little more disturbing,
but,
if it means bonfires and cigars,
i guess i'm all for it.
*
november, folks.
what a hard style;
never quiet, never soft.....