Friday, August 31

see you in september.

goodbye august.
i'm glad you're over and done with,
mutha-F*er, you've been pretty flippin' awful.
i'm still awfully glad we're sending you off
with a shiny silver glitterball glowing in the sky
to mark your passing into the flipped over
and past-date pages of my calendar;
i love that lycanthropic lunar lamp blazing like a beacon,
taking us safely into the future...
a sh!t-hot cold light in the nighttime to watch you leave by;
a hard-style lighthouse to lead you safely past the shoals,
a burly barbarian blue moon to pull up the tides,
turn 'em around,
and rout and shout and flout our way towards doubling down
on doubly-full double-lunar au revoir activation.
and here i was, wondering what the F* was going on.
turns out,
it's those nutrients, kids.
shedding skins and absorbing redirected and infused diffuse
rays bounced off of and tainted by that cheesy wheel
swollen and seeping right above us.
i mean,
MORE full moons is definitely better than NO full moons.
for sure.
nature has a schedule.
and it's very, very big, very full, and very busy.
with no room for errors,
only accidents, happy and otherwise.
where does august fit into that slated and scheduled scheme?
on the tail-end trail of inconvenience,
and the top of the list for ceasing and desisting.
who is the skinniest one?
i think it might be me.
my choice of slimming colors
and cuts of cloth don't help much, either.
check the teleport, more of less, more or less:
so that's what's up.
stilts and sticks and spaghetti noodle spindles.
that's for all you ninjas i never see anymore.
it's okay, right,
you aren't missing much,
because there's not much left of me to see.
awwwwwwwwwwwwww, man.
did any of you look at the magnificent monster eye
stink-winking it's reflected luminescence back at us,
scrutinizing and sizing up the scenes behind the scenes
from that third-person omniscient perspective?
just sayin',
the wolf sight is in effect.
i know you feel it too, neighbors.
i'm bringing shotguns with me today,
and i'm blasting big blocks of heavy metal with soft lead balls.
berserker fury and pump-action hard pounding.
short gains, and twenty one gun salutes.
...and they danced by the light of the moon;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, August 30

my new sweet baby.

say hello to mrs. sexypants:
hellooooo, boys.
after a long hard summer,
i bartered, cajoled, influenced, manipulated,
and ultimately hunkered down and gave in to
my hankering for hot lead and cold steel.
i doo doo that rosewood-inlaid rubberized handled
hard-style fiber-optic adjustable-sighted turbo-hottness.
.22 caliber.
that's tiny?
sure it is,
so let me shoot you with it....
you get it.
i'm figuring it out, kids.
slowly, but surely;
never quiet, never soft.....

every guns is dope.

guns is the name of the game,
and we're playing to win.
teleport some of this skinny manliness,
for all your envious faces:
shootin' ZERO HEAVY brand fattie boombattie s.b.r.s?
those're short barreled rifles, y'all.
class III jauns, yo.
that's that fancy talk type sh!t for restricted access to your A*s.
doubling down on twin pistols.
duders were SO psyched.
look at that face!
team up?!
leaning back to bounce those biscuits at distance.
i think i told y'all the other day-
shooting targets at 100 yards, across the yard,
making myself at home, y'know, on the range.
you like it.
i brought some treats!
you want the list?
i GOT they-
AK-47, AR-15, 12gauge semi-auto mossberg 930spx,
fnh fnp-9 & 45, double deuce-deuce pistols,
.357 magnum ruger gp-101,
and a whole holy sh!tload of bullets.
those are important.
never quiet, never soft.....

Thor's moon.

i can feel it.
the iron in my blood is resonating with
electromagnetism from the future.
lightning-striking viking berserker barbarian fury
is pulling that werewolfen manliness straight up
and out of my pores and sh!t, son.
we're creeping up on another 'nother full moon.
a blue one, even.
a lot of things only happen once,
and even then, only when that big beautiful circle
has waxed ecstatic and poetic two times in one month. now.
so what sort of one-shots are underway?
i dunno, really,
but i feel a gypsy roma accordion and fiddle combo inside
my heart, and they're whipping up a fairly fairy reel
that keeps speeding up and spinning away,
out of control, a major disaster in a minor key.
werewolf overdose, my ninjas!
bad decisions seem so good when the battle-beast
is beaming down from the wild blue-black yonder-
and here i was trying to figure out just why i was ingesting
8shot americanos and activating the angry edge of expert
overreactionary motormouthbite snarling savagery...
i mean,
initially i figured i must've hit the self-destruct button somehow,
and was destined to send my insides out into the world
in an acidic dissolution of fairly traded stormswept espresso
and icy cold hot fire from the internecine entrails of the abyss.
and that's saying somethin', y'all.
then i looked up and saw the moon looking like a grey grainy
ghost, transparent and taunting, in the afternoon sky.
can a satellite gloat?
i swear the old man in the moon was sneering down
in a snidely sh!t-eating ear-to-ear grinchy grin.
but it wasn't met with chagrin, kids;
a sweeping relief hit me up on the patio of my local
commercial coffee shop as i recognized the laws of nature.
and of winning.
i fought the law, friends,
and the infinite order of the universe gave me a glimpse
of what really real omnipresence is capable of.
cyclic surges in animal instinct and raw-nerve raging
against poor decisions and innocent bystanders.
just sayin',
competent communication becomes combative beration
and unabashed abuse,
heaped heavily on all the minky
mutha-uckers mistaken enough to think
themselves safe from my misunderstood miserabilities!
werewolf sh!t, ninja.
i'm howling and collapsing and caterwauling and maybe
even wassailing with the best of those shape-shifting
bone-breaking bent-backed hairy beasts,
unburdened by propriety,
but balls-deep in active participation.
i'm answering the call, y'all.
y'know- of the wild?
that's real.
my weekend was forty eight hours long.
beyond that,
it was pretty much unproductive.
i'm blaming orbital interference,
and crying foul.
not foul, really, as much as unclean.
a little bit dirty, even.
doo-doo buttery.
that's it.
inhaling firearm solvents,
dehydration mouth-panting (like a wolf, b!tch)
whole roasted garlic-clove an red-onion pizza partying,
and generally getting stank, stained, and smudged.
it stunk on ice, kids,
but not half as hard as back to tattbombing does.
time is ticking away,
this note will self-destruct in eleven seconds;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, August 29


something is wrong.
with blogger, or my computer,
or both,
or some other other third thing.
i can't post pictures, at ALL,
and i have so much to show you guys, too.
i guess we'll just have to wait until a solution
rears it's applicably apt head,
and cures this crappy calamity from my screen.
technology is for A*holes.
what am i?
an A*hole?
turns out, more often than not,
i AM.
but i'm also kind of an expert.
that's real.
these days, kids,
i'm an expert at enduring.
i just somehow don't die, or stop, or quit,
and that gets counted as a win, or at least a tie,
but never ever as a forfeiture,
because giving up and giving in aren't part
of choosing the wrench, kids.
i'm just a contestant y'all,
in some kind of unscored scrimmage up here
in the war torn wolds of the woodsly goodness.
letting every day go by, and then doing it again,
and again,
over and over and over.
tighten up, loosen up, unscrew, screw you.
not me, of course, even on wednesday.
hump day is more like a dromedary with scoliosis,
the big bumpin' is bent away,
and we're traveling across a desperate dry spell.
a drought,
where even a drip would be a refreshing draught.
it's not life, really.
it's something else.
four bean chili, and homemade cornbread?
yum, ninjas.
i make delicious food to lure over hungry folks,
and then occupy their helping hands with active participation.
once they drop their spoons i mean.
it was a fume-huffing, skin-sloughing, oil smearing night
of cleaning and scrubbing and boar-bristle bore-brushing
on barrels and springs and triggers and sh!t.
after shooting guns comes cleaning guns,
and for realsies, friends,
i couldn't or at least wouldn't have done it without my friends.
keeping me company, keeping it real,
and making it all really happen.
that's the way to turn a tumultuous tuesday inside out
and make some meaningful experiences along the way/.
breaking bread and assembling firearms at the same
farm table at the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress?
that's precisely the way it should always be.
premises and promises,
preposterous posturing,
and predisposed depositions.
i'm learning things.
about people, places, and things;
never quiet, never soft.....7x27+1

Monday, August 27

a hundred percent at a hundred yards.

.38 special,
pinging off of steel plate,
from a solid football field away?
i doo-doo that freaky fantasy firearm sh!t.
you'll get a whole bunch more of all that tomorrow,
but for now?
recognize the expertism of level eleven, ninjas.
and while you're at it,
check the mutha-flippin' teleport:
THAT's the face really real duders make
when they know they're getting loud, staying fresh,
and going SO hard at that spit hot fiery flavorfulness
in the woodsly goodlsy weaponry department.
did you see that?!
i'm sayin'.
real times,
real talk.
the future is here,
and it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....


missing out?
working late?
all the F*ing time.
movie checks?
you know it.
it's never easy, but sometimes it's just so damn hard.
last night i lost time taking my time.
i mean,
tattbombing blew up my evening.
that's a thing.
today, however,
i took that time back.
who leaves early?
today, it's me, ninjas.
hourglasses and spectacles.
no, i'm not crying, i've got spilling sand in my eyes....
growing up and going places,
like new schools and new scenes-
my daughters go back to the halls of education this morning.
summer's over, and school is in session.
but neighbors, y'know what's even worse?
harvest is in the seventh grade, starting today.
middle school!
that's where it all starts, friends.
and maple is my littlest girl,
but she's a big boss 6th grader now.
what the mutha-F*?!
time flies by,
and a few of you ninjas have known those ladies since babyhood.
that means you're old too, yo.
real talk.
i don't remember ever having a good first day back.
no jokes.
but i do remember it getting easier.
today is the day,
the first day,
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, August 26


what do all y'all know about celtic harp music?
for real.
last night, my friend and i crashed a party.
it wasn't a exactly party, like with pinatas;
or a 'party' where drunk A*holes get rowdy;
but rather a semi-private concert where the performers
knew every single other person attending besides us.
i think there was maybe one flyer in town,
in a corner, out of the way, and NO other promotion.
i happened to see it the other day,
and decided to activate those nutrients.
it was the Whitest music in the Whitest town
full of the Whitest people in the White mountains.
but aside from feeling like the mouse turd in with the rice
i got to hear some pretty mutha-flippin' expert music.
harp music.
and fiddle,
and sweet singing,
and foot tapping,
and a whole lot of an affected accent
straight from the streets of limerick, ireland.
saturday night in the woodsly goodness,
with painfully sad songs and painfully polite people?
one more long evening on the long road to loneliness.
i did some tattoos yesterday, kids.
for real.
and as usual,
i was overbooked and underscheduled.
those're hard styles and hard times.
i get long on fury, and come up short on patience.
that's a thing.
those days, or even these ones,
are sort of like a surprise party,
where everybody waits in the dark for you to show your face,
and then expect YOU to bake a cake
and give them some presents.
you're F*ed.
i wish my camera didn't wash out every damn photo
i attempt to take of my daily doo-doo buttery tattbombs.
it makes it harder to want to show y'all.
oh well,
check out this hot mess on the teleport:
the devil.
the big red sunken eyed eternal evil.
you get the idea, anyway,
if not the full glory.
i seriously wreck almost every shot i snap.
twisted flash-burnt under-defined poop...
but still photographic proof that i do have a job,
even if i don't always do a good job documenting it.
live radio studio audience participation tonight?
i think so.
an attempt by the folksy folks up here to institute
an old-timey variety program,
outside of and away from the little homes on the prairie?
i could use that arm's length wavelength companionship
with ever-increasing frequency.
(that's clever, if you got it.)
it's happening,
and i'm about to be part of it.
i'm listening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, August 25

running into traffic.

you all already know.
i get up early, neighbors,
and when i'm done tending to my terrier,
i'm an unholy terror in the kitchen.
true story.
i brought out the best of the beast yesterday,
and whipped the sh!t out of some mocha mayhem.
this is one for the flavor annals, y'all.
every wedge of that thick, rich, silky-smoothness
is like a south american flood-powered mudslide
destroying whole towns and removing all signs
of prior habitation...
but up on your tongue, though.
catastrophically delicious, my ninjas-
i should probably measure some of this out,
or even write it down for repeated enjoyment in posterity.
...then again,
i'm activating these nutrients in the perfect moment,
and staying salty while savoring the sweetness.
was it pretty?
check the teleport:
SO pretty.
they keep eatin' 'em, so i keep makin' 'em.
and i'm getting better and better all the mutha-flippin' time.
it's the small gains that get it going,
and take it to eleven.
replacing a splash of this with that,
adding a scoople of some other other jauns,
stirring in a second tier of complexity,
and instigating and agitating all those ingredients
before they have to chill out and set up and unify.
i doo-doo that.
warriors do battle, folks.
that's a thing.
not for right or wrong,
good or evil,
glory or power or whatever else.
they fight.
for no other reason than because that's their nature.
and nature wins.
every single time.
it's a knock 'em down drag 'em out slugfest
every single day up inside the raging cage i call
my chest cavity.
there's bellowing bursts of wind spinning cyclones inside
my lungs, sucking so hard, and blowing even harder-
there's pounding and pumping iron-rich molten ore
from the hammering forges and furnaces
to the far-flung reaches of my reaching fingers;
there's sh!t going on in there, neighbors.
mortal combat, just to power this mortal coil,
all so i can fight through every single day,
bareknuckled and barefooted,
walking towards the future,
and living to tell the tale.
i am grateful  for the time i have been given.
all of it;
never quiet, never soft.....

stop holding your breath.

so, duders,
the statistical information available tells me
that the very least number of people possible
read this collection of true stories of real life
on the weekends.
just about nobody will even see this,
and that's just the way i like it, neighbors.
you active participants and dedicated lurking jerks,
can check the teleport:
some kind of watercolored foxy facepiece?!
it takes the woodsly goodness a fairly long time to
catch up to those ninjas from the rest of the world...
tricksy tricksters and sly vixens fixin' to ride?
artsy sh!t does happen;
less often than ever, up here, anyway,
but when it does?
i'll snap a shot of that rarity for you guys.
but there will not be background.
that's a thing.
hard styles and harp players and long flippin' days.
all of it keeps happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, August 24

frayed from the fray.

worn out around the edges,
which seem to blur a bit from repeated use, anyway.
that's what's up.
fighting the good fight,
fighting dirty in the spirit of fair play,
above board and below the belt,
bringing the battle to the backside,
and letting the front lines falter...
momentum shifts,
tactics change,
it's guerilla gorilla monsoon season, son.
i've been fighting against nature,
and waging war against infinity
for what seems like an eternity,
and what have i got to show for it?
i'm battered, bruised, bloodied, and busted-
rock solid, but surrounded and overmatched.
nature wins, neighbors.
i should be accepting of that by now, no?
for example:
a rock IN a hard place.
get it?
that's kind of how it goes, yo.
oh, you like it.
y'all may stay hard, and keep your styles the same,
but life will confine and redefine you,
because that sh!t does not pause to accommodate.
next thing you know?
i've got introspection and circumnavigation on lock,
sidestepping straight into the flanking maneuvers,
and enfilades, and ambushes, and armed with
loneliness enough to keep everyone feeling
sad and shriveled from lack of human contact.
so in that sense, there's plenty of withdrawals,
but never a signal for retreat;
and there's only ever more of all of it.
war all the time, kids.
the days around here are numbered,
in ascending order.
forever and ever, and counting.
i don't quit.
i just sustain.
and refrain,
but like in a song though, and not like holding back.
i repeat myself.
i repeat myself.
i repeat myself.
a semi-automatic autonomic angst fusillade of hot fire
and berserker barbarian raging stormswept viking lightning.
that's real.
loud, fresh hardness, from the first volley, blitzkrieg-style.
saving somethin' for the march homeward is for babies.
(we'll eat our F*ing horses before we hold our horses)
today is the day, just like every day.
it's not all bad,
it's just all really happening.
the woodsly goodness provides little glimpses
and glimmers of that just be dopeness, though.
at least,
it sure does if you keep your head down,
your eyes open,
and you watch your step.
refer to the teleport:
weird fortune cookie mushrooms.
so what's their prediction?
well, fortune favors the bold, for starters.
no mincey diaperpants waterbaby sh!t up in here.
that's the fortune,
but how about the forecast, my ninjas?
slightly miserable,
with scattered disappointments,
and a chance of failure clearing up later
with a cold(shoulder) front moving in,
and causing severe windy conditions
as it comes in contact with high pressure
from the north.
the winds of war and winds of change,
with answers blowing in on both.
that's a thing.
but not afraid;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, August 23

no pictures, no hope.

(*1700 blog posts. yep. for real. i doo-doo that.)
i gave it a shot.
really, i did.
i went to portland on tuesday.
i stuffed my face with vegan treats,
i filled my car with vegan groceries,
i drove the long road, AND the short cut,
visited the commercial capitalist retail amalgam,
and still had a bowlful of frozen dopeness,
covered in sprankles at night.
it was a busy day.
underproductive in many ways,
but full of activity and participation.
my buddy thatcher ate vegan weirdie food,
and developed a taste for vegan weirdie colas.
the future is unfolding right before our faces,
and it's got a whole new set of experiences
waiting in the wings to flap our unflappable resolve
with spirit and memories and interactions that
we didn't even know we absolutely had to have.
i also tried talking to a real life girl.
like flirting even.
luckily for all y'all,
true stories happen to happen to me more than most folks.
two sentences into a conversation,
a blenderful of starbucks supergay caramel fruitblaster
cinnamon goobieblop frappuccino smoothie doo-doo butter
dropped off of a counter,
did a wagonwheel double axle,
and sprayed a perfect brown swath across the coffee shop.
did it hit anyone on either side of me?
don't be dumb.
of course not.
did i get whipped with creamy sh!t-sauce from crotch to cap?
you know i did.
what's the best way to impress a girl, my ninjas?
is it getting nerd-slapped by the secret universal plan with
a racing stripe of candy-scented brown syrupy sticky paint?
i hope so.
it's all really happening.
that was tuesday-
done and doner.
but wednesday, though?
i'm sayin'-
wotan's day?
the lightning-striking last day of my worthy weekend
of warrior poetry and woodsly goodness?
about that.
tried out the new lawn mower.
that non-motorized convict creeper can't compete
against months of crabby grass rising to waist-height
with thick stems and dense, lush, chlorophylliac fury.
what i mean is:
it didn't work, yo.
at all.
like, AT ALL at all...
did i take hedge-trimmer clippers and do a squat walk
across the entire length and breadth of my heroic gardens,
snipping and snapping and sweating and swearing on bended knee,
trimming it all down low enough to activate the tornado-bladed
big action on those green spears of natural ground-cover?
did that work?
um, no.
it's shorter, but it ain't any sweeter.
and with that decimating my morning routine,
i tried to find this expert swimming hole near my house.
now, i should mention i hadn't been there in a while.
turns out,
a flood washed it away.
a flood.
like in the bible an' sh!t.
which means that it's gone.
for realsies.
there's a lot of rocks, very little water,
and a big sad pit of emptiness where the dopeness used to dwell.
is it cool to take your friends to a cool place that doesn't exist?
i don't know.
i mean,
because if it IS?,
well, they sure didn't act impressed.
just sayin'.
because i'm a glutton for punishment as much as everything else,
i went to a distant watery fall in a rocky path-type place
in a crevasse on the sawyer river.
it's not close by,
it takes a while just to get there,
and it's kind of a hike each way once you're OUT of the car.
the thing is,
that brought me up short on time to go shoot guns.
oh, don't worry, kids,
that didn't happen either.
not enough time to cross the entire white mountainous valley
and activate some actual hot fire.
oh, and neither did soccer.
i forgot to take my medicine,
so my knees were like four rocks banging against each other.
or maybe like flint and steel, moreso.
little sparks of hot fire pretty much sat me out instantly.
wednesday, folks.
hump day.
i didn't think that meant my butthole, though.
it's cool,
i did go out for pizza with some cool people,
and some girls who know those cool people.
what's MY favorite topic of conversation?
stories about being drunk!!
you know it.
an entire lifetime of giving ZERO F*s about drinking,
and i close out my night with a recap of every single sip
these minky, mincey mutha-uckers had ever taken.
wordimus prime.
college age people say college age things.
i guess that's why nobody listens to them.
hard styles,
loooong days,
short gains,
short tempers,
short rests
and long nights.
every day, in every way,
it's all gonna keep happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, August 21

six months.

i'd love to be able to say i'm doing a 180;
turning this whole busted series of sequentially sh!tty
weak-sauced seasons right around.
to be headed back on the attack,
towards those expert active participatory, worthy,
warrior-type eleventh-level happy togetherness times.
like, some new new hottness.
that'd be somethin', huh?
it sure would.
it's 182.
don't blink, or you'll miss it.
days, duders
26 weeks.
six months.
half a whole mutha-F*ing year.
in a row.
the same old bustedness.
awwwwww, man.
i've heard it said there will never be a classic again.
there is nothing new.
art destroys itself;
never quiet, never soft.....7x26

Monday, August 20


i'm not a writer,
i'm just right a lot.
i just right a lot.
i'm just-right a lot.
i just wright a lot.
i'm just wrought a lot.
i'm just overwrought a lot.
who is a righteous wright of writing rightly?
i mean, right?
okay. i'll admit i try.
i sure do try.
and my right hand isn't always correct,
and my reeking wreaking of written wrath
doesn't always precisely reflect the intentional inflections,
genuine introspections, and genuflected questions
posed by my gratuitous alliterative rhyming and scheming.
it's harder than it looks,
and it takes longer than it should...
i'm tellin' you-
i'm not a writer,
i'm a wordsmith...
with that hot fire furnace bellowing,
hammering home with hard-style pounded punctuation,
honed to a refined edge with unctuous innuendo,
and tempered by pronounceable percussive phrasing-
steeling y'all for some well-wrought, pig-headed,
ironclad worthy warrior poetry from the future.
i doo-doo that.
i'm just sayin', neighbors-
a picture may be worth one thousand of somebody else's words,
but my gilded lilies and (royal) purple prose are expensive.
none of that 1/1,000th bullsh!t ratio over here.
right or wrong,
i wright and i write and i right.
and even when i'm wrong,
i aright, and then i write.
it's my weekending workday, today.
i couldn't be happier about that.
i'm setting records for appreciation of underappreciation.
get it?
i like how unliked and unlikely it all seems to be.
two days off,
home alone,
getting set and ready,
and going.
it's all really happening, friends-
that's the whole point.
this is What Is.
ready or not, it's coming at you.
one special moment in time,
for your faces:
you know.
choco candy mouse poops on lemon sorbet,
under and well-covered by berry blops with
real life portable rainbow happiness by the swarm.
a rampant and resplendent host of hundreds and thousands,
heaped upon my cup,
which literally runneth over!
right onto my crotchal pants, mid-scoopleful.
no jokes.
skanky spranks attacked my wiener!
it's okay...i kinda liked it.
sticky jeans and purple splotches;
never quiet, never soft..... 

Sunday, August 19


you know the rules.
truer words, neighbors,
are rarely spoken;
never quiet, never soft.....

hot fire!

saturday night activation!
it is always better with that furious fuego
blazing inside the stone ghost circle in my
heroic natural open-air warrior arena
at the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
that's a real thing.
i had a whole bunch of duders over after dinner,
and we let the conversation flow,
the smoke billow,
the wood combust,
and the light, heat, and power exchange forms
as the potential was converted to the actual.
uber-dry kindling throws those BTU nutrients like
a towering inferno of searing sexiness.
i'd been saving it special for just such an occasion.
todd, ted, thatcher, autumn, and me-
staying sweaty, roasting and toasting on a brisk
august evening of hard styles and clear skies.....
are you getting it?
hot fire and fusiliers bringing it all back together?
that's the way it should pretty much always be.
i'm about to reactivate and maybe even overreactivate
some extra-empty lonesome long weekend wizardry.
that means that nobody besides me and olive the dog
are currently occupying this massive and expansive manse.
it's only for a little mini-minute, in the larger picture,
but we're back on that tag-team werewolf sh!t
for the next few days and nights.
me and my very own battle-beast,
hangin' out, eating sad sandwiches, watching bad televison,
riding big, sexy bicycles inside the living room/great hall...
are we about to get expert?
what are you?
an A*-hole?
don't be dumb.
you already know we doo-doo that fully-immersed, enmeshed,
intermingled and interwoven allegory of man's best friend
as a literal and figurative disappointment-type jauns.
suckie dog, suckie dude, suckie times.
it's all really happening,
right here in the woodsly goodness.
you don't agree?
then who's coming over to keep us company?
oh, right, you're busy....on a sunday night.
these mountains?
i'm looking around,
and everything in sight is pretty flippin' rad.
there's a place for us.
a time and place for us.
i think so;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, August 18

expert manliness.

i left work early.
true story.
i figured that after the bulletproof buttcheek i tattblasted;
and i mean, seriously, so round and magical,
with my usual expert touch, no less-
i couldn't do much better for myself
during the remaining time in my workday-
so with nowhere to go but down inside the building,
i headed outside,
and went to the shooting range
to get fully activated with full metal jackets, y'all!!
there's something about that hot lead fireball sh!t that gets it IN!
word up.
it looked like this on the bench:
that makes your beards and body bits thicker, doesn't it?
you bet it does.
i brought along some friends:
the once and future Folk Life & Liberty Fusiliers;
taking shape, taking aim, taking it by storm.
thatcher got his man pants merit badges in bullets and beards,
all the way from novice to worthy warrior in a couple of hundred
expended expanded grandiose gunshot rounds of rounds
of manhandling triggerman handling.
...and teddy looked like a cop.
i personally touched off a whole mess of magazines,
and even got ARetarded like a spider monkey of poor form,
and berserker barbarianism in tight shirts:
half sitting in a creepy crouch, on a bench, over a board,
with my spaghetti noodle arms stretched the F* out?
i'm pretty much a pretzel of flippy-floppy freshness and
comfortable, yet safe, recreational gunplay.
sooo, what was i trying to hit?
the ground, eventually!
shooting guns in a sunshower goes all the way off the charts.
rainbow steamy skywater thunderstick slickness,
big bore battle beast blasting in the woodsly flippin' goodness?
you know. definitely redlines at eleven, kids.
so good.
we had a pizza party afterwards,
celebrating the success of a blown off day and blown up bullets
and bubblicious buttcheeks.
i needed it.
i got it.
i doo-doo that special day rewards-type action, son.
and you know it wouldn't be the best
without the most important part, right?
after rainbow rimfire and colt .45 flamethrowing,
we had to get nice with it, my ninjas:
you knew it was coming.
and here it is.
today is the day,
but yesterday holds the title,
for now;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, August 17

The Rogues.

the theater in the wood is made out of plastic.
that's real.
like heavy vinyl tarp-type sh!t.
and for really real,
it's out in the woods, too.
it's aptly named like you read about, y'all.
and it has some weirdie shapes an' sh!t to make sure
your experience is totally visually expert,
before the first sounds are sonic-boomed within it's
pool-lining-style insides...
teleport to the goodness:
weird secret up-here dopeness?
it looks like this when you walk behind the joint, too:
it's pretty dope here.
and not just on the outside, either...
we went and saw america's celtic band,
60% of which was from canada.
(maybe they meant north america?)
The Rogues.
were they dope?
they had each and every necessary ingredient-
so much of drums,
an electric fiddle,
and twenty hundred kinds of fast, loud, fresh, hardness,
with steppy dancer lady time,
even an accordion, my ninjas!!
...and a mos def lookalike on bass guitar.
(black irish, i presume?)
i'm just sayin',
these mutha-'uckers tore through two FULL sets
of piping and stomping and lightning-striking fiddle fury,
with warcries and all kinds of other other rad sh!t.
thursday night in the woodsly goodness got it IN, duders.
that's real.
warrior poetry?
kilts and thunder and barbarian harmonies.
we got ALL that sh!t, and more,
all in one place,
all at one time.
something good happens.
i shudder to think of what today's comeuppance has to be.
it all costs somethin', yo.
good for bad,
tit for tat,
bitter for sweet.
it's the way it works,
and it's all really happening.
like it or not,
ready or not,
here it come;
never quiet, never soft.....

shelf life.

i'm telling you, duders-
nature wins x infinity.
no amount of nurture is gonna replace the
spontaneous sporefruit germination activation
of wet weather, and long cold nights,
combined to induce the sweet mushy roommates
ruminating on the sides of this dead-A* tree.
aaaaaaaaaand what?!
check the teleport,
and see for your own damn selves:
nothing is more dope than the overnight surprise
that mycelium sends up to the surface.
white gross underground stringy moldy crap
that gets cold weather nutrient triggered and
then big-up blossoms into way bigger
white gross flat spongy moldy crap?
if you aren't getting expert like that,
you might be an A*hole.
seeing as to how i currently have accrued a whopping
cumulative ZERO F*-giving attitude of berserker barbarism,
brutishly barreling my way through each day with little regard
for the feelings and physical well-being of other other ninjas;
and certainly with no interest in my own personal safety-
i may just fry up a big batch of those slimy slabs!
grilled possibly poisonous polyps of pure-being,
delivered direct from the stinky stump in front of the Fortress?
that goes to eleven on the bad idea list, for sure!
doo-doo butter and weak-sauce have frequently
been known to go hand in hand from inaction to indigestion.
awwwwwwwwwwwwww, man!
i think we just had a whole imaginary conversation, neighbors.
woodsly goodness!
it's cold this morning,
and the mushrooms are poppin' off like mouldering
mountain explosions of turbo-dope life & liberty.
'shrooms don't care about sh!t.
i think they may even actually like it.
it's all really happening, kids.
fruits from the dirt,
better than apples of the earth,
but less likely to keep the doctor away.
...true story;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, August 16


false trails,
covered tracks,
eaten breadcrumbs....
you know the way it goes, neighbors.
the path is obscured,
the road is closed,
the maps are out-of-date.
a trip to massachussetts and back again,
a drop off of those kickass kids of mine,
and all of a sudden the veil has been lifted-
what's the big reveal?
oh, you know-
it would seem that in the throes of family togetherness
and fatherly full-on 'knows-best' intensive interaction,
i've kind of lost my way a little teentsy tiny baby bit.
the attentions i pour into those ladies are super-concentrated,
especially in lieu of the other alternatives to fixate on...
but, duders,
there's also about a hundred thousand things i've
still got to get busy on that won't finish themselves.
awwwwwwwww, man.
my whole world has taken the week off with me.
from responsible adult chores,
like firewood splitting, stacking, and sh!t,
or waist-high weedgrass lawn mowing in the gardens,
all the way down the line to artistic endeavors,
like lining, shading, drawing, designing, and creating....
when the little red hen goes on vacation,
nobody bakes the bread, y'feel me?
and since i don't have a body-double doppleganger
to pick up the slack and go on the attack,
there's not much to show for the last eight days.
we ate all the treats,
the big bags of supplies and school clothes all went home with
harvest and maple, obviously-
and the movie checks in effect have all been cashed.
broke, broken, busted, beaten, misbegotten and woebegone.
that's what's up.
mostly, though,
here in the woodsly goodness,
in the rain,
under the silver spun-sugar woolen skies,
squeezing out the sponged up humidity from up above
and rinsing out and away the lameness of
being alone in a group most of the time,
i steadily, readily find myself bebothered instead of progressing.
running around at a standstill,
biking in place at a sprint in stasis,
and sweating away my actual self up, up,
and all the way away into these stormy skies.
i'm rain dancing in ellipses with my knobby knees
to a backspinning stationary satellite....
cloud seeding with my own salt sprays?
that's real.
gray lugubrious lubricants across the mountains,
steamed and smokescreened foggy bottoms and tops,
courtesy of my own desire to disappear.
i guess i'm just on that delayed reaction
overreactive participation jauns.
oh, it's real.
i promise.
it takes a minute, but i blow up and out and combust my
caustic sauces all over the flippin' place,
like a depth charge of shallowness or something.
i dunno.
so much that needs doing.
so many action items and priority set lists.
it's all waiting to happen,
even as it all unfolds according to the script.
there's a plan in there somewhere,
but it's secret.
no pictures?
i'm repping picturesque speech,
instead of speaking in pictures;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, August 15

b breads.

rainy road trips to the worst places.
that's what happens when you have had too much fun.
for serious.
it all costs somethin', neighbors-
and that's the price tag affixed to the freshness
we've experienced over the last eight days.
drivin' and cryin' along the interstates and turnpikes
down to the dreaded and dreadful doo-doo buttery
weak sauce waterbaby b!tchbaggery of asscrackachussetts.
my little girls aren't so little.
growing up and getting big and branching out and moving on.
that's a thing.
no jokes, folks-
i miss 'em already,
and they're still here, and still asleep upstairs.
it's just that there's never enough of it all;
times and places and things, with them, it's all better-
but there's only ever more of some,
or more of less of others.
but i haven't ever had that perfect baby bear amount.
y'know, like in goldilocks......
seems like kind of a bummer, huh?
well, i may not have any equilibrium when it comes
to family togetherness,
but what i do have, is the perfect razor's edge of balance
between crust, crumb, filling, and sauce!
you know what that is?
yes. culinary skills!
activated with a booster shot of semolina flour
and a splash of pure wheat gluten for blowout-proof dough, yo.
oh, F* yes, my ninjas.
i may be sad about the nest emptying out again,
but i am never ever EVER gonna let that diaperbaby bullsh!t
stand in the way of top-notch super-rad active participation.
we rep a hard style up in here.
believe it.
in fact, check the mutha-F*ing teleport:
sequential in-progress-type jauns?
dough under cover,
brox in that cast iron deep dish sh!t, sauteed like what!
rolled up and waiting....
that's that next-level flippin' broccoli bread, kids.
we doo-doo that chewy gooey green blarpity blopfest
for so many faces it isn't even funny.
holy stromboli for all the A*holey butts in the whole wide world.
one loaf of just be dopeness?
we're from the future, y'all.
five loaves of coiled up florets and cheeseyish yellow stuff,
packed with mucho nootch,
and oh! so many garlic and onion variants,
both fresh and powdered.
to eleven, son.
you know it.
traditional Folk Life & Liberty Fortress farewell feasts, duders.
we offer up a meal in the spirit of family togetherness,
with gratitude and generosity and all the good things we believe in.
it's what you make of it, friends.
we make the most out of the least,
and even more out of anything else.
harvest and maple and albie rock,
with some other other ones on the periphery,
participating and practicing what we preach.
each one teach one,
like a worthy warrior warren of the woodsly goodness.
we also had a slab of this big baby b!tch for breakfast.
you can't see the tiny specks of coconuttiness,
but the flavor is a secret kiss from the future for your face.
teleport to the here and now of yesterday:
banana bread, bro.
we can't be wastin' those nanners, right?
from the first to the last of it,
delivery is passionate.
the whole and not the half of it!
it's all really happening, y'all;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, August 14


imagine my surprise.
it's been a long time since
i got the fattie-boombattie meal-plan
served up to my face!
just sayin', i haven't made dinner every night,
and i haven't been the only one cooking by a damn sight,
but after a whole day of getting sad
about the dearth of radness happening all around me, all day?
i came home to a steaming plateful of all of this:
fancy dinnertime activation,
extra-summery-style, with freshness,
and extra-firm tofulery, and cukes,
and sweeter'n sugar corn, on the cob, even!
i guess that a beach-side river day did wonders
for the hearts, minds, and stomachs of the ladies
and little ladies who reside and abide in the
Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
womenfolk making dinner-type jauns!
lucky me, huh?
and did i deserve it?
sorry, neighbors,
but equine dentistry is not my forte'.
i mean, sure,
all i did was tattbomb like a juggernaut of unstoppable
arthur-disregarding hard-style pounding of the skins
and spirits of generally disinterested mutha-lickers,
all flippin' day long, underbooked and overtired and pretty much
repping a frustrated flurry of color commentary
about my various orientations.
for the record,
i'm facing due west.
whatever that means...
but, damn it, my ninjas,
it sure felt good to power down that pile of eaty bits
and serve up a second helping a second later.
shark gluttony may no longer be the first function
of my massive maw of enameled tombstone chompers,
but i sure as sh!t didn't forget how....
the last day with my daughters this time around is today.
today is the day, y'know?
it always is, but it isn't always the last one.
i've got it going on, with a whole day off,
scooping up school supplies,
setting up shop for some banana bread for breakfast,
maybe even activating some broccoli bread for dinner.
if you don't know, ask a friend, they'll fill you in,
and we'll fill it up.
the final few hours of expert active participation.
we choose the wrench,
and we're turning it up,
to eleven.
more and more and more,
right this very F*ing minute;
never  quiet, never soft.....7x25!!!!!gross.

Monday, August 13


get some of this:

you know what all that is don't you?
never quiet, never soft.....

a sense of scale.

so big.
that's word.
check the teleport:
that's a big head, neighbors.
and comparable flavor was contained therein.
but what about big things in small packages?
so small, y'all.
but with twice as much flavor compressed inside that sauce!
there's a lesson there, somewhere.
or maybe not?
i don't know, yo.
but i'm just sayin'....
there are so many secret hottnesses hiding out in that spot.
like this:
and this:

and this, too:
everything is fine?
facetious, much?
i think so.
it's all good, even when it's busted and old.
and let's all absolutely recognize the freshness of this one:
that's no foolin' either.
he loves, and he loves and he loves, and he loves....
i love.
active participatory actions speak louder and sh!t like that.
it's all real,
it's all happening.
yesterdays and todays, and probably tomorrows too;
never quiet, never soft.....

thirteen unlucky numbers.

bread & puppet theater
sunday, all day,
on the other other side of the mountains.
back here in the woodsly goodness,
to the east of the heart of the beast's big baby daddy,
it was old and busted, rainy, muggy, and beat-
but over in that secret cellular-dead-zone's
natural amphitheater of excellent activities,
clay-tubs, ducks, and epic leftie weirdness?
you'd better believe it was one hundred percent EXPERT.
the Folk Life & Liberty contingent
was bringing that family togetherness jauns
in mutha-flippin' full effect, too, my ninjas.
check, please:
perfect weather,
crusty stinkbomb creatures,
puppets, pageants,
and whole lot of interactive audience appreciation.
hell yes, y'all.
it was a perfect extra day-off of elite action.
sunday in the park, b!tches.
way better than bombing those tatzaps like a nerd,
we got sunburnt and vitamin D nutrient activated!!
i'm pretty much positive we brought along the
only young republican in attendance there.
i don't know if he was all-the-way ready for how much
of all of it there was gonna be,
but from the jump-off he was neck-deep in super-strange
car-dwellers, face-tattooed rug-wearing filthy freaks,
and bus-house berserkers of sloppy physical hygiene.
no jokes, though.
check the teleport:
poooooooping in a dirty sh!thole under a shed?
i hope not.
it sure wasn't the mount washington valley, however,
and that great big world of wide-eyed strangeness
exposed us all to some really real duders doing
really real things...
like these:
'if' love and a waving white flag?
true stories told truly about real sh!t, son.
i hear it,
i feel it.
i am still thirsty:
even doper.
get a sip of that powerful sauce, suckas!
dead guys!
so rad.
and then even more dopeness!
stand up comedian?
everything is the blanket, y'all.
you should've been there.
the origin of all mass happened like a large hadron particle collision!
and some mexican lady puppets got
disappeared by nafta monsters or somethin', too-
so fresh.
zebra stripes and battle-beast brutality,
coupled with hundred degree temperatures,
and so many old lady hats in our way, everywhere.
what could possibly save the day for us?
how about uncle sam on stilts?
we'll give it a shot-
tall as F*,
older than F*!!
there's so MUCH hottness on that farm!
so many beards,
some inside of women's armpits.
i shudder to even imagine the downstairs shrubbery.
welcome to the jungle, an' that.
speaking of:
no lyin', just lions?
oh, stop it.
we had a great day.
mother earth embraced us all, y'all.
that really happened:
i am grateful for the time,
and i am overjoyed to span it,
hand in hand,
right alongside those gleeful girls i helped make,
and steer into the beautiful young ladies
i activated the whole day with.
just be dope?
we doo-doo that;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, August 11


today's the eleventh.
that means we've got to get it poppin' like
it's the hottness from the future.
i'll be honest (i always am)
it's not gonna be easy.
at all.
i've got a pair of fair ladies with me as backup,
and i've got a sense of fatalistic determinism
working in high gear to impose free will on the
secret universal plans of the spirits and memories
of the world at large an' that,
and it's ALL about to really happen.
i think it may all actually BE happening.
i think that's the whole point.
we're part of it,
and we're actively ;participating in it,
and no matter how wet, humid, close, dense,
dismal, dreary, and lugubrious the anti-salubrious juices
seeping like sh!tty b!tchsap sauce from the atmosphere gets,
we'll fear it not, and doo-doo all that
just-be-dopeness regardless.
we'll call a grand total of zero forfeitures due to rain.
we may get wet,
but we'll stay expert.
we've got treats to power-up our bursts of berserker fury.
check the teleport,
and lick your mutha-'ucking lips, my ninjas:
F*ing right.
strawberry-powered chocolate-chip injected cupcakes,
that's right...
pulverized dried strawberries added as flour to the mix!
with pudding infused into the moist mix,
and chocolate fudge frosting,
with multiple kinds of that most excellent of finishing touches.
you know it, neighbors-
i got naughty in the kitchen,
and got nice with those treats!
that's what's up.
baking up a big batch of big business for all my
super-duper sweet honey babies,
because i'm kind of like that.
the going's been molto tough,
but that just activates the savage stormswept
wrenchy nutrients,
and motivates real warrior poets
to get it together, get it going on, and going off,
and take it up a notch or two beyond what's reasonable.
that's because we don't want reasons, son,
we want results!
i slammed some bowls,
and shouted a cornucopia of swear words,
and even shook my head in disdain, disappointment,
and disgust....
...but then those cuppie cakes came out of the
hot box and everything got way better way quicker.
you coming to the tattzap shop to get one?
you'd better.
i made 'em for ALL my sweet honey babies.
that includes you, stoopidhead.
word up.
long days and longer nights,
shopping until i drop,
getting resurrected, wrecked, and repeating it all
like a haunting, over and again,
restless and without refuge.
i refuse to lose, though, yo.
tired, weak, broken, ugly, busted, and brutalized-
it's all really happening,
but it's a better fate than death, y'all.
that sort of sh!t awaits us everywhere.
i'm grateful for each and every minute,
a full sixty sh!tty seconds of first place,
worst place, finish line failures.
awwwwwwwwww, man.
never give up, never give in;
never quiet, never soft.....