Tuesday, January 31

a prurient protagonist.

salacious subjectivity?
lascivious locution?
competent communication takes a backseat
to backdoor banter.
i know,
i said backdoor...
it's all about that peepee wiener talk, my ninjas.
and by that i mean always,
it's the most bestest way to span an un-day off.
if i've got to get busy on some extra work
tattbombing and accomodating duders who
need to get some of what i've got,
then i'll be gosh-danged if we're going to talk about
anything of any semblance of serious substance.
word up.
inane interjections and asinine assertions are all there is.
you want the sagacious salubricity?
come see me during normal business hours, kids.
wisdom is not for days away from the grind.
believe that.
we save the nsfw work for days at work when we're
supposed to be elsewhere.
doo-dooing the don'ts, i think they call that.
whatever the label,
it's how this whole day got spanned.
five hours without pauses,
marathon motormouth mania about orifices, even.
it's a hard style,
but if not one for worthy warrior wordsmiths,
then who?
january is on it's last gasp.
and it's F*ing snowing.
all day.
no sun.
only white crystals of cold,
coating the entirety of the woodsly goodness.
that's fine, neighbors.
ma nature can activate all the white blanketry
she wants to rain down upon us,
tomorrow is still black history month.
boo-ya, b!tches.
it's time to get really real;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, January 30

putting up the numbers.

arthur is in the building, y'all.
for real,
that full-length namesake is what the deal is.
art making hottness is what time it is, too.
there's drawing going on.
and while it's way too soon to reveal what,
it should come as no surprise that
all the usual thematic action is activated,
and all the enameled dentin destruction,
and manipulated mandible appendages
are all getting represented in full effect.
and lino block cuts are getting carved up, too.
what's the occasion for this sensational flurry
of futuristic primitive nutrient-rich expertism?
for starters, the jump-off is past it's prime,
and the next step is on our doorstep-
january is practically over and out,
and B.H.M. is on it's way in.....
february has got all the good sh!t, kids.
vacations, presidents, valentines,
and most importantly,
a temporal teleport-distort reality,
as you neighbors would likely know it:
leap day.
a 29th magic invisible wizard rotation,
for all our F*ing faces.
that's something, innit?
january is set to take it's final bow.
and none too soon, thank heavens.
but before it says goodbye until next year,
and before the worthy weekend of woodsly goodness
can commence it's big burly barbarian sauce,
i've got a whole family's worth of tattzapping to blast
all dang day on a bereaved group of guys and gals.
movie checks, my ninjas,
are what makes all the arthur times possible.
believe it.
one more day.
a leap weekend, y'know?
memorials and goodbyes.
i am grateful for all the time i have been given;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, January 29

abandon ship.

oh MAN!!!
all is lost,
and i might be too.
there's not a compass on earth that can magnetize the magic
and give us aimless warriors what we need.
what do we need?
we need some direction...
or at least one other extra direction besides downwards.
long days and longer nights
and the hardest styles of pounding i've ever had the pleasure
of feeling pummel the pucker of my downstairs businessplace.
you know.
january is fading fast,
and as far as new beginnings go,
this one gets in the record books for
doo-doo butteriest of the new millenium.
i'd really like to petition somebody for a do-over.
word up.
the year of the dragon is sh!t-hot spitting
some kind of immolating immodium-eating
hard-hearted 'rrhea on the woodsly goodness,
and i'm NOT referring to the weather, neighbors.
and as much as i enjoy creating new and interesting ways
to mysteriously allude to the catastrophic cornholing
that constitutes our financial and emotional states of being,
i'd just as soon have something good to write at your faces.
or not.
okay, then,
moving right along,
do you duders like pillows?
we do.
and knowing that about us,
our buddy amanda made some treats
to accentuate the Folk Lifey flavor of our Fortress.
for real, check the teleport:
and by the way,
they're dwelling in the newly completed
something room.
it is pretty nice.
i'll miss it when the bottom as likely as not
falls right out of our whole entire situation. 
without the bitter, the sweet's not as sweet, kids.
and those pillow owls are pretty flippin' sweet.
real life documentation, y'all.
it only knows about what's really happening.
and it all is.
the future is a sunken ship, b!tches;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, January 28

no juice.

it's after eight o'clock at night,
completing yet another underrewardinglybrutal day
tattzap blasting on some ninjas who needed what i had.
like hand drawing  about a billionteen teensy tiny scales
on another 'nother dragon-style tattbomb,
and as a result,
i've got no juice left.
no sauce.
except maybe some weak sauce.
and that's not so good, now is it?
it isn't.
cramped quarters,
and tight lines,
and hours and hours of outlining the defining
strokes and contours an' that,
and now my right hand is twice the size of my left one-
swollen like a magnum mitt,
with super-sized sausages where my spindly spider
fingers were previously prestidigitating.
only when i type.
life is pain.
you know it, neighbors.
anyone who tells you otherwise?
they're selling something.
and unless it's a little juice?
i'm not buying.
early bedtime?
you won't have to twist my arm;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, January 27

failing background checks.

oh don't worry, neighbors.
the background i'm always lacking is
only in tattoos i bombzap on folks.
i activated one today, in fact-
year of the F*ing dragon, y'all.
and not one speck of background noise.
teleport some more?
okay, then;
here you go:
a whole bunch of blue bodytube beastly business.
half healed, half new, all fresh,
if you feel me.
another one more?
you're awfully needy all of a sudden,
but i'll indulge you this once:
that faded old busted gas cloud fart-shooting
out of the tail/butthole of the new sh!t
is actually a bonsai treetop.
...and no,
i didn't do that one, thank you very much for wondering.
an actual zipzap on the day it's finished,
(exempting the background i'll probably have to add in later)
i figured you ninjas could use a picture or three
instead of more lamenting about the lost elasticity
of my metaphoric doodiehole.
...or maybe not,
but that's all that's happening on this really windy
friday night in the woodsly goodness,
under piles of fresh new snow,
and streams of melted ice.
sometimes, kids;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, January 26

my butthole...

my butthole started out this morning looking like this: *
tight, bright, and alright-
but after today's doings,
it looks a whole lot more like this: O
that's quite a stretch, huh?
you bet your intact A* it is.
ahhh, it's not offically 'sploded,
but it sure does feel like it...
i don't have food poisoning.
i haven't decided to take up seatless unicycling.
it's not any sort of tangible tearing of tissues.
it's more of an esoteric terror,
like conceptual art, but with much more butthole.
awwww, man.
have you ninjas ever met my better half?
she's pretty flipping endearing,
not to mention turbo hot.
as such,
she's got plenty of better options available to her
than having to hang out over here with me
on a turgid, torpid thursday night.
you can figure out what that means, yeah?
that's exactly right, neighbors-
i'm on my own tonight,
master and sole proprietor of
the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
and that's probably a good thing, kids,
after the heroic expansion of my whole wide world
directly and indirectly as the result of a metaphoric
metaphysical meteoric monstrous F*ing of my A*
right off of my body and into the realm
of the marginally obscene
i'd kind of prefer to be alone with what's left of it.
ice packs and snow storms and cold, empty beds.
something is going on,
and someone is obviously kidding me.
until i discover the culprit,
it's sore seats and hot seats and A*kicking
and whatever else could possibly happen.
it all really is.
home alone, mutha-funkers;
never quiet, never soft..... 

Wednesday, January 25


solar flares,
northern lights,
cloud rainbows...
we GOT those tasty sky signs, kids.
that's for real.
all dang day long,
the firmament was illuminated with epic action.
i was busy driving all over the flippin' place,
but i still saw it above the woodsly goodness,
and the rustic maine-ness,
and even the dingy land of atlantic seaport maritime magic.
even portland was under the rainbow bridge to valhalla.
and you ca believe we needed some of that
viking varangian viciousness as we sharkbit our way
through yet another gluttonous afternoon of stuffing too much
food into our cavernous calamitous craws.
and we've got some sore, stuck craws up here in any event-
i thought maybe a day off and a digestive demolition derby
would shake loose some of our harbored resentments,
or maybe the actual harbor would excise some sourness,
but alas, neighbors,
it's now full dark outside,
the sunshow is well over,
and the hardest of styles are yet to even reach maturity.
back to work,
back to the grind,
back to the deep dirty hard-style pounding.
it was rather windy all day...
maybe some change is inevitable.
northern lights like green ribbons of midgard serpentine
insinuation and fenris werewolfen wrath.....
white mountain ragnarok,
white mountain albie rock.,
white mountain tattoo.
all one thing,
and if it isn't one thing, it's another.
it's what's happening.
and there's a sundering spirit spitting it's spurious fury
directly at my face.
what am i saying?
concentrated concentric cryptic craptology, kids-
maybe less-than-none of you ninjas even have half an idea,
and maybe even that's a stretch;
never quiet, never soft.....  

Tuesday, January 24

material fast, time slow.

i thought the idea was to save a little movie check action?
a material fast, right?
here we are, three weeks and then some,
deep into january,
and i'm maybe somehow even more broken and busted
and broke,
than i was before i started behaving all adult-like,
in a fastidiously responsible, miserly manner.
i'm just sayin', neighbors-
saving money is one thing,
and not spending money is another,
but not having money to spend,
whilst not saving one sad thin red cent
is a whole other 'nother other thing entirely.
so how does warrior poetry get composed without loot?
i mean,
how can those true stories get activated on the cheap?
let me just let all y'all in on what kind of a tuesday it was-
thank goodness for the fully stocked humidor in my mudroom.
for real, y'all.
me and olive the dog resorted to our usual pastime
until it was well past time to head home and rinse away
the fumes from our fresh foray out amongst the mountains.
we traversed the whole northern highway-style loop
of the white mountains national forest jauns today.
smoking stumps,
staying warm (46 degrees Farenheit, son!)
and slingshotting ourselves through the past,
back to the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress
right here where we belong,
safely sulking in the future.
...and then wasting the afternoon shoveling away
the thick festy busted brown ice that's made our driveway
an impossibly impassably perilous path.
from franconia to asphalt in one round-trip loop.
if not for hard styles, i'd have none at all, yeah?
the expert hermit nutrients are running out.
like, dangerously low, maybe even.
i'm still here, of course;
and still staying the course, of course;
which, of course, really just means staying still.
oh stop it.
you know i've never been one to shirk shifts sleeping in
a hard-style bed of my own devising.
but for real,
i've got deep-woods roots burrowing down
to the core of the flippin' earth,
from the tippity top of a remote mountain, even,
and the rest of my peoples
are reppin' that tumbleweed activation....
rollin' and blowin' and ramblin',
to far flung corners,
and far off places,
with ambitions,
and destinations,
and all that noise-
time zones, area codes, hemispheres,
whole wide worlds apart.
what good is being a know-it-all, guru-type,
grizzled, wizened wizard of woodsly goodness
if nobody makes the trip to the acme?
partially thawed,
permanently combusting;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, January 23

a double- dose of dope.

today is the day, kids.
chinese new year,
right now for your fire-breathing spit hot face!!
enter the dragon, mutha-b!tches.
i always thought that i was born in the year of the
flamethrowing free-flowing serpentine magic monster,
for real, and for lots and lots of years.
right up until i paid a little teeny tiny bit more attention
to when the actual novo anno hits in china,
versus when us wild westerners ring in the big action.
and now,
being thirty-six, and having wrapped-up the full
restaurant menu zodiac wheel three times in a row,
i know a bit more, and none of it makes me feel any better.
awwwwwwwwwww, man.
it's not until late january that the ramen noodoo duders
flip the page and change the sign.
so what?
so that means no dragon activation for this guy, y'all.
i'm a bunny, neighbors.
a hippity-hopping fuzzy cottontailed bunny.
not a demonic hybrid of divine might
and sorcerous mythology,
but a buck-toothed, twitchy-nosed lagomorph.
it totally figures i'd even catch
the 'buttery end of the calendar, huh?
word up.
happy year 4710, or something like that, i guess.
i'm not celebrating,
but sort of appropriately,
i am eating carrots.
john moses browning.
today's his berfday.
not that his draconic heinie will be celebrating much,
since he's been well dead for 86 years now.
he's the best thing to ever come out of utah,
and that's a fact.
do you know him?
maybe not, but you should-
he invented all kinds of hottness.
lead-pumping battle-blasters from what was previously
the future, and could be considered by some to be the past,
but is inevitably still being used in the present.
now that's some sh!t, kids.
and i am celebrating that.
the carrots aren't invited,
but i may wear a brace of 1911 pistols to bed.
i'm like that.
hot fire spit,
and cold, icy sh!t.
that's what's going on;
never quiet, never soft.....

100% chances.

all of today,
as a matter of meteorological fact,
is assuredly going to suck ALL the balls.
a 100% chance of brutally windy,
freezing rainy, powerline-snapping,
road-closing, late january-activated ice storm action
is headed across the mountains,
over the rivers, and directly through the woods,
to properly F* our collective A*s all dang day long.
now that's some certainty.
i can already see the first few tendrils of low-lying clouds
cresting the cliffs across the way.
it's coming, neighbors.
the titular testicular vacuum of a hostile climate.
there won't actually be any literal suckle-magic,
but in every other way,
a black hole of inescapable gravity and depravity
is descending on the woodsly goodness with one mission:
to drop it's liquid payload of sh!t-salad dressing
on each and every available surface in sight.
it's just a little pre-weekend final-workday doo-doo butter,
drizzling down upon the hottness
like a carbonite-encased hibernation attack.
....only wetter.
i'm talking about the weather.
if there's something you'd rather read about,
i'm open to suggestions,
in theory, at least.
it's the weekend again.
after another 'nother barbaric stint at the studio,
taking it deep,
and stretching to the limits of physical endurance,
it's time to unwind and let it all loose into the winds an' that.
catch-and-release berserker battle set free into the ether-
heated arguments have been the only source of warmth
up in that drastically bombastic, spastic mastic-plastered
sh!t-hot mess of a work situation.
and that's on the rare occasion that there's even anything to do.
hard styles and weak-sauce mondays, yo.
that's where we're at,
and precisely where we're headed.
all roads lead to that perilous pounding, son.
what comes next?
a new mutha-flippin' era of icy frost-rimed coldhearted cruelty.
awwwwwwww, man!
oh, c'mon.
if you've read this many photoless posts,
there's a 100% chance y'all aren't into it for the optimism.
word up;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, January 22


i broke my hands off tattbombing today, duders.
for real.
i mean,
i'm a hard worker, when there's work to do...
but even though  i put in work as a working person,
i rarely really work all that hard.
today was a certain kind of exception that
makes other exceptional times seem average.
that's a thing.
i went in early,
and stayed well past my designated dinner time.
i put in those extra hours on my friend daniel,
who drove a billionteen hours up from
the substantially warmer climes of virginia,
to celebrate his birthday with the really real ninjas
of the woodsly goodness.
how'd it go?
i talked at him about all the terrible things
that swarm around inside my mind,
and he regaled me with the saga of a scandalous divorce.
we got extra busy crushing an undersea-themed
hawaiian tropical fish forearm sleeve.
portraits of fish with too many lines,
and too many blops of color,
and too many patterns an' sh!t,
all against a black and grey coral reef background.
i know, friends.
i said background.
i told you earlier about the exceptional exceptions
i couldn't exempt myself from.
heroic quantities of stylistic anomalies,
doo-dooing that 'that's not what i do' doo-doo.
i kept it real by not snapping a photo when i finished.
small victories, y'all. ...i'm like that.
and now, neighbors,
since i missed dinnertime and my wifey couldn't wait,
so she ate some treats without me,
i'm having cookies for dinner.
storebought ones, at that...
awwwwwwwwwwwwww, man.
a sunday night is destined to be an early one.
a hard style is the only one available.
new england sports teams do well,
and act as portents of uber-lameness to come.
it's so cold my swollen fingers might actually snap off.
and all the other times,
all the other things are always really happening.
real life isn't always exciting,
but it always really is;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, January 21

creative destruction.

i can't believe it, y'all.
a sh!tsmear weather anomaly.
a deader than dead day at the studio.
a busted and disgusted turd-crusted saturday.
i should've stayed home and driven thumbtacks into my face.
that might've been more productive.
awwwwwwwww, man.
i do the dumbest stuff when i've got no direction:
have you duders ever met one of those
smarmy, smug, condescending, self-assured
A*-holes who is so flippin' comfortable taking
the lead in a contest of combative conversation
that they always get you to concede the point
by making you so flustered, frustrated, and furious
that you explode about off-topic incidents
and totally forget how to communicate
like a normal thinking human being discussing
resolution to a point of disagreement?
like, then you get all berserker,
while they make that thin-lipped pompous grin,
like they so knew you were gonna lose your cool
in front of everybody and act the fool?
word up, neighbors-
i guess you're right, my ninjas,
i kind of really sort of am like that.
i don't want to win arguments on substance,
but rather by undermining your face value
as loud and hard as possible.
i doo-doo that sh!tty sh!t.
being unbearable,
and withstanding the unendurable.
more of this, kids.
eleven kinds of awful,
in a ten-awful capacity container.
while it's snowing;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, January 20

sweet and bitter.

what makes Tea 'N' Toast taste better?
well, i'd say raspberry jam, usually.
but not today, neighbors.
in fact, it's not a spreadable sweetness,
or the power-packed protein of peanut butter,
or the fatty-boombattie blops of butterish beigeness.
when it comes down to why today's breakfast
has got a more than usual amount of super-deliciousness,
it's got to be the flavor enhancing hottness
of a gorgeous morning view of the dawn's early an' that,
peaks piqued in pink at the edge of the mountains,
in plain sight out the windows of the Fortress-.
check the victorious natural teleport:
peachy-pink cliffs, y'all,
illuminated by the rising sun,
and framed by thick drifts of freshly driven snow.
woodsly goodness in flipping full effect, yeah?
sure thing.
there's only so much hard-style pounding
right up your A*-hole that you
can reasonably be expected to take, right?
not literally.
i'm pretty sure there's no upper limit on that, yo.
i mean,
we cannot be expected to act
as happily queued-up agents of our own undoing,
...can we?
it depends on who you ask, i guess.
 i, for one, am surely not very excited about the prospect
of choosing, from a list of wholly unacceptable choices,
which form of destruction will be the one
that ruins my well-being and all that good sh!t.
actually, no,
i'm not talking about the american
presidential election this year.
good guess though.
i'm more concerned, in a rationally self-interested way
in the future of my continued capitalist existence
in the fiscally faltering, physically failing white mountainous region.
i'm serious.
after nearly nine years of doing the exact same thing,
putting down roots so deep they somehow seem to
fall down from the sky like prison bars.
roots as the roots of all evil?
yet another bright and sunny observation by
the warriors of poetic justice-type jauns.
it's finally high time i put some thought into what happens next.
when you think ahead,
you're always living in the future.
but the one problem with being from the future?
i can see everything but my own timeline.
and that's the hardest style of all, y'all.
a fugue state of being,
blurry-edged and disassociated from the
Folk Life lifelines, present but unaccounted for,
whilst still accountable for whatever the plans unfold...
the question remains-
how much F*ing is too much F*ing when it's
the kind of doo-doo buttery partnerless porkblasting
that humps beehives and wallets yet leaves neither
swollen up enough to justify the gesture?
endure, persevere, overcome, or overthrow.
long nights and hard times, kids.
movie checks and bodychecks.
working and living.
and not nearly enough of either;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, January 19

zero again.

 a dirty bust-out no-show no good
sh!t-hot mess of a workday, duders.
nothing going on,
nothing at all.
what a suck salad smearface across the whole place.
hours and hours and hours of hanging about
getting to know my coworkers a little teeny tiny bit better.
we're trying.
that's real.
being a little more honest,
a lot more open,
and even attempting some understanding
of the critical conditions by which we activate
all of our respective nutrients.
after another other 'nother whole day of zeroism,
i can tell you that nobody's happy around these parts.
the woodsly goodness may be taking something out on us.
a secret universal signal from the omnipresent planagram.
maybe making moves is on the menu.
maybe a push towards productivity in a different place.
maybe, maybe not.
what is definitely a decidedly true story
is that even sunshine and sparkle magic
can't cover up the hard styles of a broke-A* busted
and disgusted group of warrior poets with writer's block
and wrenched guts of artistic absence.
awwwwwwwwwww, man.
nothings really happening even when it all always is.
i don't get it either.
i'd love to report more,
but that's all there is.
that and the curry flavored carnage i've inflicted
on my internal pipeworks and boilers.
i can actually feel something that has broken off
deep within my chest cavity rolling around all loose,
slowly dissolving in it's own brutal sauce.
you know it-
indian food feasts once a week are good for you
weird peas and 'tatoes and soft, wet blops
of pure spicy fury and dietary destruction.
you've got to bring the thunder,
other times you've got to ride the lightning,
and once in a great while,
we've all got to take a turn at destroying ourselves,
one forkful of flavor at a time.
stormswept savage berserker after dinner action, y'all.
my face hurts only half as much as everything else;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, January 18

wind breaking windbreaks.

hit the brakes, wind.
that's what i'd tell these blustery gusts
if they could comprehend competent communication.
we've got whipping, whirling, walloping action
and it is enough to shake the whole forest
and possibly even move the mountains.
it's loud, it's fresh, it's hard,
and it's really happening.
howling and wailing like an old blues singer,
smashing and crashing like a demolition derby driver,
driving and crying like a forgotten 90's rock band.
(scratch that, interwebs tell me that somehow they're still around)
what i mean is-
there are forces forcing the whole thing to activate.
for real.
what happens when the windbreak gets broken by the wind?
closed-loop justice, i think.
on the ones, neighbors,
the answers are coming at us in gale force bursts.
wind is like nature's big do-over eraser.
clearing out whatever's about,
and barrel-A*ing a whole new set of circumstances
from beyond the mountains, over the river,
and directly through the woods.
spare change, y'all.
i mean it,
spare me from these changes.
fluctuation and readjustment and chill factors an' that.
i can't hang out,
and yet,
the whole pattern is reweaving itself around me.
like they say-
you're part of it.
maybe there's some hottness in there somewhere,
but it's more likely than not that searching will only
get me windburnt.
oh, c'mon.
vegan shepherd's pie, kids.
that's the hearty comfort i'm applying
to my fractured faith in digestion.
stick-to-itive ribbly mass for my A*, y'all.
'tatoes and veggies and substance for
our mutual sustenance,
with providence for a sleeping-shark's
inactivity following the swallowing.
i'm also feeling a bit frisky,
so there's sure to be nontraditional
vegetable additions to my nutrition-
to freak it off a little bit.
the stove top is a-poppin'
with propane powered barbarian boiling
and savage stormswept sautee action.
the only option is to withstand the fire
in the kitchen,
especially when the alternative is to get the F* out.
and i already told you ninjas,
it's waaaay too flippin' windy.
from forge to forgery.
wordsmithing to imitation meats.
fraudulent sentences aren't invited,
but the rest of you are;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, January 17

iced over and slipping away.

oh, man!
it got a baby bit warmer outside.
just warm enough to activate an ice storm an' sh!t.
it's that early evening shimmery sheen type jauns,
with underfoot crust busting apart with every step
and tiny little nuggets of frozen fury pelting the pittery-pat
rat-a-tat-too on the rooftops and treetops
of the woodsly goodness.
it's a terrible tuesday up here.
a brutal blend of crap weather
and no motivation towards integrating and activating.
they're stuffs happening.
it all really is, almost always, albeit barely-
like what?
how about smoking pipes?
yeah. that's right.
fumigating the forests
and nauseating my dog
and repelling my wifey.
(to be fair, it's only partly the pipe's fault, really)
what washes down the dirty doo-doo buttery
residue off of a dottle of dublin's finest university flake?
o.j. and cranberry ginger ale and raspberry juice
with a wedge of lime!
that's liquid sherbet soda bombs for my face, neighbors.
non-alcoholic fluid expertism from the future-
and believe me, they help.
but how can we soak up some of that
deliciously insidious acid attacking on my intestines?
don't even begin to think it's not with
peanut butter rock blocks!
and am i putting this day down for the count with
a couple healthy heaping hand's worth of candy beans?
you bet your b!tch-A* i am.
wait, what?
F* you.
...don't judge me.
today is dedicated to poor dietary choices
and empty calories inundating my insides.
in that respect,
i rate this day a full-blown success.
word up.
boobs and murder and vengeance and tattbombs?
we also went and saw the girl with the dragon tattoo.
and it was dope.
for a long A* movie,
it sure went by fast.
and the nasty little bum-out denouement?
that's almost as busted as really real life.
oh, stop.
shove your spoilers where the weak sauce flows like wine.
do i have a bellyache?
yes i do.
do i blame it on the pre-movie supermarket sushi?
yes i do.
gutwrenching and butthole clenching
and pants drenching, my ninjas.
icebound and underway,
it's all on the schedule for a slippery night
of hazards and power outages in the
rural reality of Folk Life frontiersmanship;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, January 16

we shall overcome...

it's too cold to dream,
it's too cold to march,
it's just too flippin' cold to give a sh!t about
anything other than hot fire and warm blankets.
that's what's a-poppin' up here, duders.
it's stupid cold.
..and i hate it a little teeny tiny bit.
who had the day off today?
not us, y'all.
do you really think MLKJ day gets represented on
up north in the big bad back woods, my ninjas?
the culturally homogeneous whiteness
of these white mountains forbids
acknowledging the contributions
of any one individual if said individual
does not accurately represent the populace
of this most reddened necktarded state.
that's a thing, neighbors.
the state did 'celebrate' civil rights day, instead.
live free or die,
but don't expect any big commendations
from these barely-capitulating hick mutha-uckers.
i sometimes forget about the hard style
that new hampshire gets busy with.
when it's all really happening,
it probably shouldn't be.
we've been attempting next-level
futuristic social interaction.
more specifically,
my expertly social wifey has been including me
in her forays out of the Fortress to
hang out and communicate with other 'nother ninjas
from beyond the battlements of my well-insulated
concentric circles of influence.
for real.
maybe you minky muthas don't believe it,
but i promise it's the whole truth.
people, yo.
different people.
with their own quaint and erroneous views
of the wider world at large.
open-minded optimists an' that.
i know.
but surely,
i'm winning over hearts to the ways of hardness,
the excoriating amplification of loudness,
and the everflowing fount of freshness
that is the signature wavelength
of the worthy warrior poets' way.
stormswept savagery insinuates,
berserker barbarism pervades,
and soon,
that half-empty activation will spread it's
really realness to the far flung corners of
everywhere that's less dope than here.
which is to say: everywhere else.
you get together,
we get it together.
assimilate that eleventh-level expertism, duders.
we'll hag out under the auspices of the
single most important conditional provision:
just be dope,
or F* right off.
you know it;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, January 15


strange doings and ill omens, y'all.
seems that maybe the foot being unearthed
and disinterred has stirred up some
spooky little schisms inside of the
Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
we had alarms and sh!t going off all over the place,
in our unalarmed house late last night.
more than one, neighbors...
in sequence, even.
from inside of drawers outside the main house
deep in the cold and lonely sunroom
during the deepest darkest dead of night.
if it happens again tonight,
let me be the first to inform all y'all ninjas
about the temple of doom excavation sensation
we'll be embarking on in the creepy crawlspaces
underneath the brand new super sexy oak floor
in the newly renamed 'something room'.
i'll dig up as many bones as i can,
i'll drive down to lake whitney in connecticut
and consecrate those earthly remains in
hamden holy water if i have to.
that's a thing.
strange doings, kids.
woodsly warriors won't let the wendigo wights
F* with our sh!t.
the spirits and the memories will be re-laid to rest,
and the woodsly goodness can get back into the
busy business of freezing it's flippin' A* right off.
that's what's up.
it's been a heck of a sunday.
regional sports talk is at a high point,
tattbombing busywork is at a nadir,
and in between,
the cold snap attack of white mountain
subzero activation is shattering the stillness
of the forests and the hills an' that.
i am grateful for all of it,
but i won't cop to being delighted by it.
it's happening,
and we're enduring,
and amid it all,
the hottness is being pumped out
swallowed whole,
from woodstove to windstorm,
live and in person,
right here;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, January 14

my clients are better.

i know you think your peoples are dope.
and just maybe that's even a true story.
really-real woodsly goodfellows inspire devotion from
even their merest of acquaintances.
that's a thing, neighbors.
it's not just my peoples that activate the nutrients.
check the flippin' teleport:
a ZERO HEAVY serf-type medieval hand-knit skullcap,
with ear protecting futuristic dipline, too-
and it's for my F*ing face,
or at least my head.
like i said a second ago-
it isn't just peoples, y'all.
even my clients know how to get EXPERT, too.
pre-tattbomb activation, to eleven.
my new homegirl krystal had an appointment today.
she came bearing gifts of hottness.
lucky me.
and don't act like that big mouthful of sharky gluttony,
and that heroic chin-shrubbery don't deserve special
attention, either.
word up.
i need all the added warmth i can get ahold of.
it's numbingly, achingly, painfully cold out,
and we're huddled by the cast-iron flamethrower,
building up our bodyheat
for a long, lonely, cold, hard night.
long weekend waterbabies are all up in force.
one hundred percent A*hole explosive 'tardation,
omnidirectional, live and direct from points unknown
funneled unfiltered to the epicenter of excellence
with only one known purpose-
...to totally mutha-b!tchin' ruin the goodness
with their weak-sauce suckhole ski vacation 'holery.
awwwwwwwwwww, man.
clogged up and bogged down and fully packed.
that's how it is,
that's what's going on.
everyone who is not us sucks,
and that's all the news from the Fortress;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, January 13


misfortune follows misdeeds,
and misdeeds follow misfortune.
it's friday the thirteenth,
and 13 may be an unlucky number-
i'm not saying it is,
i'm just not saying it isn't.
bad luck abounds in the creases and the crannies
of the woodsly goodness today.
that's real.
all along the iced-over snow-hazardous roadways,
motorists are finding out firsthand.
just sayin', my ninjas,
there are a bunch of out-of-towners rolling north,
trying to get here and get on the slopes
like a big bunch of crackery ski-lodge avalanchess,
and their cars are getting F*ed up all over these mountains.
awwwww, man.
the thirteenth.
right out of the box, month one, new year.
that's a hard style for the calendar, kids.
a black cat and broken mirror, under-ladder-treading,
indoor umbrella opening, crack-steppin' calamity, even.
y'all had better huck that pinch of salt
and knock on that wood an' that.
put your best eforts into warding away
the abominable snowstorm sh!t, y'heard?
oh, yeah,
we're getting more of what's due us today, y'all.
wintry mixing and slick, icy, life-spicing weather.
i guess nature has decided to participate in winter after all.
and nature wins, kids.
i'm making my own luck.
i've got my fortunate foot, after all.
then again,
i've got nothing going on at job today.
alas, you minky mutha-uckers,
there's just no predicting the fickle fingers of fortune.
if they were temeritous toes of temptation, maybe.
it's not what you've got,
it's what you make of it.
we've got to play the hand we're dealt,
even when it's a foot.
oh, c'mon.
don't get me wrong, neighbors-
it's not reacting i believe in,
it's overreacting.
every anthill is akin to the alps,
every inconvenience is a cataclysm,
and every day is the best and worst one ever.
word up.
friday the thirteenth?
unluckiest day ever.
stubbed toe?
got fired?
overdrawn account.
totally figures.
friday the thirteenth?
best horrible road conditions ever.
most expert pitiful plow-guy
snow-clearing poor performance yet.
friday the thirteenth?
most victorious day of triumph over misfortune in history.
friday the thirteenth?
it's the big day, just like every day,
and it's all really happening.
fortune still favors the bold, duders.
remember that.
we're all already creeping up on the ides.
time keeps slipping into the future,
but i think we remain equidistant
from right now, regardless.
looking backwards to what's next,
and reminiscing about what's to come.
nostalgia for tomorrow, folks;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, January 12

snowblind and shortsighted.

oh, yeah.
it actually IS wintertime isn't it?.
i mean,
it hardly seemed much like it,
but now, all of a sudden,
we're on that hexed and vexed sexy hexagonal
falling-crystal lofty ice jauns.
and that's cool, duders-
we needed a fresh topcoat of noise-deadening
whitewash waterblankets to reactivate
the pure and freshly driven dopeness an' that.
expert woodsly goodfellow visualization requires a healthy
layer of frozen woodsly goodness.
a whiteout winter explosion of nature and victory
is exactly the kind of energizing force that charges
up the lightning-striking viking stormswept berserker sixth-sense.
just sayin', y'all-
it doesn't operate correctly when you can
see anything in front of your face, neighbors.
you not supposed to use your eyes,
you're supposed to use your nutrient-detectors.
those secret universal planagram-attuned tuning forks
all up inside your worthy warrior brains an' that-
don't think, just feel,
and then flip out and axe chop sh!t all over the F*ing place.
oh, c'mon.
that's a thing,
and you know it.
today is one hell of a day for flipping the F* out.
it's a perfect winter's day, duders.
cold and busted and dangerous and really happening
as hard as it's cold little tendrils can force their way
into the cracks and crevices of What Is.
it's thor's day.
it's a stormy day.
it's no random chance that hugin and munin,
and some third raven,
are all hanging out in my backyard.
thought, memory, and spirit, kids.
we GOT they.
bundled up and trundled about,
it's the way things have to be up here in the mountains.
we're wrapped in extra layers,
and we're on our way to work.
bad weather brings out the worst of the belligerent
redneck trucktards and their awesome ideas.
i can be sure to have plenty of work,
and little reward beyond those movie checks, yo.
social interaction in a snowstorm?
sorry about your F*ing faces, folks-
berserker raging savage snowstormswept fury
if the only thing on the docket as an action item for
today's grit-grimy dirty doo-dooings.
i've got a scarf, and i've got a hatchet.
whatever's coming down the line,
i'm ready, and waiting...
...in ambuscade;
never quiet, never soft..... 

a grind date...

you know it my ninjas.
i'm on my grind.
expert pepper-grinder activation, y'all!
victorian bronze gear works,
fancy-pantsy cranks, springs, and slots,
all seated and screwed on top of
some kind of indigenous hippie heartwood
from the wowie-zowie vibe-heavy hills
of magma-heated maui.
it's like the best and the worst parts mixed together
to make something better looking than either.
utilitarian dopeness, for my dinner, via my face!!
my peoples know about what's up...
oh, man!
y'ever do nothing so hard that before you get around to
remembering what you're supposed to be doing,
it's already tomorrow?
that just happened.
our buddy eric came over for dinner,
and for an unscheduled debate regarding the merits
of optimism versus pragmatism,
and the next time i looked at the clock,
it was today instead of yesterday.
i don't think i swayed anyone round to my
way of perceiving things,
but then again,
that logic loop is a little bit infectious.
maybe the hard-hearted furnaces will
fire up a few new hottnesses,
tempered by the full moon aftermath.
gibbuosity, neighbors,
will hopefull aid the process.
long nights,
hard times,
and new floors, kids.
that's whats up.
our very valuably useless nothing room
has almost become something.
we've got natural oak planks to walk,
and the floor is so cold,
all the timbers are shivering.
wasted wednesdays,
and mid-januarian doldroms, duders-
thunder needs bringing and i think
that this snowstorming thursday is the cure for
what ails us;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, January 10

all it's cracked up to be...

i've gone to ground,
of coarse.
puns are good for you.
and so is pepper.
who gets hawaiian grinders for their berfday?
me, neighbors.
every day has to be some epic composition?
i beg to differ;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, January 9

old moon, new hottness.

it's a moody monday in the mountains.
i'm making moves,
and i'm making moues.
and i'm doo-dooin' all that freaky sh!t, besides.
dessert for breakfast?
i'm eating chocolate-frosted yellow cuppiecakes,
with hidden nuggets of chipper chocolate within.
that's the key to full-figured freshness,
from my face to my A* (pronounced ace).
what's that?
the wind is blowin' in some answers, for sure.
for example:
reindeer antlers are the answer.
especially if the question was
'what would completely compliment
a severed human foot, as a conversation piece,
on a mantlepiece'?
and yes, duders,
that IS a naval artillery shell, wrapped in ribbon,
with a tree in it.
and that glass thingy is a sexy old lantern.
you know it, friends-
the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress is a
curiosum cabinet of righteous dimensions,
amassed from the past and the future,
anyway, it's my weekend,
there's a fully-formed howlin'-mad lunatic moon,
and i got a whole new batch of super rad treats
from my ace homies, casey and cyle.
that's correct, my ninjas-
good question, kid.
as a matter of fact,
i'd love some pie:
apple, neighbors.
a.k.a. the best one.
that's a flaky buttery pastry heart,
just like mine.
when the earth's largest satellite lights up
bright and big and the man in it is out to
activate all the luscious canis lupus lycaon
blood red nutrient expertism,
really real berserker barbarian battle beasts
get pretty well amped up.
but the realest stormswept gypsy know
how to keep their sh!t tighter and brighter.
that's a thing.
when faced with myriad options for interacting
with obvious dangers from stranger days,
you choose the hardest style possible.
what the F* am i talking about?
y'all know what type of tool is to the liking
of the lightning-striking vikings, right?
but what about their response to the honey-suckling
suckers who try to sting up on their meady minds?
that's right!
you see a beehive,
you hump a beehive.
the same applies to wasps' nests, yo.
...and we GOT they.
check the cyle-supplied buzzbomb teleport:
that's that killa bees-type jauns.
berfday hottness in mutha-forking full effect.
like i said, a curiosum cabinet, kids.
full moon frenzy,
sleepless and therefore dreamless,
honed-in, but aimless,
and ready for everything without
doing anything.
it's all really happening.
inside, outside, upside, and down;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, January 8

a return to business as usual.

thanks go out to all my peoples-
i got a lot of phone calls yesterday.
and a couple well-wishing first-classy envelopes.
i opened the cards right away,
but i'll admit i let the phone ring.
to be fair, i was out of doors,
far and away from the Fortress,
surveying the realm and it's elements for much of the day.
me and my sh!tty four-legged companion
did a great many miles of mountainous meandering.
taking in the sights of the woodsly goodness in winter:
snow-capped, misty peaks on winding icy roads-
cruising along listening to miserable music,
like the raspy laments of tom waits,
and making each other nauseous with
festive festy fumigation from a few
big, black, tobacco-packing, stinky, stumpy cigars.
( i did say sights not smells, my ninjas)
touring through hours of reflection on the past,
as decoded through the sh!t-colored glasses
and honey-colored see-balls of the future.
did i see my horoscope?
not even the 'today's birthday' one.
my wifey more tha made up for the lack
of fortune-telling stormswept gypsy predictions
with reservations for fancy b-day dinner at
 the inn at thorn hill.
for really real, duders,
it was some excellent everything.
and it was just the two of us,
being romantic and sh!t near the fireplace,
shoveling vegan dopeness down our necks,
and letting the luxury infuse us with all the nutrients.
i swear i could almost taste eagles' eggs.
it was a day of drudgery and begrudgery
with hopes of a bit of buggery,
capped off with a casual fine dining experience.
oh, man...
was there cake?
what are you?
an A*-hole?
it's not a birthday if there's no cake-
of course there was cake:
a carroty bundted butthole-shaped cake, even!!
that's a deep depression dented in the center,
and jam-packed full with delicious creamy frosting.
a worthy warrior poet never tells.....
oh, stop it.
my ma-in-law, claudia baked me up a berfday cake,
and you can bet your sweet-cheeked bottom-biscuits
that i got EXPERT on a slice of it.
real life documentarian depictions, you ask?
i huffed:
i puffed:
and then,
i let the moonbeams brutalize my brain.
january's full moon is called the old moon.
awwwwwww, man.
how did they know?
it's no-sleep no-joke werewolf time, my ninjas.
i've got a full flippin' day of tattblasting.
that's what happens when you opt
to take time for yourself on credit.
the interest rate is steep.
i'm paying for yesterday with a doo-doo buttery
overdose of zips and zaps and crap today.
everything costs something,
and i'll be sure to use the massed movie checks
for something special in february.
my non-consumptive material fast is still underway.
day eight, already, and i don't get the shakes anymore
when i see a 'buy-it-now' or 'add to cart' icon
as i browse the robotronic gridiron.
it was one heck of a first week of january, y'all.
that there will be more of all this,
you may rely upon,
and more's the pity,
for the quality will not improve,
only the amount;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, January 7

cranky, crotchety, curmudgeonly.

happy berfday to me!
today is the day, duders.
thirty-mutha-flippin'-six years old.
three dozen doo-doo buttery orbits
spanned around the sun, son.
thirty six berfdays, which is to say-
the worst days,
in a row,
with no breaks or gaps in between 'em.
long days, long years, hard times and harder styles.
wrinkled, crinkled, sprinkled and tickled pink.
what's that you're asking for?
a portrait of the artist as an older man?
facefirst time travel activation via teleport:
awwwwwwwwww, man.
an old man of the mountains, indeed.
craggy, haggard, weathered, and worn.
exempting any swan songs,
some ugly ducklings just become ugly ducks.
we've got to accept that reality.
i'm not even really that bummed out about
my high-interest age-accrual activation.
i mean,
my glass is half full....
...of vomit, with a stubbed-out cigarette in it.
seems like the empty half isn't so bad now, huh?
perspective, neighbors.
old age brings an unhealthy amount of it
into semi-soft focus and peripheral relevance.
experience and information,
interpreted and extrapolated and distilled
through the striated strata of age.
wisdom is wasted on the wise.
treats, however,
are never wasted on professional appreciators
of gratitude and generosity.
and you ninjas know i got some treats
from my unparalleled partner:
nothing ameliorates a deteriorated sense of esteem
like a pile of presents for my face!
it's a semi-sunny saturday in the woodsly goodness.
and i'm not working.
tattbombing is in no way on the menu for today's specials,
because that weak sauce is a recipe for ennervated ennui,
and you dirty duders know i can't hang out with
that noise on my F*ing berfday.
don't get ahead of yourselves-
i'm not celebrating my life.
i'm rejoicing at my lack of demise.
my nature is infinite,
my flesh is finite,
and after all these long, long years,
the volume and intensity stay out at eleven.
i'm your man up north, y'all.
loud, fresh, hard really real warrior poetry.
i remain a true-storytelling chronicler of What Is,
and i remain, in, this as in all things happily birthed.
today is the day.
i am grateful for the time i have been given;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, January 6


you sentient mentalists can keep a firm grip
on your fondness for firsts.
i'm more of a semi-sentimental holdout
for the ends of things.
for instance,
i'm lamenting the dearth of bread in my breadbox.
(that's what she said?)
because that means yesterday was the last
Tea aNd Toast breakfast of my thirty-fifth year.
awwwwwwww, man.
don't worry,
it's not as if we're not gonna still break our fast,
we're just shark-swallowing a big buttery potful
of luxury-style gourmet oatmeal instead,
with luscious deep dark maple syrup on top, neighbors.
but still......
you can probably see what i mean.
right now,
i'm dreading our slippery sloping driveway,
as i go out in the last snowstorm
to get the last batch of firewood
to keep warm on the last lonely night
of being thirty-five.
there will still be more of all of this.
it'll all also be subtly different.
i'm just sayin'-
i'll be older,
and not much better,
but possibly wiser.
then again,
if i don't go to the grocer one last time,
and i don't doo-doo that home heating
hearth-heaping heartwood haul,
then it'll be the last hungry, cold evening instead.
which also means that thirty six might seem better
by comparison.
who says i can't fill a glass halfway?
holy flippin' sh!t, my ninjas.
this is it.
today is the day.
the last day.
and tomorrow is the first one, again.
it's all kind of a thing.
i've got one last batch of trying tattzapping bombs to burst
and then it's a kamikaze divebomb into
another 'nother happy birthday to me.
and whilst it will be neither the biggest,
nor the most beautifullest,
that noise was never the object.
the object, my minky mutha-F*ing mates,
is, was, and will always be more.
old and busted?
make way for the new hottness.
pretty soon, friends,
instead of teeth,
my hands will be rocking dentures;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, January 5

bull terriers.

y'all probably didn't know about this-
bull terriers.
sausage headed hamhock meat-monsters.
armadillo sharkdogs.
burly babe in the city, spuds mckenzie canines.
i tattbombed a duder today who brought
his four-legged bestie with him,
and got a non-specific representation of his last four
pet-caliber canine companions,
who all happened to be,
bull terriers.
they're so dope.
mostly because they have piggish ears
and torpedo thunderhead pistons for jaws.
word up.
my resolution seems to be applicable to
more than just my dog, i guess.
but it could also be the brutal winds buffeting
my heretofore more-than-a-little-aloof nature
regarding any and all animals in my kingdom.
that's erosion,
and an unhealthy dose of wind chillout
cooling off my hot-headed hard-hearted
anti-fauna oppositional situation.
or is it?
well, if it gets warmer,
and i get sh!ttier all over again,
then i suppose we'll have our answer
right alongside this wind blowing my way.
we're five days into it, neighbors.
how's it going?
the weather is miserable,
but the really real reality of
this year has only just begun to uplift spirits
and activate memories here in the hallowed
hollows of the woodsly goodness.
a chappy crappy crap-slapping capricorn
cause-and-effect session is in full effect,
and winters grey gaytardation
is doing exactly what it does best.
the brunt of it's blunt force barbarism
is being felt,
and appreciated, professionally,
by the worthiest of wintertime's
warrior poets.
it's What Is,
and it's here in heroic quantities and calibers.
the fire is hot,
the iron is cast,
the whole thing is happening;
never quiet, never soft..... 

Wednesday, January 4


what the mother-F*, my ninjas,
it's somehow already wednesday night?!
how and when and where and what kind
of elapsed-time distortion doo-doo butter
has allowed the last few days to disappear?
i though time only gained altitude when
we were having fun?
instead of activating any sort of distilled
deeds of derring-do,
i think the whole thing is trying to F* with my sh!t.
what whole thing?
the secret universal plan, obviously.
don't be dumb.
i'm visualizing berserker barbarian battle-business
with beastly feasting and garrulous gypsy interaction,
with a little tiny bit of futuristic introspection,
and raging savage stormswept warrior poetry.
i suppose it's all really happening,
but the minutes are so fleet-footed i might be missing out.
with any luck,
the rest of y'all are reaping the results
of my will-powered manifestations of freshness.
i'll dream it, you be it.
everything costs something, neighbors.
that's a real thing.
i can assume that somewhere nearby,
the cultivated coincidences of my casual concentration
are waiting for me to harvest 'em.
that's what tomorrow is for;
when today being the day just isn't quite doing it.
and by the way-
it's hellaciously flippin' cold in here.
gelid and hoar-frosted and ice-aged.
i'm pretty sure i saw a wooly mammoth
a few seconds ago.
then again,
it could've been my reflection.
on the ones, kids,
it's embittered and embattled and i mean it.
i ran the oven today for a little bit,
and not just because i needed an elite dose
of delicious dopeness in the form of
barbarian brownies with two kinds
of chocolate chips.
i did need that.
and i'm glad it happened.
but really,
i just wanted the oven to emanate
a little extra warmth like a propane-powered hearth
in the heart of my otherwise least-heated wing of the house.
i'm curling up by the fireplace.
and i'm dangerously dessicated for my trouble.
practically preserved by dehydration, duders.
that's the new plan.
a modern mummy,
pickled and tickled by tongues of cast-iron hot fire,
and designed to keep that festy foot company forever.
i love it when a plan comes together;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, January 3


it's so flippin' cold
my hands are shaking like seismographs
during a massive tectonic incursion.
sh-sh-sh-shivering and sh!t...
...and that's indoors.
no good.
despite the frightful absence of most literal hotness,
i found time to  get expert on some hottness,
as in a hiff and a puff  for a while
on an especially burly,
intensely delicious-ish stinky stogie.
frostbiting on my ears,
acrid acidic smoke on my tongue,
and my dirty little dog to keep me company.
for real.
did i mention my other other resolution?
yeah, neighbors.
i'm going to show a little more affection to
my barbarian battle-beast.
she doesn't listen worth F*-all,
she pushes her luck with our affections,
she consistently overreacts to new situations,
she rips tremendous, thunderous farts at regular intervals,
and displays outward hostility towards most living things.
who else does that sound like?
i'm sayin'.
hating her is like hating myself.
and that's an alien concept.
so as part of the self-imporovement program i'm activating,
it's kindness to dumb animals and appreciation
for their company.
after all,
she actually likes hanging out.
there's a lot to be said for that these days.
word up.
three days into it, my ninjas.
there's been a pretty intense push
towards reinstating some old action.
from the olden times or something.
2011 kicked my A* right off my body,
but i rediscovered my strengths,
disregarded and discarded the frailty of yesteryear,
and there's been a whole lot of going to eleven
already in 2012,
after less than 72 hours, even.
the original albie rock is here,
ugly, broke, broken, and dope,
and from now on,
it's ALL really happening.
now get yourselves into the spirit,
or get the F* out of the woodsly goodness, y'all.
viking fury is here,
and flipping the heck out is all i'm concerned with;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, January 2

one two one two

it's a hot deuce sandwich, my ninjas.
a rollicking roundtrip to the A*-crack of
the diluted doo-doo butter we all
know and resent as the 'chussetts this morning,
i got all over a tatblasted voyage into all-too familiar
territory this afternoon.
and finally,
a fateful journey into uncharted realms this evening.
stacked up, smacked up, and not all it's cracked up to be.
my dearest daughters have disembarked in the
shallow narrows of weak sauce and far away.
i raced back to the woodsly goodness to get poppin'
on some hard work and some hard styles,
and i successfully executed both,
with the help of some new vacationary clients-
i am resolute about being a more commanding
competent communicator.
nicely observed, duders.
it's true.
i'm representing a new era of brutal truths,
coarse and base and rough concepts,
and aggressively active participation in
one-sided group discussions.
that's a thing, son.
home alone, again,
without my two best creations to
cavort and caterwaul with.
harvest and maple are being missed
by the warrior poets and berserker barbarians
of the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
it is just not the same without 'em.
on the bright side,
when it's adults-only along the ramparts,
it's a pants optional scenario once again.
you don't want to horrify your children
by showing them just where the wild things are.
i'm serious.
without clothes,
i could pass for the one with human feet,
as long as you allow my grey hair to symbolize
those horns.
i'm panning for gold like an introspective prospector.
grievous grievances picked over
and rinsed a ways away through a sieve of
expert assessment.
it's only day two of the new year, y'all.
so far,
no luck;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, January 1


i get an eleven-type tattbomb from adam,
adam gets a 12th level zipzap from me.
cycles and circles, neighbors.
we doo-doo that even-steven sh!t like that.
a modified daniel higgs design circa 1990.
straight to the future like a blast from the past.
check the teleport:
one loose nine round.
that's all there is.
am i starting the year off dope?
i am starting the year off nice;
never quiet, never soft.....

low resolution.

i blew it.
i wished the whole damn family a happy new year,
and forwent my usual magic mantra.
i'm serious.
rabbit, rabbit?
i said it out of habit when i cracked open my eyes
at the A*-crack of dawn,
but it sure as sh!t wasn't the first thing erupting
from inside my face as the clock hands
pointed skyward in tandem towards the future.
awwwwwwwwwwww, man.
who's ringing in the new year on the wrong foot?
nope...it's not me, sucka muthas-
i've got the right foot stashed in a glass box.
oh, c'mon.
word up, neighbors,
it's 2012.
the first day.
the first shot.
the big resolution solution,
or as we refer to that sort of thing up here
in the willpowered powerful woodsly goodness:
decree day.
unless you're the pinnacle of perfection,
or the predictable poor-performer,
you know you could probably be a little teeny tiny bit
more EXPERT.
louder, harder, fresher,
more stormswept, more savage,
berserkerer, even,
and participating more actively.
i know i'm ready to take 12 to eleven.
it's all about positive progress, i guess.
like what?
how about like a material fast for the month of january?!
that's right.
spending freeze in F*ing full effect.
food and fuel are the only acceptable expenses.
i'm on that responsible adulthood action,
and that fiscal fortitude and financial ferocity.
not for nothing, kids,
but i'm staring 36 grizzled years in a row
right in the crow-footed laugh-lined careworn face.
the future is right now,
and i need those mutha-b!tchin' movie checks to activate.
i wish i could tell y'all about the big action.
some kind of intimate inuendo about the really realness.
i'll just hit you dirty duders off a little hard-hearted hottness:
chocolate coconut creme pie, with whipped blops on top.
that's all there is.
shark-gluttonous dessert and sleeping an extra two minutes.
no fireworks,
no explosions.
just this worthy Folk Life.
a new year,
the same old routines.
it's always happening,
it's never not.
it's the last night of vacation with harvest and maple,
it's the first day of the next time.
concentric circles,
concentrated cycles,
hard flippin' styles;
never quiet, never soft.....