Saturday, June 30

meaningless efforts, effortless meanings.

a super-steamy saturday in the mountains awaits.
a billion degrees and a billion weekending A*holes
crammed and jammed all together for an altogether
awful batch of disregard-
for propriety, politeness, and active participation.
weak sauce waterbabies want tours of the woodsly goodness
like voyeurs and peepers and creepers.
it's mostly show up, and very little get busy.
they don't make moves, they just move on.
that's neither worthy nor real,
and certainly not warrior spirit.
i can't hang out with that.
these bunches of b!tches just want to be entertained, y'all.
distracted and diverted and all that kind of noise.
and for what it's worth,
i'm pretty flippin' entertaining, too.
but it all costs somethin', y'know?
the albie rock show, like most grands, and all movie checks,
does not come for free,
and i don't plan on ever selling my life cheaply.
some minky mama-jamas can't afford it,
and other other miki-fikis can't afford NOT to get some.
i'm a luxury, kids,
and in that sense, very necessary.
word up.
worth and value and price aren't always all the same thing.
you know it.
today's bargain bin buyout of barbarian business?
rib cages and power outages.
the juice broke loose and escaped it's circuits.
after a million parallel lines on a moving target,
my second appointment of the day sh!t the bed due to
primitive underelectrified conditions.
no motive motorization means no sweet moolah.
saturday took a crap on my wallet, y'heard?
so how did i respond?
did i flip out and chop arms and legs and heads?
stop it.
it's too hot for that nonsense.
i took it on my hirsute yet weak chin like this:
teleportationally activated nutrient checkpoints, neighbors.
hard looks from a hard-lookin' warrior poet.
staying ugly, staying dope.
i may be engaging on almost every level,
but i am not amused.
y'know what takes the edge off of being a burgeoning barbarian?
sprankles, b!tch.
i doo-doo that tangible, consumable comestible rewards action.
and i take pictures while driving,
albeit poorly.
tomorrow is july.
tomorrow the girls i made come to visit.
tomorrow everything changes.
just like every day.
just like always.
it's all happening.
i am grateful for the time i've been given,
and for the ability to document it for you.
thanks, friends, for tuning in;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, June 29


soggy-bottomed rainstorm?
wet-dog smelling canine companion?
marathon insomniac werewolf transformation?
it's all really happening.
check the teleport:
motherF*ing motherF*er.
even when i manage to fall asleep before dawn,
olive the dog finds ways to brute-force herself
into disrupting my rest to take her 
on a lengthy jaunt around the woodsly goodness.
in the dark, or the breaking light, or the rain.
(the rain is particularly expert in the dark.)
now, i'm not actually an A*hole, y'all.
i understand that pooping is waaaay better outdoors, 
specifically if you're a dog. ...or that dog's owner.
i mean,
during a dream,
or even just the blissfully insensate oblivion of unconscious sleep,
the aroma of fresh turds is horrible to wake up to-
coffee? smells good.
breakfast? smells good.
your lover's hair? smells really good.
hot logs of semi-digested doo-doo? uh-uh.
so, despite my exhaustion,
i'm up and at 'em every time, 
letting nature takes it's course
through the beast's intestines, i mean.
it's all about price and payment, kids.
everything costs something.
that's real.
is a few seconds of shuteyed sleepytime worth beginning
my day with a skidmarky-marked mattress,
and a hard-style hardwood hulk-heap of steaming sh!tballs?
not for this night trading day traitor.
i'll swap the serenity of slumber for fulfilling responsibilities.
real ninjas do real things.
and i do my work mutha-uckers.
and on the ones, yo?
F* this F*ing dog.
she loves to go right back under the covers 
and right back to sleep immediately after a heroic deuce droppin'
stopover in the forest she regards as her own moldering toilet.
from dropping logs to sawing 'em.
i don't have that bullish, imbecilic simplicity in my head.
so i'm still awake, neighbors.
and it's yet another 'nother morning where i've been 
a wakeful witness to the sky brightening up and over and out
from black to blue, and then to grey, and finally to rain.
it's all really happening.
what it all is, however, is just a matter of perspective.
i don't know if what i'm saying is actually, indisputably what's up,
but i sure call 'em like i see 'em;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, June 28

tea time.

tea for two?
that's not real.
i've got a whole body full of broken
that needs some steep steeped leafy blackness.
i'm cold.
it's not cold outside, either.
i'm cold, on the inside.
i'm no doctor, duders,
but it would seem that no sleep, little food,
physical exertion and trauma all add up
to a big batch of old busted jauns.
i need some of the wet hottness to infuse this
weak sauce with some spicy hot fire from the future.
...or some irish breakfast tea.
i got tatzapped at tsunami tattoo yesterday, neighbors.
and i fell asleep on the table, too.
that's tiredness, not toughness, for the record.
check the teleport for a small portion of the progress:
i've got crabs.
and copper kettle tea time activation for my knee.
the whole thing wraps around my leg
and up to my cute little buttcheek.
yep. that happened.
it all happened.
it still is, too.
i force-fed my face some green elephant vegan dopeness.
it tasted just like scorched F*ing earth.
just like every other thing i've shoved down my gullet
these past few weeks.
but, i had to load up on nutrients,
because soccer happens on wednesdays, kids!
what am i?
an athlete?
i did show up at the field yesterday,
post tattbomb session-
and i also pulled muscles in both legs.
awwwwwwwww, MAN!!
lame... literally.
that's a helluva hard style, y'all.
i can hardly walk right,
and my sexy new cleats did nothin' to stop it, either.
i guess i forget how old i actually, chronologically am,
and how little exertion i exhorted from my frame this last decade.
probably because of my puerile personality, right?
i'm still a snarky pr!ck, but i'm an OLD snarky pr!ck.
how did i miss that?
the fleeting, fleeing grey hairs should've reminded me, i suppose.
oh, well.
nothing like a little humiliating injury to reaffirm
my faith in the idea that hurting the team
is exclusively the province of beating yourself, first.
i doo-doo that.
the raging stormswept savage berserker fury
is out in full category 5 hurricane force these days, duders.
a battle-beastly pre-full moon monstrous mien from
the confines of my mind to the secret universal plan 's
people, places, and things;
i guess i've been bottling up a bit of that brutal truthfulness.
i've got an everlasting bag of holding, full to bursting
with limit-stretching past-capacity, standing room only
wild, untamed, werewolfen animal ferocity.
it's hard to hold in the hard-hearted styles every minute.
but, i've had years of practice.
it takes a lot of effort, energy, and maintenance...
you want to know my secret?
i'm always angry;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, June 27


(you really don't need this, friends)
out of time.
time out of time.
taking time away from itself,
which is to say, time traveling.
to the future.
and there's no future like no future.
what's that?
the backspace button has gotten a lot of use already.
that's real.
i mean,
what do warrior poets write about
when all their battles have been lost?
if our failures define us,
then if nothing else,
i am a devastating and spectacularly active participant
in the general undoing of the deeds of an entire decade's
worth of hard styles, hard times, hardened hearts,
and interminable nights.
we don't stop fighting, though, y'all, do we?
that's warrior spirit.
that goonies-type jauns.
never give up, never say die,
die, resurrect, repeat, like a ghost in a spiral.
haunted and haunting and re-living a lost life.
never stop doing this?
don't worry, i don't think that's ever been an option.
time is slowly constricting.
a narrowing gyre, even.
a funneled tunnel of conical collapsing concentric circles.
it gets tighter, the gaps in between get narrower,
and eventually all the leeway and flexibility
and room for improvement get compacted and condensed
into one solid pressurized core.
a small, easily ingestible, undigestible ball of the
intractable trappings of temporal temerity.
it's crushing a little bit more life out;
and with every sigh of contentment or
world-weary whoosh of exhausted air,
with each and every single example of exhalation,
the capacity within it is diminished.
you don't get back what you lose.
and eventually, when the insides are empty,
and the outsides have been tempered into that tiny
sphere of concentrated quantum energy?
you know the next step, don'tcha?
...swallowed whole without a second's worth of second thought.
that's some sh!t, duders.
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, June 26


my hands have teeth,
my shoes have cleats,
my butthole has pleats.
um. yeah.
i got some site-specific footwear
for kickin' it about on the footie pitch.
that's what's up.
running. jumping. kicking. sweating.
in other words- activating.
i doo-doo that.
and now,
i do it with non-slip trainers on my toes, yo.
i'm ushering in a new era of infinite nature...
gregarious loneliness?
haha. go ahead, laugh all you want.
but it's a thing.
i've mastered the gentle art of making enemies,
and as a result, i've moved right along on down to the
coarse course of cultivating coincidental acquaintances-
how hard can it be?
(that's what she said)
there's a great deal of violence of action,
decisive conversational sensationalism,
and incomplete life sentences.
guess who got suckered into work today?
did you guess it was me?!
awwwwww, man!
i just wanted to hand-deliver some cupcakey goodness,
and there was a shopful of duders wanting what i do
to happen to them.
i made those moves, y'all.
movie check mastery is essential to the continued
survival of expert activational lifetime nutrient sh!t.
whatever that means.
i get masterful, mutha-uckas.
a master of ceremonies, a master of the universe,
a master and commander, a master blaster,
and a master of his own manifested destiny-
sounds like a jack-off of all trades, almost.
real life.
it's all really happening,
no matter how disbelieving i try to be,
that secret universal plan keeps unfolding.
at least now, with those garish cleats,
i'll have a firmer foothold on the truths and
a stomping-hard kickoff for the consequences;
never quiet, never soft.....7x18

Monday, June 25

doo-doo that.

i take it to eleven, neighbors.
yes, indeed.
chocolate frosted chocolate cupcakes,
with chocolate sprankles?
F*ing right, kids-
check the teleport:
that's the sh!t.
and i'll eat the sh!t.
little mouse poops on thick dog poops
on big blarpity road-apple-ish horse poops;
that's exactly what those jauns look like.
recognize, and turn brown with envy.
and there are mini-baby chocolate chiplets on top
hidden under the poop-icing.
too much is always the right amount.
you think i could take it further?
then check out this teleportational next-level activation:

F* all y'all.
that's chocolate goobieblop filling, mutha-b!tches!!!!
doo-doo butter?
i doo-doo that.
crapcakes in full effect for my face.
that's how i get busy when it's time to get busy.
how can i be so skinny,
and still live so fat?
y'wanna know why?
because i'm a warrior poet,
and i'm like that.
bad weather is only bad if you've got plans.
i don't,
so this rainy gayness is great.
i'm not kayaking, or rock climbing, or trail running,
or hiking, biking, sports-teaming, or whatever.
i'm working.
and i couldn't give less of a sh!t about any of it.
awwwwwwwwwww, man!
i rep a hard style, duders.
and i'm as stylish as i've been in a while.
plural pleural cavities?
like, a second hole in my torso?
i think so.
only this other one is an abyss.
my best guess?
it's somewhere behind my heart and lungs.
black, cold, empty, all that get the gist.
no light enters, no light escapes,
no thermodynamic energy is generated.
there is minimum entropy,
and a void of genesis.
that's a big batch of anti-matter and x-rays, y'all.
a whole lot of nothing, even.
registered as either a nil set,
or a massive deficit of degrees.
it's all really happening, all the time, everywhere,
except in there.
try that on for size this morning,
and enjoy your monday;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, June 24

void where prohibited.

sprankles on top of coffee chip crunch?
emergency tofutti started my morning, my ninjas.
my sister mary grace had a surprise wedding.
that sort of thing happens in my family.
a lot.
this time, though,
it was perfect weather, at the perfect time,
and the party people were in the house.
and outside the house.
and all over the F*ing place.
my sister, and her new husband, tim,
have a lot of friends and family who all came
together to celebrate what they thought was
just an open-bar magic-type housewarming fete.
nuptials, mutha-b!tches.
they doo-doo that i-do/me too sh!t.
here's a sincere hope for happy times forever after.
there was no dancing.
at least, not that i witnessed.
good thing, too,
because the only moves i have are a sort of
bobotronic robot arm-swinging hard style.
like a capybara doing capoiera.
it's never easy,
even the next day, when it IS sunday morning.
i'm home already.
that's a thing.
extra-early shirley exodus from the watery babyness
of connecticut's butthole?
you know it.
at any rate, i'm back here in the woodsly goodness.
big F*ing deal.
i've got work to do.
i'm a working person,
i put in work, i work with purpose;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, June 22

going down.

love in an elevator?
more like a highway to hell, duders...
i'm going down,
to connecticut.
yeah, i know-
epic beatdown barbarian battle activation
in flippin' full effect!
awwww shoot, neighbors;
the bruises haven't even faded from deep purple
from the last time,
which was only 96 short, sweet hours ago.
the consolation prize i'm convincing myself will help?
i'm gonna bite the heads off of a bunch of beige animals!
i doo-doo that cruel and unusual sh!t, kids.
check the teleport,
and recognize just how actually okay it's gonna be:
now you see where i'm at, though, right?
after all, what am i?
some kind of an A*hole?
it's cool.
competent communicating is only as effective
as the listener's willingness to hear what you say
without slathering a syrupy slop of weak-sauce
all over the words in the sentences you're assembling.
i'm just sayin',
i document real life.
that's a thing.
if you're paying attention, you know what's up.
if not,
you should start.
you woldn't want to miss out, now, would you?
i know i'm not gonna.
that's why i'm trekking back to the badlands
and worselands of waterbaby central,
for another 'nother near-lethal dose of doo-doo butter,
overeating, traffic, ethnic diversity, and family togetherness.
nutmeg is the main ingredient in iocane powder, i guess.
oh, stop. you get it.
responsible adulthood is happening,
just like everything else.
i'm making moves,
showing up,
being there,
connecticut drew first blood, y'all,
but i'm about to escalate the conflict.
i'm on that home-delivery-type loud fresh hardness,
brought to bear on the bare-chested and the bald-headed
and all of the minky, mincey b!tchbaggerism in between.
word up.
it's not reacting i believe in, after all-
it's overreacting.
taking it to the limit, taking it to the mat,
taking all of it, as it really happens,
to eleven.
three thousand degrees with a forecast for lightning?
sounds like conditions are perfect for an invasion.
ready or not, connecticut,
i'm on my own sour-grape griping,
bitter pill-swallowing way
back to my original home sweet home;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, June 21

perfect pitch.

is it too hot for sh!tty spirit totem terriers?
yes it is.
check the jabba pose on the teleport, neighbors:
my reflected face-to-face shamanic situation is in no way
improved by having this monstrous mound of tooth and nail
savagery sluggardly splayed across the foot of my bed.
what am i sayin'?
i'm just sayin',
it's finally not cold inside this spacious, palatial,
Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
it's a massive tandoori volcano of grotesque sauna-esque
steam-heat activation from the heating ducts of hell.
too much is the right amount, y'know?
are you ready for some football?
the real one i mean...
y'all would call it soccer.
guess who got involved in a pickup soccer game,
with real goal posts and everything,
in hundred degree heat on the first day of summer?
i make choices, kids.
like to show up and try to hang out with some
duders from around,
and kick it about for a bit.
those ninjas wear cleats an sh!t.
i had on regular sneakers and regular shorts
and i sweat my old, busted, tired regular A* right off.
but i'll be back next week,
sorta like fight club, y'heard?
a good old fashioned physical punishment regimen
may be exactly what i need.
by the end of the summer,
i'll be a sun-browned barbarian berserker of stamina,
speed, agility, and sore F*ing knees.
i've got to go to connecticut, again, tomorrow.
is it too soon for a rematch?
i'm still sore from last weekend.
my brand-new pair of super-skinny jeans
are actually too big for my belly,
(which is looking like jesus's wracked wreck of a torso)
and i need to swap 'em for a svelter size anyway,
so i'm ready to suit up and get back in the ring
for another bare-knuckled battle-royale with the state
that leaves me in an altered state of semi-consciousness.
hard mutha-flippin' styles, friends.
until then,
it's already a billion+ degrees of farenheit heat up here,
and there aren't enough sweet moolah-making
movie checks to be had at the studio for me today,
so there's bound to be sprankles and sorbet on the schedule
as a midday reward just for being dope in the face
of a F*tarded clustersuck-bomb of summery scenes.
enduring the weak-sauce of excuse-makers, shortcut-takers,
traffic jams, heat waves, slow-goers,
and willful misunderstanders means frozen fruit
and sugary multi-spectrum shavings for my face,
right down to the tip of the cone.
it's destined to be a day of skylarking and flirting
and generally disregarding the proprieties of decorum
and seriousness.
just like every day.
except today, i'll be much shinier.
hot weather and olive complexions make for a serious
oil-slick sebaceous slime-coating of guido grease.
awwwwwwwww, MAN!
i'll be the sticky stick figure shouting out loud
in the back room, guys.
you'll know me by the glistening sheen of body butter
my pores will be pouring out.
dear hot weather,
i was hoping to create a slip-n-slide inside my clothes.
thanks a whole bunch.
if you listen closely,
you can hear my flippy-floppies squish.
i haven't been swimming lately.
that's human juice, ninjas.
you like it;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, June 20


this is the bright bright brightest day of the year?
man is THAT depressing!
the longest day?
only if we don't compare it to the interminable terribility
or every single other day.
awwwwwwww, sh!t, my ninjas.
it hasn't gotten one damn sight better since this morning,
and it seems like it's not one lick lighter
on the far side of high noon.
if this is what's comin',
and promises to foretell what's happening,
then i'd prefer what's happened.
a throwback to yesteryear?
check the teleport, courtesy of dan dealy:
those were the days.
now all we've got are these days.
the temperature was skin blistering,
the humidity level was nonexistent.
it was a desert-type day of moisture-wicking dehydration,
and i tatt-blasted my way all the way through.
it's too flippin' dry to have a fire,
it's too flippin' early to go to sleep,
and it's too flippin' hard to rep this particular style
as long as i have been doo-dooing it.
it's mutha-F*ing summer, neighbors.
hot hot heat,
long days,
longer nights,
hardened hearts,
and sweaty balls.
believe it-
happy summer.
if you've got it, use it,
if you need it, get it;
never quiet, never soft.....


summer, sum-mer. sum-mer tiiiiime.
you know the song, neighbors.
the get-busy soundtrack to the sweet,
ever-lovin', full-blown super hottness.
today is the day.
the first day of summer.
the official start of ice cream, flip-flops, frisbee,
beach blanket and vacation season!!
happy summer, friends.
we can all only hope it will be better than spring was.
i mean,
it would almost have to be.
but then again,
i'm constantly amazed at the capacity for worsening
that the secret universal plan seems possessed of.
awwwwwwww, MAN.
oh, whatever.
it may be time for the boys of summer to do their thing.
it may be time for the b!tches of the world to get half-naked
and strut their stuff.
it may be the best part, or the worst part,
or even just the next part.
all i know for sure?
the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress is here.
the woodsly goodness is warm and dry,
cloudless, with a nearly-unnoticeable breeze,
and the infinite nature of warrior poetry is being
tested time and again by the limits of endurance
and the borders of bad taste.
hard styles aren't ever not happening.
double negs, my ninjas.
you know it..
i'm thinking a barbarian blaze of brutal berserker bonfire
is exactly what a real ninja needs to activate the future!
all-consuming flames?
that's what's up.
burn away the weak sauce in a trial by fire, yo.
what little blackened ash remains has got to be the truth.
four months ago,
i started a journey.
yep. a F*ing journey.
four long mutha-flippin' months ago.
i can't say i'm any closer to where i was headed.
the longer i travel,
the more things i shed.
i travel light, at light speed,
and that makes time go slower.
science, yo. recognize.
taking forever and getting nowhere.
put that in your summer itinerary, kids;
never quiet, never soft.....120

highlights and low life.

well, duders,
i'm back in the woodsly goodness again.
and i got a speeding ticket on the way home.
escaping at breakneck velocity from the past
will apparently activate the laserbeams
of traffic violation enforcement in massachussetts.
nobody leaves with the title, neighbors,
but they do get a fine.
it wasn't all bad, y'all.
on father's day i powered down two whole pizzas
in under ten minutes.
delicious? even more definitely.
that's not it, kids.
check the teleport:
harvest skye is gonna be in the seventh grade!
holy sh!t.
it was a terrific ceremony,
and at one point she and maple shared the stage
with the chorus of fifth and sixth graders
to serenade us with sounds of cherubic expertism.
afterwards, it was emergency tofutti time:
sprankles, in the hundreds and thousands.
i doo-doo that cookie-type hydrox-sox-rox jauns.
how do you put a day like that to bed?
under a thick greasy layer of fried beans and hot sauce!
nothing accentuates the need for speed on the way back
like middle eastern gastric backtrack payback.
i hurt myself for you, guys.
what would i have to write about?
it was a brutal 48 hours.
the high spots also included some quality time
with both of my sisters.
i'm serious.
old age and responsible adulthood make for
strange-but-true stories.
after all,
they're the only two mutha-uckers who knew what it was
like to grow up 'hood in south hamden in our house
besides me.
family togetherness ensued.
at one point all three kids,
all three grandkids,
and my ma and the dude were all under one roof
and the world did not implode in on itself.
if anything could've kick-started a 2012 cataclysm,
i'm pretty sure that would've done it.
there is always more, friends.
it's additive.
we put in that hard work,
we get more work.
don't make it look too easy,
or nobody appreciates what's up.
that's showmanship, y'all.
make easy things look hard,
make the difficulties look simple,
and then let the rest of 'em give it a try.
compare and contrast from the first to the last.
without them,
we'd just be us.
i'm grateful for these tests of worth i subject myself to.
i do the right thing when i can,
and i do what i do when i can't.
nature wins, nurture runs the marathon.
sort of like money talking and bullsh!t walking, yo.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....7x17

Tuesday, June 19

Sunday, June 17


daddy's house?
no, daddy hex.
that's the real life name for this:
father's day.
i know those dutch duders used those
ghost circles to protect their sh!t.
i wonder if that one was for keeping daddy
OUT of the house?
today is the day.
the one where dads get neckties and barbecue mitts,
and just one lousy phone call from their crummy kids.
so call your old man and tell him something.
i don't care what you tell him;
i mean,
he probably won't listen anyway,
but make that call y'all.
it's the least you can do for the lump
of XY chromosomal ingredients who got drunk enough
to help squeeze the sauce into the oven that baked you.
the majesty of nature, huh?
you can't have daddy issues without daddy.
that's a thing.
i try to be a good one.
encouraging. providing. guiding.
all the things the greeting cards say inside 'em...
but it's difficult, neighbors.
no joke.
distance and time are not exactly on my side.
making the most of the minutes i get,
concentrating all those important moments into
the time we have been given.
positive examples are hard to create
when all you know are hard-styles.
try hard, pay attention, and know stuff.
that's the oversimplified set of standards i've set
for my young ladies.
it's the preteen pretty-kid version of just be dope.
i said it, i meant it, i still mean it,
i'm not kidding.
best two out of three?
i'm not exactly father time, y'know?
i'm no papa smurf, either-
i'm more like papa bear, duders:
too hard, too hot, too big.
and if you know your goldilocks like i do,
you'll have to agree.
just right?
did you just say connecticut three times?
i swear i just got beetlejuiced/candymanned.
i'm driving southbound and down,
to the place of my birth.
there's a lot of family togetherness scheduled for this week.
my oldest daughter graduates from the sixth grade.
that's right.
i'm old, she's big, time flies.
me and my ma and dad are gonna have some dinner.
it's all really happening,
it's all not very exciting.
sunday mornings start out easy,
but long drives and busy workdays and late nights
make it all more believable, huh?
real life.
father's day;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, June 16


who is your favorite disproportionate poet?
i mean, really, y'all.
you know i doo-doo that long armed lawlessness jauns,
gangly dangler i most certainly am,
ungainly gracelessness in form and function-
all duckling, no swan;
all goose honk and no nightingale song;
all hawk and no dove,
all crow, no scare...
extenuated extremities, attenuated attentions,
insidiously insinuative sinews, malfeasant marrow,
and great big paddle-type hands and feet.
(keep reading, there's a picture, eventually)
i'm like frankenstein's monster, my ninjas.
assembled in the semblance of man,
but definitely something subtly different.
a mimic, a mockery, a close-but-not-quite
meta-maudlin caterwauling composite creature
born to bring bad news, worse luck, and terrible times.
it seems as if the architects of my secret universal purpose
put me together from spare parts
culled from children's books-
albert the albatross's wingspan,
ichabod crane's physique,
rip van winkle's beard,
wee willie's winkie,
horton's elephantine ears, nose, and faithfulness (100%)
rumplestiltskin's F*ing face, an so on...
you get the idea.
as if some sort of pen and ink shel silverstein nightmare
leapt from page to flesh,
possessing a penchant for alliterative prose and versatile verse,
peppered with punishing puns aplenty...
feel free to jump in and cheer me up at any time.
i'm not fishing for compliments,
i'm chumming the flippin' waters.
self-aware, self-deprecating portraits are what's up.
check the teleport:
ugly on the skin,
pretty from within?
there are ways to break that surface tension;
a shave, haircut, two-bit bits of two-cent opinionated
hemming and hawing and haberdasheried hard-styles-
loud fresh hardness is engraved on my bones,
and written all over my face.
that's deep-etched, ingrained, get-busy business, y'all.
real talk.
i may be broke and busted.
actually, in fact, i am.
i may also be low on the hot-or-not ratings,
and persona non grata at parties across the planet,
but i'm off-the-charts when it comes to the hottness.
like, when it's time to bring that fire and lightning?
i go to eleven, b!tches.
that's a thing.
you know what i say, you know what i do:
stay ugly, stay dope.
believe it.
friday night is date night?
maybe where you sexy people are...
but not when you're all oyster and no pearl.
(which is just a shiny booger, anyway)
how will i fill the holes in my summer social calendar?
with sprankles.
simple solutions are sometimes the best ones.
i'm a grown-A* man, y'all,
and i will eat sorbet every flippin' night if i want to.
with neon rainbow sensitivity tubes all over it.
don't be haters,
you guys can have some too.
free falling.
like some tom petty sh!t.
it isn't really free, though, is it?
it all costs somethin'.
terminal velocity?
we got that.
it is no longer possible to plummet any faster;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, June 15


this teleported tidbit should require
absolutely no description:

come on.
neighbors, that's what's up.
even when it's sunny and seventy degrees
and in most other ways an atmospheric disappointment,
catering to motorcycle enthusiasts and outdoorsmen,
there's an uncontested contestant competing against himself
for an interest-sparking shot at
one of my fabulous prize packages.
like high-energy high-decibel verbal abuse,
warm caffeine-free diet soda-pop,
and a slice of vegan futuristic mocha pie.
and then,
instead of another 'nother generic turdblaster tattoo,
i get to activate a little bit of my reserve nutrients.
that's how and why expert realness gets poppin'.
exceptions rule.
that's a thing.
right this very minute,
it's all really happening.
it's the present tense.
both present and accounted for, y'heard?
there's a palpable anxiety in the rarefied air up here.
a combination of leather, barbecue, and exhaust fumes
is blowing on the wind.
if that's the answer, y'all.,
i'm done asking questions.
i've got just three more long, lonely, terrible days
of celebrating (read as: enduring) the suckiness
of two-wheeled motorized weak-sauce,
and then i get to go down to connecticut.
the home base of nancypantsery an' that.
awwwwwwwwwwwwww, man!
frying pans, fire, whatever, my ninjas.
from bad to worse and back again,
that's the recipe for road warrior poetry.
the toll roads are the least of the price i'm paying.
family togetherness means making the best of
the moves being made-
i've got peoples who need me,
and i go where i'm needed.
anything less would be less than worthy
of the heroic virtues and values i'm all about.
and by the way duders,
it's flag day.
whatever that is, we doo-doo it.
now hoist that sh!t,
and let your freak flag fly.
long may it wave, mutha-'uckers;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, June 14

baffles, buffles, blinds.

hey neighbors.
i wished for rain.
you know what that means, right?
i don't see a cloud anywhere,
except directly over my head.
awwwwwww, man.
i've been trying new things.
like redrawing old clip-art.
sort of like this:
i'm a little out of practice,
and i mean to remedy that situation.
every day i draw a bit,
every day i write a bit,
every day i chomp at the bit.
time only flows one way.
it's all going according to plan, i suppose,
even if the plan is universally secret and vast.
(i personally always keep a backup plan, just in case)
the circuit is broken,
the flow is interrupted.
the energy is only moving in one direction.
time takes time,
and space requires space;
it's not a circulating current, kids;
it's a lightning-striking bolt of electricity.
it may fork,
but it still heads towards the same general area.
real talk.
the connections are interrupted,
and the lights aren't coming on.
i'm giving y'all a glimpse into the revolting
high-voltage realm of miscommunication.
be easy, ninjas-
i'm as competent and capable as ever i was,
albeit still as convoluted and cryptic as i have to be.
conversations keep catching,
not like being grasped,
but more like getting snagged...
or maybe like something virulent-
that's communicable, y'know?
i think that's irony.
keep being crippled and derailed by snags.
both obvious and unanticipated.
you see, duders,
there are two sides to discussions:
ebb and flow,
wax and wane,
give and take,
speak and listen,
explain and comprehend.
you get it?
you got it.
but what about when the same exact sh!t keeps
stalling and sabotaging the semblance of sense
being made out of sounds pronounced in sequence
to symbolize complex concepts and underlying themes?
b!tches fight with you.
obstacles, y'all.
overcome, overthrow, evolve.
i'm on that modulated frequency, frequently,
type of improvised intelligent interaction sh!t..
variable wavelengths and bandwidths and amperages
of adaptive modern combative techniques.
fight fire with lightning i always say.
i probably won't ever be understood,
but i won't stand underneath someone else, either.
side by side, or not at all-
that's the way it has to be;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, June 13

coffee and chocolate?

it's called mocha, b!tches.
recognize and respect that sh!t.
telportational delights?
check 'em:
fancy pie is good for you.
mini-baby choco-chips AND sprankles.
i doo-doo those twice-as-good-type jauns.
homemade crust?
i can't believe you even had to ask, A*hole.
that's eleventh-level bake shop futurism.
coffee, chocolate, more chocolate, a little cocoa,
and then some more chocolate, just to make sure.
relax, neighbors-
it's deactivated with decaffeination, too.
i'm not tryin' to never ever sleep, y'know.
and i'm not trying to hurt myself or others,
i just want some sweets to compliment my bitterness.
word up.
the fat lady is audibly carrying a tune, kids.
y'know what i mean?
i think it's a love song, too.
a manatee-sized mermaid
with a four-alarm siren-song.
luring me like a wrecker to a wretch,
i can't refuse, i am refuse.
come crash on my teeming shores;
circles collapse in on themselves;
rings of smoke, blown through and apart-
giving up the ghost,
the spirit road goes down,
memory rest.
awwwww, man!
that is so expert,
and so not expert.
real life, mutha-F*ers.
the hardest styles in the gentlest whispers.
i write words.
i right words.
i rarely write the right words.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

woden's day.

hey duders,
it's another 'nother day.
i think it's a baking day.
the the house isn't that warm,
the hottness hasn't been activated,
and the oven could use a preheating.
definitely a baking day, y'heard?
chocolate magic funtime treats,
for everybody, and their faces.
the process is the whole point.
the path is the goal.
and then there's yum4tum treats afterwards.
i didn't plant it in my garden, but it's there-
whatever this thing is,
it's expert.
even the weeds in the woodsly goodness are dope.
i guess it's called orange hawkweed,
at least according to my
new hampshire naturalist's guide to native wildflowers.
it just showed up to be dope.
that's word.
are the rainbow sprankles infecting me
with fancy-pantserized cookie-cutting seahorseplay?
i mean,
i have been reading a sh!tpile of olden days-type poetry.
wait a minute...
i know.
most of you just don't get it.
that's cool.
me neither.
but i am aware of what's fresh.
those old mutha-'uckers brought the thunder.
probably because they didn't have modern
technological distractions to dilute their powerful sauce.
even the light and little itty-bitty bits
had that furious force in 'em;
check these four lines of flavor:
"A hater he came and sat by a ditch,
And he took an old cracked lute;
And he sang a song that was more of a screech
'Gainst a woman that was a brute."
haters gonna hate.
and b!tches gonna b!tch.
my ninja P.B.S. knew what was up, kids.
oh, you like it.
or, at least, you should like it.
this is not what i thought life was.
(^that's another good one)
neither is this:
awwwwwwww, man.
oak tree miscarriages!
baby acorns who didn't make it full-term.
of course,
that same tree has about a billion more chances
each and every year to pass on it's potential.
a few failures don't impede progress,
and that woodsly totem can't even walk.
so we've got NO excuses, kids.
that's a thing.
wednesday is hump day for some.
you and i both know better, though, huh?
more like humpback with a hunch day.
bloated and bumpy, beached, breeched and breached;
it's a sore, seared, and sullen way to span a day.
but it sure is really happening anyway.
there's not enough poetic pie-baking to change any of that.
it's just What Is.
hard styles,
crisp crusts,
soggy bottoms,
and a healthy dose of brown.
i think i'm gonna get some chocolate mouse turds.
those sprankles are just what's missing;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, June 12

sweet sixteen.

so, yeah, kids.
i'm reppin' another 'nother dose of the dopeness.
check the teleport:
spranks, again.
a way-less impressive high-noon scoople
of  berry-flavored purple sh!t,
with activated rainbow-refracted prismatic sugar-cyclinders.
it's expert, y'all.
for real.
and they're always rainbow.
i doo-doo the ones that don't look like rodent doo-doo.
because i've got a parade's worth of gay pride inside.
someday you'll find it, kids.
the rainbow connection.
for lovers, for dreamers, and, well, y'
that's the brightest spot in a brightened-out day of
impenetrably dark moods and modus operandi.
the spiritus mundi of neither the mundane nor the ethereal
have deigned to include me in today's designs.
i'm out of place, in time and space, neighbors.
just sayin',
i worked on my day off,
i tatblasted some stuff,
and i've got a date with destiny.
or maybe just a chance to hang out and eat pizza
with my good friend and coworker wayne.
dining alone gets old immediately,
and eating enough is easier with company.
the styles are hard,
and the truths are ugly.
i can't promise that tomorrow will be any better, either.
there's rain in the forecast, though,
and that's something, at least.
small joys and minor gains,
it's all really happening.
deficits and detriments and hungry skin and bones;
melancholy marrow and petrified pores,
all aching for the call to regenerate,
revive, resuscitate and rescue the sense of touch,
the sense of self,
and the sense of wonder missing these long months
from the woodsly goodness's embrace.
i can't feel it,
i can't taste it,
i just remember it all.
a ghost of a smoke ring in a circle of light,
a full moon and a new moon
and both waxing and waning slivers.
this one took on an unexpected downturn, huh?
never quiet, never soft.....7x16

Monday, June 11


i'm wasting away.
for serious.
somewhere in these last weeks,
i slipped past slim,
and starved my way to skinny.
ribs and femurs and that.
like an animate hairy skeleton that looks like
a preserved mummy of a missing link
in the chain of the developing homo sapiens
evolutionary human genome chart.
i didn't just write that, did i?
oh, yes, i did.
somewhere there's an olduvai artifact,
or a sangiran fossil,
with a striking similarity to my present state of being.
i need some bulk to fill out my frame,
and fill in the holes and blank spots everywhere else.
it shouldn't bother me to shed unnecessary weight,
but i've lost one-hundred and two pounds,
plus whatever i don't weigh anymore, too.
but, neighbors-
don't despair.
i'm taking action.
the next step should be obvious:
sprankles, ninja.
mutlicolored sorbet seasoning,
with sparkly, sorcerous rainbow-spectrum sugar
on raspberry syrup-water ice magic.
sticky fingers and brain freezes and sugar rush crashes.
that'll fix whatever's wrong, right?
of course it will.
who are we kidding, duders?
i'm just not feelin' it.
i'm not feelin' IT.
the interconnectedness of these
overlapping concentric circles
of spirit and memory.
the idealogical framework of the
secret universal plan.
or any kind of plan whatsoever, even.
i'm getting more of a resonance on that first stanza
of the second coming type of sh!t.
it's yeats, A*holes.
look it up.
(seriously, though, i'm not asking: look it up)
i'm thinking it's more a random spattering of
cosmic dust and debris over here,
and maybe more over there,
with good and bad luck F*ing off in the middle,
awwwwwww, MAN!
i thought that the back-ups and contingencies
of woodsly goodness and that fresh-to-death,
from now-unto-death-do-us-part-type sh!t
would've activated some sort of failsafe protocol.
it's a chaotic suckballs sh!t-salad smearface,
and i think i've made it safe to fail, instead.
there's a fifty-fifty fallout of functional dysfunction
and disjointed joint efforts and effortlessness.
what does that even mean?
it means that whatever the big picture is,
i sure as heckfire can't see it for the overwhelming details.
and it's spreading-
at least we can agree we get a choice.
if it's our true story in the telling,
and our real life in the living,
and our magic moves in the making,
and we're clearly being antagonized proactive participants,
(main mutha-ucking characters, y'heard?)
who do we want to be?
the lonely laird of his own family feudal futility,
the abandoned baron of barren inauspiciousness,
(c'mon- those're pretty good)
the barbarian battle bard of worthy warrior poetry?
don't even hesitate.
we all know what's up;
never quiet, never soft.....111

Sunday, June 10

this isn't good news.

birth and death?
what the F* are you talking about?
well, maybe stop looking for meaning, duders,
and just look at the picture:
skull-acorn redux.
i've been redrawing old images,
honing, tuning, refining, and redesigning
all the kinky stinks and stinky kinks out of 'em.
i much prefer the new hottness.
that's a thing.
i'm composing prose in glyphs of gypsy encryption.
if you aren't a raging stormswept savage,
you'll probably need a translator.
trust me, though....
the i's are dotted,
the t's are crossed,
and so are my eyes-
bleary, teary, weary...
all that.
i've been busy,
staying up late riding nightmares
into infinite insomnia,
and then waking up early to reenter the world
of hard-styles and brutal truths.
i write these memorandums to the spirit of
active participation in the interest of preserving
some small sliver of the ghosts of worthy warrior poetry.
i'm sayin', neighbors-
really real immersion in expertism exists,
woodsly goodness persists,
weak-sauce waterbabies resist,
and real life documentarians subsist
on a steady diet of gratitude, generosity, and honesty.
 it's all happening, all the time;
all at the same time, even.
i'll keep reporting the deeds and derring-do and doo-doo butter
as long as my spindly spiderfingers can tippity-type out the
true stories of what the F* is going on around me-
cross my heart and hope to die,
cross my fingers and hope it's you instead.
it's sunday,
and it's sunny,
and it's F*ing biker d!cktard week,
and they are out in full force in their full regalia-
with a heavy accent on the gay in the middle.
i hate it.
like, secretly studying shamanism and sorcery.
just for the annual summoning of a swarm of vermin;
an unholy host of indeterminate pest and nuisance creatures,
to clog roads, mire tires, and flow like a hungry wave
of all-consuming unstoppable righteous fury,
to stop up and then whittle away the nancyblasters
on their steel horses with mandibles and claws,
until only scratched chrome and chipped bones remain.
hard styles are, in fact, my flippin' specialty.
i've got a molten core of thermonuclear disgust firing it's
ions and protons into protected space.
the radiation, however, of my white-hot hateful heart
is glowing through my pores like a punched-tin lantern.
a toxic patterned picture of professional polka-type dots.
if i knew what i know, and i wasn't me?
oh sh!t!
i'd keep clear of the fallout from today's sour mood.
it's super-sunny, and sorta warm all over the mountains-
it's also dark and cloudy, and pretty forkin' cold,
but just on the inside.
i'm making wishes and ouija-boarding for bovine ghosts
to manifest and mangle the meathead men wearing their skins
over their legs and arms, but not their butts.
chapped buns from A*less chaps?
they deserve it, duders-
a simple spell to reanimate those tanned-up wrappers,
and give them a shot at squeezing a life for a life.
it's highly unlikely,
but it's definitely where i'm at;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, June 9

getting there.

extra hours of awakefulness?
that means extra hours of arthur-making.
this one is shaping up,
slowly, but surely.
saturday morning cartoons?
that's not very nice, neighbors.
i still don't know what goes in those top holes.
whatever, kids...
it's early,
my hands are cramped and shaky,
and i'm drawing pictures.
a winning combination that is NOT.
it IS what's poppin';
never quiet, never soft.....


what the F*?
this is disgusting:
looks like my asiatic lilies
won't be rockin' in the free world this year.
sh!t-blop crapperpillars?
why are they so flippin' wet-looking?
butt-nasty little ninjas who crept in overnight
and bit those b!tches to death.
a pestilence of miniature mandibles and inflated thoraxes.
who invited them?
it wasn't me.
i'm trying not to assume it's an omen.
a harbinger of hard-style destruction,
slowly devouring the beauty in the world
in a colostomy raisin monster's mouth.
awwwwwwwww, man.
it feels like that's what's up, though.
to tell the truth, and i always do,
those lilies got off easy.
bite, chew, swallow, done-zo.
that's it.
the end.
quick and brutal and over and out.
no blooms, barely any buds, just a hope,
and a failure, and nobody knows what they've missed
because it didn't actually happen.
there's something to be said for almost.
because it's equally hard to lament and laud it.
it's spilt milk and dry cows simultaneously.
resignation and hope hang out at the same spots, y'all.
i'm sure of it.
it's bike week.
laconia, new hampshire's contribution
to overpriced leather and sausage sandwiches,
sh!tty tattoos,
and image-conscious unity amongst professionals
masquerading as goateed doucheblasters.
i'm praying for bad weather.
to old gods, and dark gods, and elemental spirits.
to tempests and fault lines and ma nature's caprice.
i could stand a week of hurricane winds
and hailstones the size of hubcaps.
i mean,
i missed out on my mayday parade day this year,
and i could've really used a dose of that dopeness-
so why not sh!t on their salads, too?
i love company.
i love misery.
it's all really happening.
enjoy your weekend, kids;
i've already made other plans;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, June 8

oh, snap.

it's so wet and rainy and busted outside
that water is spreading everywhere.
it's seeping out of the soil,
it's turning pastures into ponds,
it's making the driest ditch into the muddiest stream.
and with this advancing liquid frontier
comes advancing semi-aquatic reptiles.
what's that, neighbors?
wild life.
check the battle-beast battle-tank turtle sh!t:
this duder was just hanging out alongside the road,
watching traffic splash through deep puddles.
it wasn't really concerned when i got all up in it's face.
no snapping or even really retracting into it's houseback bowl.
i guess it cold tell that we're two pieces of a bigger picture.
not some greater universal synchronicity between all living things.
what are you?
a hypersensitive diaper-baby of weak-sauce feel-goodery?
stop that.
i'm sayin' real ninjas recognize real.
face-biting brutality knows when it's made a friend.
i'm just sayin',
animals have weird senses and sh!t, y'all.
they can tell important stuff with their instincts or whatever.
(it's because they can't talk, i think)
we hung out for a minute.
and i got even closer.
F* a zoom function, yo.
i get up in faces, for your faces:
snapping turtles are dope.
even when they're far from where water usually lives,
but close to it's vanguard of surface tension and saturated soil.
hobos who know that heart and home reside in the same place:
in an armored fortress on their back.
a burden and a sanctuary, a comfort and an onus,
in the same place at the same time,
carried with them wherever they go.
portable countries.
sovereign satellites,
sluggishly sauntering from one wet hole to another.
it doesn't sound so bad, does it?
the rain brings the thunder,
and vice versa.
it brings life,
it ruins it, too.
i mean it.
tell those flooded fields how good water is,
and i bet they'd tell you to suck balls if they could.
the remainder brings that wild life.
it's all really happening,
wetly landing in newly marked marshes along the
pathways and former roadways turned watercourses
of the mountainous mudbogs of the woodsly goodness.
i don't get it, kids.
for real.
i thought we were living in the future.
what's up with dwelling on the past?
yesterday was terrible.
just like every day.
but today is THE day, y'heard me?
just like every day.
i can't make yesterday more dope than it was,
and neither can you.
acknowledge it, learn something, and move on.
that's the preferred poetic pathway to acceptance,
which, in turn, segues into expert activation.
today, duders.
that's what's up.
cloudy, cold, full of bloodsuckers on the wing.
it's sort of like yesterday,
but it's NOT.
another chance to go to eleven,
to choose the wrench,
to hump a beehive,
today, friends;
never quiet, never soft..... 

Thursday, June 7


i've been so 'busy',
i missed the fact that i've written over 1600 entries.
one thousand six hundred and thirteen,
including this one.
that's a pretty big dumb number,
especially for the daily doings of a ghetto philosopher
and introspective extrovert/hermit.
when it comes down to it,
i kind of cancel myself out.
i'm not sayin', i'm just sayin'.
i've got some good news for you ninjas;
that's not ALL i do.
check the teleport:
it needs so much.
like, so many more lines, and so much more sh!t
to make it go to eleven.
it doesn't even have an XI in it, yet.
that needs fixin', friends.
and what goes in those top circles?
i don't know that either.
i've now got a stack of half-started, stalled-out
projects that beg for completion, complication,
participation and activation.
and just look at this little guy:

spitting hot fire, for your face!!
if there aren't acorns, i'm not interested.
i wonder if these bottled-up messages to the world
make it past the duders i know,
and flow off into the atmosphere to summon
spirits and memories of worth, wood, and goodness
out to the ninjas i don't?
one thousand six hundred largely ignored love letters
sent with crossed hearts and crossed fingers to the idea
that a better fate than death awaits us anywhere.
it's all really happening.
that's no joke.
i mostly just have this to keep me company:
hard mutha-F*ing styles, y'all.
low-resolution spirit animal sh!t.
some people get a bear, or a fox, or whatever.
i get a stinky, retarded dog.
i assume nobody is that surprised?
never quiet, never soft.....

bachelor burger.

i'm not proud of it,
but i do this:
a live-alone vegan expert sandwich.
double-veggie boca burgers,
pan-fried tofurkey slices,
cholula chipotle hot sauce,
and some bib lettuce,
(mostly for the photo's sake).
loss of sleep?
lack of appetite?
general malaise?
put that in your face, and cure it all-
it's every night's delight, my ninjas.
like, for real, every night.
what's for dinner?
brown circles.
and you'll notice there's no plate, yeah?
dining alone means F* doing dishes,
i'm not starving,
unless it's for attention.
but i'm sure as sh!t not satisfied.
i've got plenty more, as well.
well-stocked with box after box of bachelor patties
for my bachelor padded-cell.
but how many days in a row is too many?
it depends.
most times, the object is MORE anyway, right?
a week of this meal and i'm still going strong,
but four months of other worse things,
and i'm wasting away.
i need the nutrients, kids,
not just the sustenance.
that's a fact;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, June 6


hey there, folks.
i made myself a berfday cake,
or maybe an anniversary cake,
or maybe an 'it's-not-raining' cake,
or maybe just a bloated grandiose display
of unnecessary fancy-pants indulgence cake.
i'm not sure it wasn't all of those things.
i am sure it was delicious.
and heavy.
and big.
and time consuming.
and sugary-sweet like a cavity creep.
the process was more important than the product.
for serious.
the path was the goal,
and simultaneously that path was the gaol.
i've been kind of trapped in a series
of synchronized absences which require
a whole bunch of baking to activate.
procedural problem solving is my jam, y'all.
baking, a step-by-step-type
plan your work, work your plan-style batch of business,
a logical chain of events,
is how i get busy stimulating my brainwaves to battle
against the doo-doo buttery bad parts of full moons and empty beds.
but enough about all that.
it's time to fill our bellies with empty calories!
from me to you,
from the woodsly goodness to your house,
via the future,
check the F*ing teleport:
triple layers, b!tch.
recognize that even at my low points,
i go to eleven.
a layer of secret self-invented recipe cake,
a layer of chocolate raspberry ganache,
a layer of brownie in circular cake shape,
another 'nother layer of choco-raz ganache,
and a top slab of cake.
oh, yeah,
and strawberry-chocolate frosting over all of that.
it has so much mass, the bottom layer is getting crushed
by the dense-bombery of that brick-sh!thouse brownie.
it's a three-story true story of spirit and memories.
for everybody and everything that keeps it real
and really happens.
stacked instead of overlapped,
but circles of similar-size all the same,
it's a light and dark and light again metaphor.
or maybe just a bellyache waiting to happen.
i'm not afraid to celebrate in absentia.
i do my dirt all by my lonely, homie.
over and over,
it's over,
and over again.
and again.
it's not just cake i'm a glutton for, i guess.
amassing masochism by the slice,
makes for a looooong decade, duders.
the truth?
you never go out on top.
and it usually ends with a whisper,
not a bang.
the sweet nothings of nothing?
F* off.
the tantalizing promise of new beginnings can kiss off,
and luckily,
i'm still puckered right up from a faceful of bitter ends;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, June 5


let's all take a deep breath and sing a song.
you wanna know which song?
the happy birthday song.
you had better sing it like you're drunk,
and it's karaoke night.
i'm telling you-
i want to hear it loud, fresh, and hard,
eardrum-piercing, head-splitting, axl rose-type
paradise city anthemic capacity-crowd style belting
out of the lyrics, in time, in tune,
and meter measured in hottness and decibels.
you minky mutha-uckers had better believe it:
it's the cucch's berfday.
trip-deuce is in effect.
thirty-two years of being a good one,
in a row.
you ninjas know i've got a choice crew of worthy peoples.
hand-selected for superior expertism and active participation,
equal parts gratitude and generosity, spirit and memory,
with a whole heaping hunk of just-be-dopeness
thrown in for good measure.
not everybody can hang out.
that's a fact.
i'm very discriminating about who gets
On The List.
and when i cross-reference and fact-check that List,
it turns out there's a name at the top.
word up.
i've got a bestest one.
it's the cucch.
he sure hates his berfday, y'all,
but i'm sure glad he's around,
so i love it that today is the day.
i've got an idea...
he's gonna work all day,
instead of taking twenty four hours for himself,
to celebrate life, liberty, and the pursuit of dreams and wonders,
because he's like that.
but don't y'all think he should get some treats
from the other other expert activators out there anyway?
i know that i think that.,
let's all give him a call (even if you don't know him)
at his workplace environment,
and brighten up his afternoon like a party candle.
for serious.
here's the number:
doo-doo that celebratory fete and festive freaky-diki sh!t.
and make sure you sing, kids.
he's worth it.
speaking of worth.
check the teleport:
rebexpert is kind of winning.
sent, with love and sh!t like that,
to the woodsly goodness,
care of your main man in the mountains,
from martha's vineyard.
four little doses of dopeness.
a quadrangle of quality to improve the mood up here.
just what the prescription/inscription called for.
oh, yeah;
and check this fifth piece of business out, too:
friendship bracelet jauns?
we GOT they.
there were two taped up in it.
but i'm already wearing mine.
i do that.
F* you, werewolf winter reminiscence.
i'm just sayin'-
i've not slept in two days.
and i'm freezing.
temperatures in the forties?
not cool.
cold, actually.
and i'm dressing appropriate to the calendar,
by which i mean short sleeves and flippy-floppies.
that's what's up.
frostbitten toes and shivering gooseflesh arms, really.
the frozen june moon has got it going on.
although i just have to feel it, since i can't see it.
the clouds have made the sky a consistently impenetrable sheet
of ash and smoke colored, streaming, steam-style expanding
expanses of cyclical evaporation and condensation.
magnetic pulls and tidal waves,
and tidal pulls and magnetic waves.
today marks thirty-two years
of best friendly earthbound existence.
today would've made ten straight years
of cooperative communicative union.
you can't win 'em all, y'all.
i am grateful for the notches in the victory column,
and i'm learning on a steep curveless incline from the losses;
never quiet, never soft.....7x15

Monday, June 4

full and empty.

one hundred.
and four.
...luscious degrees?
not quite, my ninjas.
how about a week of rain?
two weeks of rain?
...go away.
come again some other day.
or better yet,
next month.
were i an itsy-bitsy spider,
my water spout topping trials would be
brutally depressing right about now.
no matter how itsy, or bitsy,
F* those spiders anyway.
wooooord up, kids.
y'know what i've got,
but that ma nature is presently not?
check the ghost whispers on the teleport:
you see it right?
the art shot camerawork doesn't ruin it, does it?
subtle, nearly invisible,
but a glance askance tells you all you need:
that's me.
oh, c'mon.
you like it.
it's actually a baby diarrhea green card,
but my light sources had their own hue to imbue.
anyway, i have to give credit to shawn hebrank.
he makes treats happen.
like, design magic, from the future-
for my face.
and yours.
this rainy gayness, though?
i can't hang out.
and i can't sleep a wink.
i'm a sloppy, sopping, shivering mess.
for real.
it's cold and dark and stormy.
it's like we replaced the normally capricious
new england weather forecast with one
far more predictably unpleasant-
like, from the pacific northwest, perhaps,
or the hard-style hebrides of scotland,
or some other other wet busted spot on the map.
it sucks balls, y'all,
and it's having an effect on the overall feelings of
well-being and fulfillment that normally blossom
in the bountiful beauty of june's sunny side.
awwwwwwwwwwwwwww, man.
when it rains,
it pours.
i could be talking about cryin' eyes 
to match these cryin' skies.
i could even be talking about hearts,
pouring out those sad songs and true stories. 
or could it be i'm referring to minds?
the convoluted concentration turned outside in
by staying inside....
and maybe i am.
then again, maybe i'm not.
real life unfolds in an ever-expanding series 
of pleats and creases. 
it's not smooth, neighbors.
it's a wrinkled mass of angles and bends.
the shortest distance may be a straight line,
but that's only on a map.
i'm just sayin' duders-
if there's a blueprint,
it's a top-secret need-to-know encoded and encrypted
indecipherable series of less-than easy events,
and it is not accompanied by a map key.
one inch equals a million square miles?
who knows?
one hurt feeling equals one red circle with a line around it?
sure, why not?
i don't pretend to know, yo.
i'm just documenting it as it unfurls into this bleary, 
blotted, and besotted stretch of watery weeks and weeks.
i'm spanning time, not with a wrench or a bridge,
but with a sh!t-creek-seasoned paddle.
believe it.
flood light?
is that what we're calling the moon these days?
it's not quite that bright,
but it sure is trying.
once in a while,
it breaks through the floating sea of stormclouds
and shines down like a follow-spot during a prison break.
that's usually when the witching hour werewolf wake-up call
comes in live and direct from the spirits and memories
of what's happening.
it's an illuminated manuscript written on the trees and the grass,
a true story of hard styles and all that kind of thing.
interwoven, overlapping shadows making circles to match
and attach themselves to the big blue-light yellow eye in the air.
that's real.
i'm staying up so late, it's actually still yesterday,
at least as far as my rhythm and rhyme are concerned.
there's some kind of skald's stanzas in what's happening.
a paean of power and progress,
a werewolfen weregild treasure trove of words and deeds.
somehow, in this perpetual darkness,
this expansive evening-type failing and fading illumination,
that only ever gives way to darker places and longer absences,
a better fate than death still awaits us everywhere.
truth and consequences, friends.
that's optimism, based entirely on pragmatism.
the worst day above ground is better than the best one below.
it's all really happening.
i am grateful for the hardest styles, and the trying times;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, June 3


it gets easier.
that's true.
sunday morning?
that too.
it's mutha-'ucking freezing up here, y'all.
put on a sweater cold.
the sun's rays have been blue-blocked
and ultra-violently ultra-violet violated
by the solid grey gayness up in the air.
we're being smothered by cloudcover.
the warmth and light are taking the weekend off,
but the hottness remains intact.
something about the furnaces in my flesh,
and the hot fire spit exhaust system i carry with me
everywhere i go.
i'm sayin'-
there's a bass-boosted barbarian bellows blowing
gale-force gusts of the winds of war and change and answers
directly into the lava-lined combustion chamber
inside of my chest.
that stokes that sh!t, yo.
into an infernal conflagration of activation.
check it-
my heart is a raging, stormswept, savage,
gypsy siege engine, powered by perpetual motion,
or active participation, or really-realness,
or sometimes, even competent communication.
that's right, neighbors.
it's a flex-fuel fission machine,
far greener than the grass on the other side, even.
clean-burning truth and consequences and tasty vegan food.
it's a lot like biodiesel.
well, sort of, anyway...
my own greasy guido recycling plant,
self-referencing and self-propelled-
pumping, thumping, and bumping all the thunderclapping
beats of spirit and memory inside of me.
what are we laying siege to?
what aren't we storming like ramparts and battlements?
if you aren't making moves to rush, and rush, and attack
each and every single day,
i'm pretty sure you might be F*ing up.
everything gets easier when we remember that, y'know?
even hard styles and hard pounding,
even long nights and rough times,
even long stretches and low spots,
nadirs and dry spells and difficulties of all sorts.
surround 'em and wreak wreck on their fortifications.
lay waste, an' that.
it's the true and proper way to make sure a sunless sunday
gets a bit brighter.
what's that about a silver lining?
cloud cover conceals the blindingly bright bulb
of battle-beastliness that begets that polymorphic shape-shift sh!t.
we're creepin' on a sleepless situation
wherein those who, what, when, and why jauns are
matters of less import than the big question-
right here,
in the woodsly goodness,
there's a werewolfen warrior poet staying up,
eating words by the paperbackful,
and tempering his teeth and nails
with tamper-proof total immersion in What Is.
that's a thing.
facts. reasons. logical chains of events.
it's all really happening.
it doesn't change with waxing or waning,
with warring or warning or whatever else.
there's hot fire,
there's lightning,
there's a full flippin' moon.
a perfect overlapping set of concentric ghost circles,
making ripples, making waves, making moves.
it gets easier with practice.
being like this, i mean.
perfect practice makes perfection,
imperfect practices not really so much.
so we've got to make sure that we're on refined finery.
no, for real.
that fashion-savvy sensitivity to looking the part
of a poised and predatory prowler who
provides a preponderance of proof to support
his disproportionate powers of portable purporting.
practice makes perfect.
it gets easier with practice.
repeat it.
it gets easier;
never quiet, never soft.....