Monday, December 31

reflections eternal

(400 posts this year! expert.)
hey duders...
my days are full, and my nights are fuller.
i've been super slammed, hurtling headfirst towards the end of this sh!t-awful year,
and man-oh-man am i all kinds of beat up.
sleepless and scattered;
attenuated and attention deficient;
spread thin in way too many directions;
every single time, every single second, all at once.
did that stop me from getting rad on some buckwheat noodoo bowl?
don't be dumb.
check the regionally nonspecific asian one pot hottness teleport:
seitan and tofu?
so manly, sorta.
yeah, neighbors-
me and harvest and maple and my good buddy todd made sure to make
a minute or two in the margins to appreciate the little things we all like.
especially those delicious albie rock kitchen jauns.
we even did a little gift exchange thing, belatedly for XI-mas.
...and i got a new hat!
i think it suits me.
they all do, really:
word up.
my dirty grey dome stays really real,
like a mountain-man roustabout sherpa from the himalayan yeti caves, yo.
i rep a hard style.
it's a molto busy business i'm involved in,
a hold on to your hats and hold your horses last-ditch effort to run out the clock,
while running in place,
just so we can span some brand-spankin' new bigger better times by tomorrow.
of course, there's a ton of work to do,
and nowhere near enough time to do even half of it.
it's got to get done, and it will, but it will be a buzzer-beating photo finish, y'all.
the elements are aligned to usher in an age of expert activation-
but only if we can make it through the grand finale of this F*-festival of obligation
....and it's brutally windy.
i hate wind.
so hard.
and yet,
the answers are blowing along unconcernedly on the gale-force gusts
of busted and disgustingly frigid arctic northerly air currents,
electrifying my frostbitten fingers and nose and lobes with charged particles
of wintry barbarian stormswept skylight and groundcover.
there's snowdrifts and midriffs and exposed holes in the plans we've plotted
in spite of the secret universal superceders.
that's the truth.
there's so much to do, and time is down to the last grains in the glass-
and it's like, four degrees, and that's before the wind chill.
so instead of breaking a sweat, breaking our necks and backs to bust a move,
we're taking a bitty-baby break,
huddled close by the roaring woodstove's cast-iron spitfire,
three quarters of a fully-formed family,
bonding over the absences, losses, routs, bouts, pouts, louts,
and infinitessimally small victories we've salvaged from the doo-doo butteriest
calendar's worth of collected days, weeks, and months on record to date.
it's called a recap, craphead,
and when your highlight reel resembles a blooper reel,
it's time to learn something, start something, and do something.
2012 can suck all the balls that ever balled.
the worst year far.
let's hope just this once,
the object is NOT more.
despite it all, friends,
i'm actually truly grateful for the time i have been given.
i mean,
the only thing worse than life
is death-
and a better fate than that awaits us anywhere;
never quiet, never soft..... 

Saturday, December 29


i added a whole bunch of stuff together in a bowl.
and when i was done stirring it up,
it was pretty much expert.
great baked treats are what i do best,
at least, when i'm not doing other other things best.
but for realsies, ninjas-
check the roasty toasty good morning muffin man teleport:
sun-kissed daybreakers,
for your ever-lovin' face!
i slid in some kitchen-activated toasted coconut bits,
and brownulated granulated brown sugar instead of plain babypants sugar,
and soy yogurt instead of soy milk,
and freshly-ground oat flour instead of regular beat wheat bits,
i toasted some of that groat-ground magic meal too.
i can't help it,
i like to take my treats to eleven.
i mean,
otherwise, they're just baked goods, and that's not good enough.
there's also one big overripe brown-spotted flippin' banana, too.
because replacing eggs with fancy sh!t is the way to go.
and we activated that coffee-cake-style streusel on top,
with my most favorite new jauns-
the vanilla-bean infused confectioners sugar.
it's got nutrients from the future, and little black specks in it.
it's a snowy weekend up here in the woodsly goodness.
and that means gaytard skiers and uppercrusty second-homeowners
are out en masse in forking full force.
now, in other parts of the world,
i'm sure there aren't vacationing F*-holes clogging up every available
open space with indelicate ineffective interactions.
but up here?
that's all there is kids.
obstacles on my collision course with excellence.
it's a thing.
there are people everywhere.
vacation destination congestion is a hard style,
for miles and miles.
and with snow on the slopes, and snow on the forecast,
the main roads and every available grocery store are packed to the rafters
with minky worrywarts and mincey diaperbabies.
i'm in love with where i live,
but i've got hate in my heart for the tourists and turdbiters who are
intent on ruining every single stretch of available family togetherness time.
the full moon fury of a loco lobo werewolf wendigo whilrwind isn't helping, either.
a seething, surging tidal wave magnetic monster mash-up of spirit and memory
and harder-than-iron-willed hard feelings are all we're repping this morning.
time is running away from us,
and we're in hot pursuit;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, December 28

full days, full moon.

working under the duress and stress of a fully-operational full moon?
i must be crazy.
actually, if i wasn't going loupe-garou kook-a-loony,
i don't think i could handle the heavy workload of family togetherness,
packed-tight tattbomb scheduling,
woodstove tending, firewood stacking, snow shoveling, epic mealtime making,
and back and forth caretaking and tending to all these half-helpful/half-helpless
homegirls and harpies and hellhounding terriers that seem to need my attention.
calling it hectic is underselling it, duders.
there's a mumpy lumpy bandaged mummy in my master bedroom.
what kind of an A*-hole plays nurse to his estranged wife
while she convalesces with a mangled-up swollen black and blue face?
this kind.
i don't get it either.
or maybe i do.
i mean, for the better part of this year,
every day has been the worst day,
and when i was feeling beat up, bruised, and feverish with pain,
although admittedly of a different sort,
i would've killed an innocent grandma in exchange for someone to offer me some succor.
i see the present circumstances as a cut-up nose spiting it's own face,
and the get-busy tenderoni freshness of me and my girls as an example of keeping it
truly really real.
i guess that's the difference between indifference and warrior poetry, huh?
we do the right thing because it's the right thing;
and that's because when we particpate,
it's active, and it's principled.
i'm too tired to write any more of this,
but suffice to say,
the werewolves are pacing,
the wounds are packed,
the silver light is a bulletin board for brutal barbarism,
and the hot and fiery hearth of this homey Folk Life & Liberty Fortress
is keeping our hard hearts warm.
...or maybe just softened up barely enough to offer some substance and sustenance
to the wounded, weary, leery, bleary-eyed, tearful, cheerless wretch upstairs.
i don't know what it is,
but it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, December 27


hey duders,
it's one helluva mutha-F*ing northern exxxplosion up here!
the woodsly goodness is finally being beset and besieged by a brutal
belting of savage stormswept snowfall,
and that means that today, once again, is THE day.
a snow day, even.
and that means anything can happen.
(it all really is, anyway)
we've got mountains of hexagonal individualism mounting these mountains,
and it's been whiteout since it was night out,
although the werewolfen arctic blast beams shone through even this creamy
cloudcover and blue-lit all the expanses and cast cruel shadows in every direction.
full moon jauns are in equal, but opposite, effect.
tranquility and ferocity, dampening and escalating.
the weather keeps us comfortably indoors,
but the lunar schedule lets the wild out.
we're all about it up here, though, neighbors.
and to start our day off with the essential nutrients,
we activated a flat-slap-jack-seasoned well-pressed panniecake situation.
check the top and bottom grid-ironed griddle situation:
what's a double-squeezed panniecake?
a waffle, ninja.
and we got extra expert with soy-yogurt in the mix,
because replacing eggs is a finely-tuned science.
we added in some fresh ground oatmeal to the flour.
that's that highlands-type warrior meal jauns, y'all.
with maple syrup, and soy whiplash sh!t, and confectioners sugary dustings,
to symbolize the spirit and essence of our snowy domain!
the weather outside is frightful,
and the temperament of the inside spaces is even worse.
rabid housebound barbarians,
in the frozen temperatures and blizzard conditions of a nor'easter,
make for hot-under-the-collar hard styles.
we stick to what we know, friends.
and we know how to flip the F* out.
it's kind of our thing.
my girls, my dog, and myself.
that's a warband or poetic participation.
we're making moves, and watching movies.
anything can happen,
and everything probably should.
there's secrets being revealed, and universal plans being unfolded.
NOW is the winter of our discontent,
and NOW is when the malcontents empty the contents of their pent up 'hood bags.
the berserker barbarian brutality is oozing out,
and we're howling like a pack of hungry wild callers at the haloed hole of light tonight.
we do what we do, duders.
stark, y'all.
and raving.
oh, yeah...
...and mad.
snow days.
nature wins;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, December 26


it always goes to eleven, duders.
you know it, you love it-
new hampshire Folk Life family-togetherness holiday gratitude and generosity.
the best and brightest in gift giving spirits and memories.
me and my peoples, spanning time in style, with piles and piles of mutha-flippin' treats!
that's right:
it's all about the perfectly-presented considerately-selected onslaught of
optimized intimately knowledgeable activation of impeccable parcels.
i doo-doo that.
check the heroic photogenic XIth-level teleport:
stuffed stockings are the start of everything expert.
a well-packed sock of hottness determines the dedication of the gift-giver.
if you're trying to be holey, you'll get darned.
oh, stop it:
anybody can ball out on one big present.
that's entry-level amateur sh!t, yo.
real talk,
you need a perfect blend of whimsy, candy, and sentiment keepsakes.
i get it poppin', because i'm a miraculous magic memory maker, mutha-'uckers.
from there,
it's all about the kids.
teleport to the future with me:
oh, and there was a secret stash of heaped up boxes that made it's debut
once all the other other excitement started to wane.
it's called an encore, ninjas.
that's showmanship.
it's always a good day when we're all together.
in fact,
even the presents look better when they're all together, lined up in a row:
i'm only interested if there's more, done more beautifully, and in excess in all ways.
who was wondering?
stop it.
and now we've got an entire strong week of steady snow and hot woodstovely heat.
and so many rad new things to play with, read, watch, and assemble.
we're interactive, we're participants, we're warrior poets of really realness,
and we're having a very happy holiday.
y'all got X-mas,
but ours goes to XI.
i may have gotten the sh!t-end of the candy cane,
but it's about doing it with dopeness.
y'know what dads get for the holidays?
the bill.
it's all really happening.
merry XI-mas, friends;
never quiet, never soft.....


yeah, duders.
i got my dirty stoopidhead dog a great big fat stocking chock full of treats.
what do you mean why?
because she deserves it.
i'm sayin',
who else showed me any around-the-clock affection in a backhanded barbaric manner
all throughout this empty mutha-flippin' year?
i'm kind of like that, okay?
and not for nothin',
it's F*ing XI-mas, ninjas.
get with it.
appreciation, y'all;
from one big fat, doting, pathetic, smelly, ugly, belligerent jerk to another, y'know?
okay, well-
i'm not fat anymore, anyway,
but still.....
check the teleport:
my little olive loafie.
she's kind of a good friend, in her own brutal, backwards wayward demented demeanor.
the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress needs a mascot,
and what could be better than a short-fuse cannonball of berserker savagery?
that nominates most of my blood relatives!
but on the ones,
olive the dog is dope...kinda.
and after all, the standard holiday-type over-the-top generosity had to go somewhere.
i picked the dog as a worthy recipient of the seasonal spirited hottness.
it's been a really really weird one, this XI-mas has.
but it's all really happening,
and that's the whole point.
i'm grateful to be home.
there's no place like it.
the welcoming warmth of the freezing forests of the woodsly goodness,
with my family togetherness activation in full effect.
that's what's up;
never quiet, never soft.....

beauties and the beast.

staying ugly isn't a problem, kids.
it's staying dope that takes all the work.
check the broken mirror bad-luck what-the-F* teleport:
who is that wise man?
melchior or balthazar i'm not.
it's not looking good for caspar either.
no myrrh, no frankincense, and definitely no gold,
unless you count staying gold.
i doo-doo that keeping it real sh!t, for sure.
so what's up then?
you wanna know what gift this magi brought?
the thunder.
that's right, ninjas.
that's all i've got to rock your stuffed-up stockings with.
my daughters know how to class the place up a bit.
that's real.
the best, brightest, and most beautiful two sweet and lovely ladies
kept me company on regular person xmas all dang day.
i couldn't have been more delighted to span time with those wonderful little women.
lucky me.
no, for real.
lucky me.
talented, kind, considerate, polite, bright, and loving-
somehow i contributed to something good in this world.
yeah. i know.
i'm as surprised as the rest of you.
check the reindeer-powered teleport:
harvest and maple in their party dresses.
that's the good stuff.
connecticut did not disappoint.
i showed up with gifts, and berfday cake,
and a prime directive to actively participate in what promised to be one for the record books.
my first full-time family holiday in five years,
and my first all-alonely loveless single christmas in sixteen.
it got pretty intense.
...and quickly.
taking it to eleven is a family tradition,
and the escalation of events would've given a normal human severe whiplash.
i'm no novice to the natural order of the occasion.
y'know how evolution gave humans the autonomic fight-or-flight response?
me and my peoples left out the"l".
we operate a fight-or-fight response.
it's a thing, i promise.
harsh language and diamond-hard styles,
with pointy cutlery and sharper tongues,
not to mention potential fisticuffs.
even the dog caught a kick or two.
warrior poetry is sometimes composed in tinsel and mistletoe.
wild animal werewolfen full(ish) moon business,
paid in full for all-access admittance to.a holiday hoe-down throwdown,
with a furious festival of goodwill toward somebody who must've been somewhere else?
don't think you can ever compete, kids.
we keep it realer.
believe it.
it's ALL really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

look at my food.

pepe's pizza?
you know it.
the big action activated with a high tomato-based sauce count.
i get fresh,
and the dealy brothers get fresher.
we eat a whole lot of fresh-to-death brick oven thin crust neapolitan pizza.
fancy pants vegan treats in the heart of little bitty italy.
nueva haven gets it poppin', neighbors.
right down my gullet!
me and my main man dan know what's up.
it's bigger than hip-hop,
but the pose is pure pop-and lock b-boy from the future.
what about cucchie family-togetherness-time falafels?
oh, yes.
i doo-doo that teeny tahini jauns, too.
teleport, again:
falafels are what's up, ninjas.
don't forget it.
did i wake up on christmas morning all alone,
with omnipotent presentlessness presentation in effect?
i sure did!
awwwwwwww, man!
the only cure?
exactly, duders:
cake for breakfast.
we skipped it in favor of individual cup-style cakes on miss maple's big 11th,
so i barreled down on a big slab of chocolate magic by my own damn self.
food is what's good about connecticut, kids.
that's no joke.
who cooked up a big ol' pot of pasta and an even bigger pot of turbo-expert fancy
seitan and mushroom kale-interjected fire-roasted tomato sauce?
it was me.
what beats a christmas eve self-made solo-flight delight?
i stuff my face, and fill my belly.
that's about the best i've got for y'all;
never quiet, never soft.....7x44+1

Monday, December 24

eve. even. uneven.

today is the day again, duders-
it's christmas flippin' eve,
or more like XI-mas eve's eve, actually.
kids, believe me when i tell you-
connecticut is bad for your health.
true story.
and that's where i'm smack dab at the bottom middle of.
i've got sick kids simmering with furious feverish hot fire.
awwwwww, man.
it's true, in fact,
we've ALL got a fresh hot batch of chronic connecticitis,
with syrupy snot-noses redder than rudolph,
and coughing fits that could stuff a stocking full of sour
sore throated weak sauce.
barking and biting and braying like a betrayed barbarian
of futile feudal systemic immunity and worrisome white
blood cells surrounded by some very black thoughts.
and a whole bunch of black people, too.
multicultural influences abound in this international hub of humanity-
y'all may not know about those,
especially if you're repping those rural jauns up in the white mountains.
on the really real,
for all it's heroic charm and idyllic dopeness,
the woodsly goodness is in short supply of urban expertism.
but down here?
oh man!
we're waist deep in the doo-doo buttery sprawl of congested roads
and crowded houses and so many different types of hard styles
and brutal truths and ghetto philosophers.
we keep it molto real with that 'hood sh!t.
that's no jokes.
i'm sayin', neighbors,
we've got it poppin' off.
home cookin' and homies from all over converging on a predetermined destination to share in their fair portion of disproportionately shared experiences.
which is comprised almost completely of ibuprofen and juice
and taking it easy as time spans across the ghost circles
of family togetherness.
the trees are trimmed,
the bags are packed,
the stockings stuffed,
and the mousetraps are set,
so should a minky little mouse start stirring, well, you know....
today is the day again,
and tonight's the night.
a holy(sh!tty) silent night, my ninjas,
but for all the tranquility of the nativity scenery?
it's still gonna be;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, December 22

beautiful baby girl.

i must be getting old.
older and creakier and more busted than ever before,
in a quantity of accumulated advanced age that renders most things inert or irrelevant.
what makes me say that?
for starters, today is the day, neighbors-
a happy mutha-flippin' berfday.
that's right-
maple star,
my youngest little lovely lightning-striking valkyrie vixen,
turns eleven.
and she's the little one, and that's years old, and in a row, even, at that.
time flies on some supersonic teleportational futuristic wings, i guess.
and apparently,
whether or not you're having fun, it's airborne and fleeting and fleeing away anyway.
so now, with XI-mas impending,
and my original family simmering in a barely controlled holiday snit of
fitful forced togetherness,
my super-special little girly-girl is home,
waiting for daddy to drive down to the deepest doo-doo butter and save the day.
and she's also got a fever.
hard styles are all we deal in, my ninjas.
it's kind of a holiday tradition, y'know?
happy berfday, baby.
oh, yes. indeed i am.
you read that right, friends:
i'm working my way south,
to the sour sauce and nancypantsed do-goodery great big babyish butthole
of one of the eastern seaboard's least lovely locations.
i'm headed back home,
to the nutmegged smegma of connecticut.
the good news is that there's holiday festivities planned for most of the days
i'm spanning in the compacted craptard cornhole of southern new england.
my whole family is gonna be there,
and we're gonna give being nice to one another in the same place in physical space,
all of us, all in together, spanning time at the exact same time a shot.
the Large Hadron Collider has nothing on us, my ninjas.
real talk.
but i'm ready and willing to butt heads with buttheads until XI-mas...
the bad news is that this is the first separate segment of the season i've
experienced in ten sunovab!tchin' years.
and after a whole entire decade of something that isn't this?
an old-school battle-royale brouhaha of around-the-clock albie rock'em sock'em
royal rumble steel-caged title fights may be just what the doctor ordered.
battle-seasoned conflict-diamond-hard warrior poetry in motion, y'all.
it's on.
i'm coming, connecticut,
and there's gonna be cake and presents and big time fun activation, like it or not;
never quiet, never soft.....10 months.

Friday, December 21


as if on cue,
a perfect white frosting of pure, freshly driven snow
is falling softly to welcome winter to the woodsly goodness.
now that's timing, duders.
i got up early,
hoping to bear witness to the world's end swan song of civilization,
as one cygnet signals to another the trumpets of ugly truth and grand finales.
i'm surrounded by silent night and hexagonal crystals of mathematical magic.
it's the solstice again.
the darkest and deepest one.
today is the day, i suppose;
and whether or not it's the very first or the very last,
it's the best worst one so far.
the ley lines of overlapping spirits and memory are making snow angel halos
of ghost circle frost rime,
riding along on concentric echoes of secret universal smoke signals,
and the mirror imagery of light and dark has hit it's nadir.
tomorrow is the same as yesterday,
in terms of day and night, and endurable durations of doo-doo butter,
but today is all by it's lonesome.
and speaking of lonesome.....
i'm ringing in the solstice soulless and solo.
hey there!
that's me.
headed headlong into an even deeper and darker place,
and doing it all by myself.
winter's splinters are embedding themselves in the roots of the mountains
far below this fresh skin of snow and ice.
that's when it starts,
or ends.
all of it, all of the time;
never quiet, never soft..... 

Thursday, December 20

last one.

hey duders,
this is it.
the last day of fall at the very least,
and the last day ever at the worst/best.
i'm ready for winter,
i'm ready for the darkest day,
i'm even ready for cataclysmic meteors, solar flares, plagues, aliens, giant robots,
or whatever sort of environmental activation could possibly
shower down an unholy retributive natural vengeance on mankind.
that's no joke.
if it's all always really happening,
then i'm ready to let it happen.
so do your worst, solstice of disconsolate destruction.
or shut the F* up, and let another sh!tty winter ooze into the dregs of december
and we'll wallow in our own dark days until sometime next year.
either way,
it's been a pretty good run.
i'm having leftovers as my possibly last meal.
it's fitting, sort of.
using up the not-as-good-as-yesterdays,
and leaving nothing for tomorrow.
that's real life, neighbors.
nobody leaves with the title,
and every day is the worst one, except the last one.
i guess we'll hold our breath and cross our fingers,
and wait until tomorrow to see if tomorrow ever comes.
if it does,
it takes the trophy for worst as well as least light as well as heaviest.
get it?
got it;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, December 19

soup IS good food.

too many cooks spoil the broth, b!tches;
but i cooked up a big ol' stewpot all by my lonely,
so it came out dope.
too many ingredients, however, activate the hottness;
so y'all already know i got it poppin' with ALL the treats i had on hand.
when i make a burly bowl of savage stormswept soup,
i make sure to take it to eleven within the first few simmering seconds.
that's the truth.
so after i diced my carrots, sliced my celery, and minced my onions,
i toasted some pearled barley, and sauteed some red lentils,
and doused the whole shootin' match with chipotle cholula to freak it off.
smoked paprika, berserker bouillon, soy sauce, malt vinegar, g.p.o.p.,
thyme, sage, rosemary, and apple cider set the tone for the spice section, too.
once it was boiling at a steady clip, i hucked in a slew of cubed-up spuds,
and just to make sure it was extra-rad, and rich in iron man nutrients
i threw in a whole bunch of fistfuls of little baby kale leaves.
check the spoonie ladle-scooped teleport:
that is six-grain whole-wheat diiiippin' toast.
complication never tasted this good, neighbors.
i doo-doo that depth and breadth sh!t.
that's right.
because even a soggy bowlful of crap should be expert.
i know. i know. i KNOW.
vegans always want you to look at their food.
but i'm not trying to convince you with photographic testaments
that vegetables are a delicious alternative to the inhuman cruelty
of consuming the decaying slaughtered flesh of harmless domestic animals.
i promise.
in fact,
i give very few F*s about cows an' that, kids.
i actually only want you to look at how totally fresh my dinner is, duders.
because i'm just demonstrating that the business that i conduct in my kitchen
is better than yours.
it's wednesday again.
somehow the empty days and long nights
are flying by as fast or maybe even faster than ever before...
it could be a race to the finish line,
or a spurt of sprinting to get this sh!t-salad year over and done with.
i really hope so.
this morning, however, there's a pause in the pace.
the sky looks so sexy over the ledges and hedges
outside of the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
and the snow-capped mountains look like pure wizard magic.
a little respite despite the juggernaut of time's inexorable charge into the future.
word up.
the woodsly goodness is keepin' it really real,
especially in regards to XI-mas scenic activation.
there's natural beauty all around us, kids.
i guess even when she's winning, she likes to look good.
then again, who doesn't?
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, December 18


hey duders,
sometimes it's important to get molto fresh on a wet tuesday.
i mean,
i shoveled a slogging sh!t-soup slop off of my whole entire driveway.
it weighed, like, a billionteen pounds, and it was splashing and
sliding, and spreading in every direction.
no jokes, jerks,
it took two of the heaviest, longest, cold, wet, rainy hours of my day
to shovel-fight my way up and over, across, and through the crappy
coating of sleety water-ice so that i wouldn't go full berserker on the
rest of the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
that's a thing, neighbors.
for serious.
y'ever get so ferociously fired up and furious that nearly all sense and reason
flee from the inside of your head,
replaced with hot fire and lightning and stormswept savage barbarian brutality?
it happens to me all the time.
and when the conversation takes a turn towards activated indifference
and unaccountability, with a side order of weak sauce and nancypantsery?
the number one solution is to flip the F* out.
which is great for wrecking the whole mother-b!tchin' joint.
and also great for running up the home-improvement tab on repairing the
wrecking ball of wrath's swath of holy terrorizing.
the measure of a truly wise warrior of interactive participation is how
they channel the forces of blind rage and dead hearts into something
at once equally destructive and productive.
like a squeaky clean driveway, and a swampy flooded iceberg bog in my front yard.
one defiling crisis of crucial catastrophic calamity averted,
with a shovel and some boots and some sweat, snot, water, and work.
what's the reward for such tiresome toil and foiled roiling rage?
you know it.
check the apple spiced teleport:
word up, y'all.
streusel goes on top of coffee cake,
and coffee cake goes on top of apple pie blops.
and apple pie blops go on top of cinnamon oats,
and all of it goes in the oven,
and comes out swinging with a cinnamon stick or two.
the oatmeal coconut nobbles and baubles on top are so thick that just a teeny
little itty bitty baby bit of cake shows through.
too much, ninjas, is just right.
and there's too much turbo hottness in this fluffy and moist crumb coffee cake,
and too much syrupy sweetness in those sloppy macintosh goobieblops.
is it good?
what are you?
an A*-hole?
of course it's good.
super good, even.
and it's the only way to fend off exhaustion and disappointment after a day
of drudgery and doo-doo buttery cold wet weather.
the upshot?
the cucch is back,
and stinky stumps and warm woolen socks are on the schedule.
tonight is the night, ninjas.
and that means today is finally over.
just in time;
never quiet, never soft.....

entre nous?

it seems as if i've maybe gone and made a mess of things.
but then again, maybe not.
just for the sake of true storytelling, in the spirit of articulately expressed ideas,
let's be crystal clear, neighbors-
i'm NOT a nice guy;
despite what my current semi-self-inflicted affliction of last-place finishes
would have you believe.
i'm actually a showboat, steamroller, and high-falutin' F*er in more ways than i'm not.
so while i may be lagging in the polls, in the rat race, on the social register,
and in the lists of jousting boasters and roasting roustabouts,
not to mention in the estimation of my clever caustic compositional style...
don't get it twisted,
i'm a sharp-witted, sharp-tongued, sharpshooter-from-the-hip-type
of hard-hearted homely homeboy with hot fire insults, tumults, and syllabic somersaults
spewing out from my lips and fingertips...
that's no joke.
i do what i do, duders,
with or without the state-sanctioned lexicon of sensitivity and tolerance.
i'm neither of those things far more often than the inverse.
and what's more,
that type of sh!t-talking words-hurt waterbaby business is
something well beneath the kind of roughshod selfish and inconsiderate
busted fillibustery blustery monologues that i employ as a means of communicating.
statements of black-and-white absolutism,
and unapologetic applications of slang, slurs, snark, sarcasm,
and hot, fiery, hate(in-my-heart)speech are what i'm more than okay
with unleashing into the ether of spirit and memory.
in fact, i insist on it.
too much is the right amount, friends.
i say it because i mean it.
hypersensitive tippy-toeing of the line,
and eggshell walking around the delicate sensibilities of niceness
just aren't likely to happen anytime soon.
that sort of considerate quasi-self-censored censure is something other
than that which i care to cater to.
make no mistakes, my ninjas-
my eyes are open.
this is a recurring theme.
so, no, it wasn't just you.
and that goes for you, and you, too.
regardless of any regard i pay or attempt to treat or entreat,
i'm alone all the time.
not by choice, but maybe by design.
if the only solution is to take it down a notch, to less than eleven,
and spell out the invitations and hospitality available to the worthy thick-skinned
warriors, poets, and participants in fairy-flossed sweetness and cherry pie?
then the choice is easy.
the wrench.
every time, all day long.
i say mean things, i do mean things, i'm not a nice guy.
an empty life full of terrible words.
it's all really happening, kids.
and i can live with it;
never quiet, never soft.....7x43

Monday, December 17

breakfast for dinner again.

tofu scramblers,
and home(boy) fried potatoes,
with tofurky not-dogs and tons of ho' sauce?
check the invert teleport:
if it doesn't hurt at least a little,
it can't get served on those sexy plates, neighbors.
i'm serious.
we have very exacting standards about how we get it poppin' off
from out of the pantries and larders of the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
too much is the right amount, and that includes spiciness and weight.
add in some g.p.o.p., a splash of smoky sweet paprika, and some turmeric,
and all the flavors and colors and shapes are suddenly jumping onto your palate
with the power of a thousand bolts of vegan viking lightning.
that's a thing.
and that's also why thin disks of greyish-beige burnt-up protein tubes
get activated inside the redskinned starchy uber-hot hottness on top.
because a blitzkrieg of tastes and textures is what i need,
and me and my main ninja the cucch are just the kind of wizards to make it happen.
culinary prowess, manly beards, intentional activation.
it's breakfast,
but it's for dinner.
get it?
got it.
so, once again,
i've been incommunicado for a few.
you aren't reading this one either.
i gotcha.
word up.
well, there were decent reasons, whether or not you're interested-
i've got some rotten feverish stormswept 'itis,
and my duders are all up in full effect,
including my out-of-town get-down battle-beasts.
there have been holiday parties, berfday parties, and movie nights,
and all of that has conspired to keep me actively engaged in real-time
real life hard-style participation,
and well away from the documentarian diatribes you've come to love
whilst simultaneously largely ignoring.
it's cool.
it's all really happening, regardless of if you happen to witness it or not.
nobody leaves with the title, kids;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, December 14

bilbo baggins, burglar.

that's it, duders.
if you can't hang out with hobbits,
then you can't hang out with me.
real talk.
i'm reppin' my block like a straight-up gangster,
and my block is mutha-F*ing Bag End, son.
it's safe to say, without hyperbole, that i'm 'bout it 'bout it,
and i'm more than excited,
and i'm beyond ready to have my brains blown clear out of my skull,
with a sideswiped mindwipe chaser,
by the hobbit.
i love movies about nerd books almost as much as i love nerd books.
what can i tell y'all?
i'm gaytarded for that sh!t.
sooooo hard, an' that.
find me a goblin, a troll, an orc, and a wizard,
and i'm there early, ninja.
believe it.
soooo, neighbors,
you know i doo-doo that dwarven dopeness from the earth in the middle.
but have i been boning up and honing my infinite natural nerd powers?
what are you?
an A*-hole?
don't be dumb.
just check the teleport:
the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress,
the last homely house,
on the last lonely mountain.
it's all really happening,
even the land-of-make-believe jauns.
and you'd better be about it,
or be prepared to accept the alternative-
which is to be a little b!tchbag.
the adventure chooses you.
there's some kind of poetic lesson in there somewhere;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, December 13

liquid swords.

today turned out a little baby bit dope.
real talk.
the activation society took it to eleven pretty hard,
and balled out on an expert XI-mas gift for yours truly.
gratitude and generosity are what's poppin',
and fresh styles of brutal barbarian steel style stabbers are in F*ing full effect.
check the teleport:
that's a gnarly all-purpose becker/ka-bar collaborative warrior blade.
and it is completely raging, stormswept, tempered, and tamper-proof.
sharpness and hottness and holiday spirited all at once, kids-
luckymutha-b!tchin'  me.
great big giant thank yous go out to austin, teddy, and thatcher
for getting it and getting it together and getting it going on and on.
i am super grateful for their consideration,
and i appreciate it about as much as any average person could.
more probably,
especially since average isn't the way worthy woodsly goodfellows get busy.
word up.
thanks, my ninjas!
and just when i thought today was gonna suck all the balls, too.
a buzzer-beater all-out ball-out thor's day thursday comes along,
and with a little help from my friends,
gets totally flippin' activated.
just what i needed,
just in time;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, December 12


twelve, twelve, twelve,
and thirty-flippin' six, neighbors.
three dozens of dopeness,
from the date down to the magic blops of hopped-up
baked-off hottness for your face!
today is the day.
just like every day,
which is to say the only day, and the worst day,
but that's not all, y'all, now is it?
no way.
today's a day so rad, it reps a triple-twelve style.
and as far as that sort of thing ghoes, this is it, duders.
there's no thirteenth month,
so 13-13-13 is a no go, y'know?
what does that mean for the next hundred years?
yep. that's right-
threesomes of same-number jauns are off the menu.
but you hungry ghosts know what's ON the menu right?
then you'd better check the F*ing teleport:
superfancy, over-complicated, unnecessary ingredient substitutions?
like an expert active participatory kitchen commando, yo.
but what are they?
they're dope...duh.
but what kind of dope are they?
they're pure XI-mas magic treats-
cinnamon-ginger-soynog-brown sugar cuppiecakes,
with sweetened chocolate betterthanbuttercreme cinnamon-maple soynog frosting.
every chance i had to freak it off?
heck yes, friends...
i took it,
with a little bitty bit of swapping out
the ordinary for the extraordinary, or at least the strangelovely bits of
unconventional bakery barbarianism.
i doo-doo that kind of freaky-diki miki-fiki mayhem in my mixing bowl.
three dozen cups of cake, on a day made out of three dozens,
because i like that fresh numberwang activation, ninjas.
it's wotan's day, duders.
and it's the transition into new moon darker-than-ever time tonight, too.
technically it's tomorrow morning,
but 3 a.m. isn't invited to anywhere but this overnight.
the usual batch of sh!t-salad maintains it's martial law-type presence,
and my holiday heart and warrior wallet are marshaling presents in piles for miles.
i looooove XI-mas, kids.
that's the truth.
as a matter of fact, holidays in general are on my list.
and that's saying something.
i love a good reason to commemorate and/or celebrate.
like dark, cold, brutal, bitter nights without any light in the sky,
and a string of repetitive numbers on a calendar page,
calling out in concentric echoes, like a microphone check-
real life.
it's all there ever is,
and there's more every day,
but there's never ever enough, now is there?
cupped-up cakes and empty F*ing lives-
today and everyday;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, December 11

i feel...

what do you know about burglars?
how about thieves?
up here in the woodsly goodness we have a theory-
the only good looter?
a dead looter.
affirmatively verminated:
for what it's worth, my conscience is crystal clear.
why is that?
because if he hadn't done what i told him not to do,
he'd still be alive right now.
infinite nature trumps free will every time;
and each and every battle beast knows that nature wins.
we activate our fundamental instincts.
hard styles and hard hearts are all we really allow to thrive in
the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
real talk.
how could that even be true?
because life IS pain, princess,
even for rodents of unusual(ly average) size.
today is the day.
and every day is the worst day,
especially the last day,
which in this case, is today.
i even used some expert last meal-type cashew butter.
that's some luxurious gourmet jauns, kids.
decently fed,
decently killed,
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....7x42

Monday, December 10

fuego segue into winter?!

i guess we must've activated some druid spirits or something.
i mean,
last night we got expert with a super-hot tepee-type fuego a-go-go,
and now, out of nowhere, an overnight blight of sleet and sh!t
has showered down on our domes and covered everything in sloppy sauce,
and weak winterly crystals of slippery crunchiness an' that.
and here it was so warm and lovely yesterday.
that's just how it goes, neighbors.
that good time you're having?
don't get comfortable-'s only a loan.
true story.
before the buttery doo-doo of a weak and wincy mincey monday
showed up to smother our happy heads with wintry mixed misgivings,
we had one heckuva dope evening.
and that included the previously mentioned hot fire.
it's kind of the best thing ever.
like, since caveman times, even.
and that's no jokes, jerks.
we keep it pretty Folk Life & Liberated when we can,
blazing up a barbarian ghost circle at the Fortress,
and summoning up the spirits and memories of woodsly goodness
all over the flippin' places and spaces we occupy at any given instant.
it's all there is, and all we need.
being dope isn't as hard as you'd think, i guess-
the cucch looked like the devil:
where's faust?
just sayin',
because my mini-mephistopheles sure seems pleased with their deal!
hot fire on cold evenings is what's up.
ugly old men of the mountains is also what's up.
i put the self(ie) in self-effacing.
male medusa teleport?
even late-evening low light reveals too much.
pitch-black is my perfect mood lighting, kids.
dark times in the wee hours,
and darker moods on dreary morning-afterwards.
it's not easy,
but it's the truth.
and now this is happening:
and slogging trudging drudgery until tonight.
but then?
indeed, duders,
the weekend for warrior poets begins at six.
and that's when it all really really starts happening;
never quiet, never soft.....


the cucch, kids!
he's the best one;
and also pretty much the only candle that stays lit in the lighthouse
during the sh!t-storm hurricane of hard styles and rotten weather
that constitute the really realness of everyday life sometimes.
and he also makes a mean noodle bowl.
i like it when i get to make dinner with somebody who knows their way
around the pots and pans.
check the sobatronic teleport:
yum4tum, neighbors!!
sprouts and scallions and broccoli and cabbage and seitan and soup?
bubblingly troublesome butthole activation is what we aimed for,
and i'm pretty sure we're snipers, if you catch my drift, so to speak.
cooking is dope, though, my ninjas-
methodical preparation and enacted hot fire applications?
good for your face, good for your body, good for everything.
it's got the nutrients, y'know?
cooking makes you look a little tiny bit gay.
check the teleportal, again:
stirring like a creature on any evening before christmas.
that's a thing.
and just to compare and contrast,
i also got some weirdie vegan prepared noodoo doo-doo bowls, too.
we'll see, kids.
maybe annie chun gets it in?
not like cucchie, though.
i'm sure of that.
a quick weekend stopover,
with the full gambit of warm weather, perfect skies,
plummeting mercury AND barometers,
and a fond farewell under cover of clouds and blankets of snowfall.
a short and sweet visit from my short and sweet friend.
i am grateful for the time i have been given,
and for the worth-a-sh!t mutha-'uckers i span it next to.
side by side, son.
we got it like that;
never quiet, never soft.....

stay ugly, stay dope.

old, broke, broken, busted, and fuming with filthy smog?
you neighbors know how much i'm into that sort of thing.
check the real-talk smokestack ugly-truth-faced teleport:
awwwwww, man!
c'mon, duders,
it's not easy being a lion in winter,
it's even harder to be a warrior of lightning-striking viking virtues
actively participating in unfolding events in the woodsly goodness.
for sure.
me and the cucch, though, yo.
we doo-doo that hot fire and smoke rings, spirited away-type jauns.
it's all really happening.
haggard hazards and homely happenstance;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, December 9


sometimes there's just not much to write about, y'know?
i mean,
everything is out in the open, for the most part.
the big reveal of ugly truths and ugly men,
with black hearts and black moods and grey hair, even,
messing and mucking about in the white mountains.
that's the extent of warrior poetry and skaldic scandal these days.
it's all unwrapped and unraveling all around the whole wide spaces
and even inside outside and in between the nooks and niches of the
free-spirited and long-memoried mesmerizing woodsly F*ing goodness.
that's for sure.
but as for things worth reporting on?
you already know the spiel-
hot, cold, hard this, hard that, long those, blah-blah blabbity-blahbablah.
oh, i know, neighbors.
real life isn't always an action-item newsday.
but we're up here trying to at least make it endurable,
if not enjoyable,
while the tippity-top secrets of the universe
and the infinite victories of infinite nature take
a tour of the northern reaches of this Folk Life forest realm.
what i mean is,
no matter how many words i use to describe each and every day,
i'm not saying much.
and that kinda sucks balls.
every day is the worst one,
and no gilding of the lily is gonna change that.
it sounds better,
but it doesn't mean the same thing;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, December 7

the good earth.

pearl harbor?
pearl necklace?
pearl s. buck?
yeah, duders,
it's a 'the good earth' kind of day.
hard styles, hard times, cold nights, long days, and hard hearts.
all the ingredients for a pearl-themed party time for our faces.
the land, the ladies, the division of assets and the halfway decent tribute
to apirit, memory, effort, and participation that comes with a love of the land.
that's that woodsly goodsly hottness, kids.
real talk.
and as the secret universal choose-your-own-adventure unfolds,
i'll be doing my best to avoid any steinbeck messiness while it all really happens.
'the pearl'?
you don't know it?
it's more of all of the worst of everything, all at once, but with fewer pages...
sorry, neighbors-
i'm a reader,
and that doesn't always translate well within these written transmissions.
i'm as into that little plot twist as you are, believe me.
today is the day.
oh, indeed, it is the worst day,
but only because berfdays always are.
did i just say berfdays?
yes. i did. that's correct.
today really is the day-
the guru of supreme intelligence turns older than ever today.
that's right.
my dad.
the original warrior poet.
the ultimate berserker barbarian.
celebrates a sh!t-salad sexagenarian +3-type milestone.
and somewhat anticlimactically,
he'll be spanning it at the hospital,
reacting to a pearl harbor kamikaze zero divebomb
of bad news and brutal truths,
not to mention tumors the size of citrus fruits.
awwwwwwwwwwwww, man!!!!
it's never easy, ninjas.
but opting for the full diagnostic instead of cake?
that's some serious wrench-choosing jauns.
...and now you know where i get it from.
happy birthday to the dude.
for serious.
as unlikely as it promises to be,
i'm holding out hope,
and sending out some smoke-rings of sentiment that today is full of good news,
and better times,
and the start of something good;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, December 6

no coffee,

just cake.
what happens when i don't have apples?
because what at first glance i thought were pommes
were actually a pile of pommes de terre!
well, for starters,
i need to rethink my red pontiac potato situation,
and maybe also look a little closer at my pantry in the wee hours of the morning.
and also,
i don't get to make apple cupcakes.
i could've just gone with it, and used up what i did have handy,
but 'tater cupcakes would've sucked all the balls of ever.
so instead i made weird-yogurt oatmeal coffee cake as an alternative.
and i made it all up, from scratch,
because what are recipes, and what is giving a F*?
check the coffeetabletalk teleport:
plain unsweetened soy yogurt made this the lightest, tightest, and freshest jauns
to hit my oven with a fistful of bubblin' hot dopeness in at least a whole week..
oh, yeah, i know-
i'll freestyle some new flavor activation business when i'm feeling forced to.
and i confront my kitchen situation as a metaphor for all my other situations.
meditative process, with creative problem solving, and complicated methods
measured out one by one eyeball-estimated teaspoon at a time.
i doo doo that improvisational improvement sh!t.
and it's got buttloads of oat flour, and dark brown sugar in the crumb,
and twice as much oats, and quadruple the confection-type powdered sweetness
in the coconut-laced vanilla-sprankled streusel!
so for the most part,
i guess it's a pretty flippin' good thing my early morning assessment
of the fruit to root ratio was as far off as it was;
i would never have had the wherewithal to wallop the batter with that bitter yogurty
b!tchbaggery swagger, and then shoot it off the charts,
to eleven,
with that crumbly yumbly topping.
i even impress myself.
it's back to the grind today, kids.
after a couple of days off, darting out and about,
trying to up the ante on the XI-mas feeling in the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
...and good F*ing luck with that, by the way-
no tree, no trimmings, no stocking for me-
whoa now-
there are yule socks hung by the chimney with care, y'all.
because, obviously, i'm not a complete A*-hole;
just not mine.
it's still stashed away next to it's equally (maybe moreso) absentee partner,
in the seasonally appropriate cold storage container in the closet.
awwwwwwwwwwwwwwww, man!
and since filling up my own would be about as sorry sack-o'-sh!tty as it gets,
it'll stay interred until such time as things get better.
(read as: forever alone)
every day is the worst one,
it's ALL really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, December 5

smells like XI-mas.

hearts and minds are one thing, kids,
but the nostrils are a whole other 'nother thing altogether.
it may begin to look a lot like christmastime earlier and earlier every year,
but it's when it smells like XI-mas that the real hottness activates.
i buy candles, y'all.
yeah, i know.
...but it's true.
i love those powerful conjuration spirits and memories that aromatherapeutics conjure
out of thin air and hot fire...
and it's those holiday stanks that are what's up.
that's no joke.
i'm always down for psychological warfare,
since my frail frame and slender stalks of arm and leg bones aren't made
for especially effective physical imposition of my will and intentions.
so i settle for subtlety in this and this only-
check the scratch 'n' sniff teleport:

fancy-schmantzy pants soy-bean green-burning expensive sh!t, neighbors.
because when i light it up,
i wanna smell it.
moth-style, y'all.
brightness in the darkness.
i'm drawn to it.
and i operate on an intensely dense sense of smell while i'm at it.
what's that, kids?
i burn all three at the same time,
just to big-time my olfactory organs with my own custom coniferous furious flavor.
i do consider that pretty flippin' expert.
i am constantly on the hunt for the perfect blend of sensory activation.
too much is the right amount,
and i saw some others called 'adirondack mountain' and 'ski chalet' that i may
just have to mix in to make sure we all catch a whiff of what eleven stinks of.
total all-out holiday participation, y'all.
i'm trying my hardest, as loud and fresh as ever before;
never quiet, never soft.....

get it?

who doesn't love a good sweet box?
i mean,
sugary goodness is like a soothing balm for your senses,
in the same measure as it is sh!t for your smile.
cavity creeps,
check the teleport:
i like my candy to match my heart and mind-
black, slimy, and disgusting.
no jokes,
i like those jet-colored ebony wince-squinting treacle-tubes.
you say licorice, they say liquorice,
we all say lickerish.
nobody says that, but maybe the should start?
i dunno.
i rep a 454 (gram) big block of black blops though, yo.
that's real.
the b.l. is a slippery slope of yin-yangy goodness for your face.
i mean,
you know it's got at least three kinds of sugar in it,
but it's still pretty hard to enjoy.
it's supposed to be a treat, but it sure seems tricky to me.
i'm teaching myself a lesson,
over and over and over,
about hard-styles and bad tastes in my mouth.
eventually the sweet will beat the bitter and the black-toothed anise grin
of black annis in her bower will shower me with the intrinsically intricate
reward of clearer vision.
the truesight to overcome oversight,
and see clearly that no matter how good something is supposed to be,
sometimes it actually just kinda sucks.
building up my immunities,
so i can act with impunity all the mutha-lickin' licorice whippin' time.
australia contains everything that's the most poisonous.
it should come as no surprise that's where my cube of coiled oils
and black-strapping molasses assets come from.
iocane liquorice?
i'm pretty sure that's a thing;
never quiet, never soft.....


what's up?
did you miss me these last two days?
you didn't notice i wasn't here.
that figures;
but i missed you.
or at least, i wanted to.
and that counts almost as much, i think.
i mean,
actually doing something is practically the same as if you're gonna do something.
i think that's real.
it seems to be the standard operational mode for everybody else, y'know?
then again,
i don't really think that you and i fit into the moldy mold of mouldering, mincey,
minky, mealymouthed weak-sauce waterbaby concepts like that.
everybody else isn't ever invited to our party, now are they?
only worthy warriors, lightning-striking vikings, berserkers, barbarians, battle-beasts,
woodsly goodfellows, Folk Life libertarians, and savage stormswept gypsies
are receiving invitations to attend a december to remember.
that's word.
because you know the tagline,
that roundhouse backhanded jawbreaker hardline punchline:
just be dope, or F* right off.
and with that being the case-
active participation trumps projected future prospects every single time.
still and all-
i really wanted to miss you guys.
but instead i soaked up an ocean of self-absorption!
(i found it temporarily prudent to F* right off)
it's the truth.
when is it difficult to see past the pores of your own oily soiled skin?
somewhere around two a.m., usually.
that's when the nighttime is the right time for insomniac attacks,
and that's when i'm usually wide awake and worrying about weird sh!t.
blogging about real life takes a back seat to rotgut gutwrenching wrench-choosing.
not sleeping is my second least favorite kind.
so what has this forty eight hour introspective inspection accomplished?
c'mon. don't be dumb.
today is the day, again, and always,
because every day is the worst day,
especially today.
i'm back in the business of real-life documentarianism.
never quiet, never soft.....7x41+1

Sunday, December 2

decent deuce-dropping december dos.

terrible weather?
i was hoping for icy slicked-up and rain-soaked snowmelty mudpuddles.
low visibility, and deeply penetrating perilous darkness, too?
those sure are a couple of welcome add-ons to this hard-hearted,
underheated, hateful sh!t-hot mess of a long day.
and when i say long, neighbors,
i mean short on tempers and murder on movie checks.
a zero day at the office, y'all.
no tattbombs, at all.
just the unfulfilling phantoms of introspection and uncommunicative cohabitation.
good news,
for people who love bad news, yeah?
it doesn't take much to consider this kind of weak-sauce day a total wash-out.
that's no jokes.
but it also doesn't take too much to turn it around, either.
for example-
check the teleport and recognize the finer things and simultaneous simple pleasures:
books and socks, ninjas.
two of my most favoritest things.
ultimate hottness, for my see-balls and my foot-fingers.
and it's not just any book about whatever the F*.
it's a whole book about killed-up animal heads with no meat on them.
you know it.
and those aren't just socks, suckas.
those are turbo-manly woodsly goodsly heroic camp-type lumberjack socks.
wordimus prime.
it's not much,
but i'm clinging to it like a lifeline over the gaping chasm of calamitous circumstance.
warm tootsie-wootsies, and a head full of skulls.
it's all that's happening,
the last lonely circle in the center of this vitriolic matryoshka tchotchke
honeypot of humpable beehives and devious, dastardly dollfaces.
my night is looking pretty unremarkable.
that means that until tomorrow,
i'm all out of words;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, December 1

Rrrrrrrabbit, Rrrrrrrabbit.

for the very last time this year,
and if those long-extinct, defunct, and discontinued mayans knew anything,
maybe the very last time forever and ever and never,
i crept out of my cold, empty bed;
a creature of habit and happenstance as much as superstition;
and as i opened my eyes, crossed my fingers and my heart,
and parted my thin, chapped lips.
y'know what happened next?
i whispered out a semi-secret word or two.
bed-head and all, y'all.
bursting past my ample teeth,
a supersonic syllabic lava-laced hot-fire-spat spate of sounds
specifically pronounced as a stand-alone sentence fragment of
heat-treated entreaty to the fickle and unforgiving secret universal plan
for a sliver of good luck, brighter fortunes, and positive half-full wholeheartedness.
...or at the very least a moritorium on the status quo of these previous 11 months.
because par for this course is a sloshing steamy bowl of sh!t-salad,
with the handles on the inside.
wordimus prime, duders.
i said the magically delicious abracadabralated rolling rrrrR's and bouncing bB's,
and made a percussive point of snapping those T's like taught drumheads, too.
enunciating with maliciously intense intentions to formulate laryngeal resonance
to ripple outwards and reverberate through the overlapping concentric circles
of spirit and memory.
all that, just to let you ninjas know that i said the same thing, just like always.
just like right now, just like next month,
just as justly and judiciously prudent to hedge my bets on wonderland holes and
woodsly goodsly dynamic active participation.
ummm, you'd better believe it-
rabbit. rabbit.
double-barrels of hippity, hoppity, cottontailed, flopsy mopsy, br'er type jauns.
that's what's up.
the first of the mutha-flippin' month is here again already.
the last month of the worst year so far.
it's all almost all over,
and it's also only just begun.
it's a potentially stormy saturday in the mountainous reaches of new hampshire.
just what we need, ninjas-
a blanket of white shite to bombastically lambaste the poetic perches
of we, these wee worthy warriors of really real rural urbanism.
and that'd also be proof that i'm doing something wrong,
or that i'm saying my special miniature mantra through parsed participles
and inappropriately pursed lips over perilously pearly enameled choppers.
let it snow.
i mean,
then at least the bleak gray gaytardation of a leafless high-ceilinged open-plan skyline
along the mangy ranges of the presidential peaks will get a topcoat
of stainless pristine powder to make it look nice for a bit.
then again,
ugly is dope,
and beauty melts to mud eventually.
happy mutha-b!tching december, kids.
there's going to be even more of this,
as usual;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, November 30

goodbye again.

another 'nother month,
over and done with,
finished up,
and out the door.
i wish i could say i'm sorry to see it go,
but i've had just about all the november i can handle.
that's no lie.
it's been thirty days of night, neighbors.
as in,
the bleakest and blackest batch of neverending dark spots,
even by the light of that ever-lovin' werewolfen moon above my head.
and now even that's waning,
and washing it's pale blue beams down in a less-intense activational berserker mode.
so it's proper fitting that the whole dang page of the calendar is ready to get flipped as well.
thanks for nothing, november.
just so we're all on the same page:
getting divorced is bad enough,
but wallowing in the weakest sauce of indifference is even worse.
there's not even anything to fight about.
i mean,
fighting is for affecting outcomes, and effective affections, and resolution, ultimately.
but nowadays, when all the truth comes all the way out?
there's just not anything to fight for anymore.
...that's pretty busted,
and it's somehow still limping along on it's last lonely wobbling leg.
true stories are all i've got, guys.
it's all really happening,
above and beyond the sell-by date stamped on the inside heartside hearth
of the woodsly goodness' spirits and memories of What Is.
harder styles than ever,
and no news, good or otherwise to report.
F* off november,
and make room for an even darker december.
whole entire holidays and wholly unholy hellhole holedays.
taking it to XI-mas, my ninjas,
sooner than you think,
farther away then you'd like,
and for longer than you can stand;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, November 29

cranberries are bitter...

...but a pound of sugar is sweet.
you didn't think i'd let dessert escape my attentions, did you?
if i'm having people over to the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress,
i'm definitely going to get busy on the good host-type sh!t.
i'm repping that gratitude and generosity jauns like a capably competent,
appreciative, lightning-striking viking lord of luscious housewarmed entertainment.
if you're ever invited to the castle, you will get some treats.
prepare yourselves ahead of time.
this time i had some new arrivals in the house.
ben and sabrina finally made it past the battlements,
and visited with the high society soldiers of active participation for a little minute.
and that meant there needed to be some kind of celebratory hottness for our faces-
check the teleport:
cranberry-apple brown-sugar blops, my ninjas.
because i'm like that.
whilst i was preparing my epic cauldron of dinnertime goodness,
i spared a second or two to whip up a little something more.
...of course i did, the whole object is more after all.
and while i can tell you truthfully that i baked it as hard and as hot as i could,
it somehow reactivated some kind of super-syrup that soaked
and saturated every single thing but the oaty streusel shell top.
that's right, neighbors.
it was hard as a crisp coconut-nutrient-enriched cookie on top,
but the inside was pure mud blarpitude.
oh, don't worry,
it was completely de-F*-ing-licious despite the pink tar pit bubbling within it's heart.
real talk.
what does the inside of a mountainous heroic vegetable medley melee look like?
it looks like the guts of a giant bog monster, apparently.
brown 'sgustingness, with the flavor of undiluted heavenly glory, though, yo.
i mean,
there's two cups of gravy drizzled all over all the other other stuff in that burly bucket.
it's so big, and it holds so much food, kids.
all the little cubes of simmered down, sauteed, oven-roasted and broiled up bits.
and peas.
those green dots are kind of an 'as is' addition to the expert one-pot feast scenario.
without 'em, though, it just isn't pot pie.
the crusty was flaky and all that sort of thing;
the cabbage wasn't farty, the carrots weren't too hard;
the potatoes had the perfect level of broiler brown added in to their slow-roasted
post-parboil whole-clove garlic seasoned taste combination;
the celery and onions were sweet, the mushrooms meaty;
and the whole thing had the exactly appropriate amount of parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.
we made time,
i made magic,
we all spanned and experienced both together.
spending a day at the range-top is the only way to ameliorate the angst and anxiety
of keeping it so flippin' redlined-at-eleven really real all of the dang time.
i cook, neighbors.
it's kind of my thing, y'heard?
just sayin'-
in order to exist we need to eat,
in order to exist well, we need to eat well.
i'm prepared to prepare day-long processes for minutes long gluttony.
i'm ready and willing and able to overactivate and complicate all the hardest styles.
i want that super-fancy unnecessary jauns.
i am what i eat, i guess.
a disgusting brown blop with so much secret flavor.
you know the line:
be ugly, but be dope.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....