Sunday, September 30

fairly there.

if you've been here before,
then y'all already know i get busy.
i mean,
in the kitchen;
that's where i throw down some super sexy moves.
and i get it going on with my expert improvisational
vegan culinary creativity, and my lightning-striking viking
virtuous hard-style hosting skills.
last night
i had the charter members of the
Folk Life & Liberty Activation Society
over to the Fortress for dinner,
and i kind of rocked it out a little tiny bitty baby bit.
on the really real, my ninjas,
i had all the burners on at once,
and an ovenful of extra other other treats designed
to be dietary delights and excite our participatory vallate papillae.
(taste buds mutha-uckers, recognize the science!)
what's that you're saying?
you wanna know what was poppin' in my pots and pans?
oh, okay.
i'll show and tell-
teleport to the realm of envy and flavor:
what the F* is that brown stuff?!
oh, that.
it's some new hottness from the future, neighbors.
quinoa jambalaya.
i took pretend cajun-style mountain man veganism
all the way up there, to eleven.
that's real.
so many extra semi-unnecessary super-fancy processes,
just to initiate a heroic facemelting feast for myself and my friends,
and that would include two kinds of pretend onions, yo.
that sh!t has got pan-fried minced seitan and shallot hash,
with extra diced garlic;
shallots, duders. redskinned sweet and mild melters!
it's got a modified trinity of holy smokin' vegetables-
celery, green rock-the-bells pepper, and leeks, y'all.
yeah, leeks!!
all long and skinny and dope!
(you know)
and it's even got grilled up soysages, mutha-lickers.
with secret sauteed sauce all up on their skins.
and then,
just to *ahem* freak it off,
and to accommodate my buddy teddy's special request,
there's triple-threat tri-color quinoa in cajun broth, too.
F*ing right.
put all that in a big, flat, hot pan,
and let the flavors hump each other into untold
levels of raging stormswept new hottness.
add in that side order of broiled broccolini,
which is actually some kind of
hybrid chinese mustard blossom or somethin',
and you've got some good flippin' eats.
i needed a little something extra-special, though, kids,
so i got down on some olio-infused roasted baby 'tatoes.
and, in the interest of continued activation and expertism,
they're cobalt-colored heirloooms from the gardens of history.
when it comes to blue balls of hot delicious dopeness,
that's kind of the style i've been repping for a little minute,
in the empty beds and vacant spaces in between meetings anyway.
awwwwwwwwwwwwwww, man.
whatever, folks-
i wasn't lonely last night, at least.
keeping company with a platoon of
worthy warriors of poetic professional appreciation.
they were here.
and we had a time-
guns, dinner, guns, dessert, guns, music,
and a group of dudes who know how to span time
during a full moon,
on a saturday night
at the tail end of september.
today is the day.
for realsies.
the first of eight, actually.
you better believe it, ninjas-
the ever-lovin' Fryeburg Fair!!!
falafels, yo.
that's what's up.
it's all really happening,
starting NOW;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, September 29


apples gotta get soggy if you're gonna make apple crisp!
that's real.
check the early a.m. expert bakery teleport:
i get molto busy with the pots and pans in the morning, y'all.
a simmering cinnamon concoction,
bubbling away to start the day?
heck yes, friends.
w'sup den?
oh, really?
you want more motivational teleportal-enacted examples?
you gotta get 'em all mushy and squishy,
with that thick pectin protection,
if you're gonna make that hot blarpity blop action happen.
for realsies,
pithy apples are for punk-A* b!tches.
that's why we make our from-scratch sauce all customized
by the Folk Life coterie of recipe-writers and exciters
live and direct in the up-here woodsly goodness-
with so many kinds of secret sweeteners,
and a couple of extra magic-style spices for your face.
magic mace, for one!
not like police brutality,
but much more like tastebud hedonism, yo.
i get it extra-slobbery,
and turbo-gooey,
and then i put a splash of vanilla in that mutha-'ucka
just for good measure,
and to take it up that extra notch.
to eleven...
just sayin',
if i'm gonna eat it, ninjas,
i wanna taste the SH!T outta that sunovab!tch.
that's real talk, neighbors.
come again?
did somebody really just ask if i made some double-dutch
oats-and-brown sugary, buttery, black strap b!tchslap molasses
streusel-type jauns for the cookie crumble topcoat
of turtleshelled protection that graces the surface
of this pomme-pomme d'terrorist treat?

you know i'm repping werewolf over-the-top business all day, right?
so don't worry your pretty little stoopidheads
about what i'm doo-dooing, duders.
you know what's up?
i'm activating.
and that's all you need to know;
never quiet, never soft.....


howling like a hard-style madman,
under the influence of an overabundant
orbital magnetism, activating all the wolfen
cold-snap stormcloud monstrosity within and without
in the woodsly goodness.
full-moon fever is in full swing,
and the nights are longer,
and the sky?
well, now,
the sky,
whilst brighter for the duration of the reflective big action,
is a hot fire reflux and feaky-diki dip-out knee-jerk reflex redux
inspiring us aspiring activationary visionaries and active participants
towards new high scores at getting low down and dirty.
that's real.
werewolf autumn sh!t means giving zero F*s,
flippin' out all over the place,
and being expert at participating in barking lunacy
on the far-flung frayed fringes of Folk Life & Liberty.
wordimus primal,
it's all about that fearless frenzied fenris business, b!tches.
hand-biting, world-devouring, soul-scouring power-up party time,
complete with hairy hard-hearted heated howls.
that's that war cry stuff, duders.
you've been warned,
the sky is glowing silvery blue,
and the fog is rolling along the mountains up here.
don't even think for one little mini-minute that just because
it's overcast that it takes line-of-sight contact to initiate
the werewolf-style berserker barbarian nutrients, y'all.
it's wild-animal transformative magnetism.
a few misty sky-blankets aren't gonna help protect y'all
from these enormous appetites and uncontained gypsy jauns...
c'mon. ...don't be dumb.
you'd better believe it.
the man is subsumed all up inside the battle beast.
it's warrior poetry,
it's it's worthy words and deeds,
and it's happening, neighbors.
ready or not-
today is the day,
and moreover,
tonight is the night.
it never gets old.
this autumn change-up, i mean.
every year,
it's still dope.
a beautiful farewell display,
and then a plummet to the pits of long hard frozen bleakness.
i just told you i think it's dope.
maybe that's because i know the world isn't really dying,
it's just gonna lay down for a little bit and catch it's breath.
it gets pretty lean, and grey, and sparse, and cold, and bitter,
but hey, my ninjas,
who the hell doesn't?
i know i doo-doo that spiteful respite sh!t.
those intervening internecine spans only last for a bit,
and then everything that falls down eventually rises.
(yup. i so stole that)
each and every brutal transformation,
personal, seasonal, temporal, all that and more,
it's still all really happening.
it never stops.
and for what it's worth,
i am grateful for the time i have been given;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, September 27

wolfen acorn activation.

there's an old oak tree out behind the tin rooflines
of the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
these days, it's got a burgeoning bumper crop of
infinite potential forests and trees falling down
all around the flippin' place.
there are pieces of the sky falling,
and aside from feeding the wretched rodent population
in my immediate area,
those fertile flying fusillades are also ricocheting off of the
echo-magical, resounding, sonic-booming metal roof.
...ALL mutha-F*ing night long.
incidentally, my hellhammer hard-style terror terrier
just happens to be scared of the sounds of science being
dropped off the boughs like cradle-baby cascades.
in turn,
this leads to whining, whimpering, cringing, and being
an overall enormous pain in the A*.
...ALL mutha-F*ing night long.
add in an expert almost-full moon,
and you've got all the necessary ingredients for a full-blown
berserker barbarian battle-beast bonanza,
with flaring tempers to counteract tepid temperatures,
and a machine-gun double-bass soundtrack to lose control
and flip the F* out to.
the smelliest dog, with anxiety-triggered A* explosions,
rotting out my nostrils and clouding my vision with watery eyes
and burning skin,
while the simmering savage stormswept fury further fired-up
 my adrenaline towards untold levels of wrenched-up wrath,
worry, restlessness, and ragnarokin' viking rage.
just sayin', neighbors-
i get a little cranky on my best days,
but hot dumpster lettuce dog-farts,
squealing high-pitched haranguing  ,
and a bright bright bright light in my eyes,
and before you can say eleven,
there's a red line of insanity surging out of the seams
of this sad sorry sack of sh!t-salad that i affectionately call
each and every all-alonely nighttime here in the woodsly goodness.
it's all really happening, kids.
believe it.
intolerably long days,
interminably long nights.
werewolfen activation,
and active participation;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, September 26


my duders are dope.
that's a thing.
custom handcrafted woodsly goodness
for my walls, y'all?
thatcher graves gets busy with the woodworks.
and it works for me, neighbors.
one special-order special-delivery,
measured, mitred, sanded, and stained specifically
to surround the scenes i paint on paper.
frame it up, yo:
i'm psyched, kids.
that's the truth.
why does it look so rich and luxurious?
because walnut wood is what's up.
that ninja knows how to do fine finish carpentry
and worthwhile woodsman-type jauns.
lucky for me, he's also well versed in
gratitude and generosity.
the viking virtues of What Is.
for what it's worth,
these young bloods get it.
making the most of each minute,
with concentrated concentric overlaps and interactions,
because if this is our time
(and it always is, isn't it?)
then what excuse do we have not to?
worthy warriors of poetic justice an' that,
with skillsets in full effect and useful traits
that they all bring to the table.
what we've got here is the beginnings of an
ungentle manliness club.
you know it-
the Folk Life & Liberty Fusiliers Activation Society?
believe it, b!tches.
we participate in the unfolding events of really real life,
as it's all origami-ing in reverse all around us;
and as it happens, we take notice,
and take a part in taking it apart.
dismantling and reassembling, kids-
that's just how it's done;
never quiet, never soft.....

spiced up and sprankulated.

when i was all finished activating the hottness,
it looked a lot like this:
i mean,
you want one, don't you?
autumnal flavor-specific seasonally appropriate
pumpkin cinnamon maple syrupy super-sweet
turbo-fresh deliciousness from the hopped-up hearth
of the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
wordimus prime,
we doo-doo that pretty tasty pretty sh!t, neighbors.
i already decimated the dozens,
handing them out like the cure for weak sauce to all the ladies
and a few gentlemen,
who needed a near-lethal dose of just-be-dopeness.
i save the day, sometimes.
other times,
i make some expert treats,
and i share 'em.
either way,
every day,
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, September 25

cups of cake.

guess what happened yesterday?
the very same thing that happens in
a meadow at dusk-
every nothing,
no everything.
all of it.
none of it.
and it did and didn't occur at exactly the same time.
during the uneventful spanning of time and space
a plan came together, kids.
a plan for baked woodsly goodsly seasonally-appropriate
delicious super-fresh hottness from my oven
and designed specifically to activate the expertism
for your face!
what does that even mean?
it means you've got to check the teleport, folks:
it also means pumpkin spice cupcakes.
with eventual maple-sugar-vanilla frosting,
from scratch,
from the future,
and from the heart.
(as well as from my imagination, what the F* is recipes?)
in addition,
an unnamed inside source allocated me some pre-hallowe'en
corporate grocery chain ninja dopeness to decorate
all up on the tippy-tops of my pumplestiltskin poppers.
you know it, neighbors-
bootleg spranks.
a sketchy sack of sexy for my kitchen?
in an unsanctioned paraphernalia baggie,
like a sweet treats dope score down in the 'hood?
my homeboys rep their block, y'all.
and they get me my stash.
those autumn-type personal cake jauns
would be some weak-sauce waterbabyish boring blops
with out 'em.
my contact made it happen.
spellcheck approves of nearly none of the
warrior poetic lexicon, kids.
that's a thing.
it must be new english.
i keep writing it out.
it keeps yellow-highlighting it up.
we are forging our own derivative dialect, duders.
you and i,
reforging our syllables, concentrating our consonants,
droppin' g's and addin' t's,
and as a whole reactivating the hottness inside of
the organic evolutionary nutrients of common language.
if you're understanding me,
you must be my understudy.
get it?
you know your lines, friends;
it's time for the simultaneous soliloquies of a whole
chorus of fire-spitting competent communicators to
overlap and integrate and voltron their nouns and verbs into
a really-real real talk communion of common cause.
on the ones,
it's all really happening.
and truth tellers can never stop;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, September 23

firewood would, would you?

the equinox needed some fuego-a-go-go, yo.
for realsies.
that savage stormswept berserker gypsy jauns
is what's up with it.
burning blocks of wood for light and heat.
that's what's up.
...with it.
celebrating with hot tea and hot fire and a semi-somber,
severely sober saturday night livening-up
of all the loooong hours of lonely sh!t,
and brightening the lengthening hours of darkness
with some released energy in orange and yellow hues of hottness.
yeah, that's right.
limning the garden in golden glows,
framing the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress in shadow and shine,
bathing my F*ing face in the ferocious fury of a seasonal affect
of effective interactive participation.
on the ones, ninjas,
i can build a fire better than those b!tch-sap boy scouts.
that's word.
my pagoda-style pyre got off to a slowish start,
partially lit and sputtering with a lot of soft moist bark,
and no bite.
oh, stop worrying, it's cool...
i rooted around inside the woodshed a bit,
all headlamped-up on that night patrol-style hidden seeking;
searched, destroyed, and activated some older, stronger,
drier, doper, more combustibly capable stuff,
and then we finally got it poppin' like it was hotter'n heckfire.
check the teleport:
theodore was in attendance as well.
it's better to experience these things with your peoples.
two worthy warrior poets,
sippin' on some herbal tea,
marking the passage of time,
and generally being present and accounted for
in the register of secret universal blueprinting and pressing.
freshly minted warrior spirit, y'all.
we GOT that stuff,
and we keep it going.
stay ugly?
no problem:
stay dope?
you know it.
my nose isn't getting any straighter, son.
and this gaunt ghostly visage of lightning-striking viking
autumn outdoor self-portraiture doesn't exactly hide that fact.
i'd cut it off to spite my face,
but the thought of a bloody skeleton pit
in-between my eyes and mouth makes my knees weak,
and my self-esteem sink even deeper into the swamps, son.
i'll let the crooked cartilage meander across my middle-features,
giving a broken middle finger to the rest of my head.
now, my see-balls on the other hand...
just sayin',
if the eyes are the windows to the soul,
then i'm definitely half popeye-squinky squint,
and half empty.
that's how it goes.
the truth outweighs the consequences.
true stories, told truly.
or, the ugly truth hurts,
and isn't any easier on the eyes when all's told.
hard styles, long nights, cold rooms, empty beds...
it's just the fallout that falls down when it's fall out;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, September 22

pride goeth before...

...the fall, duders.
that's why we worthy warriors eschew hubris
in favor of rational assessments of self.
all by myself,
doo-dooing all my dirt,
all by my lonely lonesome,
i'm due to frost up, ice over, turn colors, slip away,
and sleep until spring...
awwwwww, man!
must be some sort of ley line planetary orbital shifty sh!t
causing that kind of melodramatic melancholy...
could it be?
happy mutha-b!tch-flippin' fall.
today's the day, my ninjas-
the autumnal equinox,
the beginning of the end,
the start of the dying off and laying to rest of this year,
the unenviable fourth season in the abyss.
couldn't come soon enough, if y'all're asking me.
F* this year.
i'm ready for pumpkin pie,
woodstove woodsmoke,
foliage rainbow swatches of woodsly goodness,
crisp nights,
sweaters, thick socks,
and all the superfresh turbo hottness that fall
is known for.
autumn in new england?
that's it.
oh, thank goodness.
did you just say:
bounce on out of work, surely surly,
all early-shirley in the afternoon,
to get barbarian-style burly
and blaze a little trail of glory in spent brass casings,
and well-dressed copper-jacketed lead biscuits?
for realsies,
i thought i heard somebody make that expert suggestion.
and so then i did just exactly that.
the last day of summer.
spitting fire and sending slugs into the soil at the far end
of a long-range target stand at the closest shooting range
within reasonable sunshiny driving range.
i color coordinate my ear goggles to my hat and coat.
you know it.
check the teleport:
look close.
you can see that flying brass bucket being ejected
from the heater's starboard portal, stage right.
action shot motion capture captivation activation, ninjas.
me and my good friends got fresh with it.
we always do.
dressed like white people,
speaking some fresh loud hardness like 'hood warriors,
and getting rad with those redneck blueblood bullsh!t jauns, yo.
i think the resignation of acceptance helps.
sometimes, kids,
you've gotta realize when you're not gonna win.
resign your post,
accept your station,
take the hit,
and carry on.
that said-
i'm calling this year a wash.
scuttle the rest,
take five,
find a towel, throw it in,
hunker down and prepare for next season.
i figure there will be plenty more of this incredibly hard-style
rural reality to go on kicking everyone's A* next year.
and if 2012 doomsday predictions have any veracity?
come december we'll see who's a stoopidhead, won't we?
it's sort of win-win either way,
at least as far as losing goes, at any rate.
that leaves more time to shoot twice as many guns at once:
poor range etiquette,
pot shots at perching birds
(just trying to make 'em sexy, so to speak)
and pot after pot of late-night corporate coffee for our faces.
the last day of summer was a lot like every other last day of
everything else.
nobody leaves with the title, friends.
enjoy yourselves,
enjoy your fall;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, September 21

yes, i wood.

i've got 'em.
firewoodsly logs,
split, dried, and delivered at the break
of the A*crack of the dawn's earliest lights.
heaping helpings of hot fire's favorite foresty fuel,
to heat things up,
and block my mutha-flippin' driveway.
truckloads of goodness, y'all,
dumped out and piled high,
spread about and patiently awaiting the tetris-style
puzzle-piece pyramids we're building up...
that's right, neighbors-
i'm 'bout to be on that homestead woodshed
pack and stack attack activation.
for really real,
the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress stays cold
for nine full months out of the year.
(although this year it felt cold all summer too)
that means we need rip-roaring conflagrations
to emanate and circulate the new hottness and
a imbue general sense of warmth throughout the vast
expansive battlements of this old busted bastion
of luxurious new englandy dopeness.
i mean,
you wouldn't want me to freeze my butthole off?
would you?
wood you?
big ol' monster mountains of maple and oak.
i doo-doo that stored-potential thermal nutrient jauns.
and starting today,
i'm getting busy with that wood-chop axe-warrior
kindling split-up sh!t,
making sure my great big sexy apple crates
are packed tight to the tacks with strips and chips
and slivers of firestarting sticks.
tinder, son.
you need it.
who's helping me?
you're busy.
i get it.
i'm busy too.
it's friday,
i've got chores,
i've got work,
i've got it going on.
all of it keeps happening,
every time, every day, every place.
real life unfolds, kids;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, September 20


awwwwwww, man!
this is it, neighbors.
this morning's Tea 'N' Toast.
breaking bread and breaking fast,
before breaking out and heading off-
after that,
the cucch is on the road again.
what can i tell y'all?
he's a roaming wanderer,
and his time in the woodsly goodness,
whilst completely activated,
has reached it's bitterwseet end.
it looks a lot like it did when he got here:
out of focus bleary eyes, teary farewells (not really)
girlie hair and early mornings.
that's what's up.
my main ninja will be missed,
but i'm indebted to him for the time we've spanned.
111% expert.
back to work after a wasted weekend?
dry spells and wet blankets,
crowded houses and empty rooms,
it's ALL really happening, kids.
that's the truth.
we get choices, like 'em or not,
and the results of the choices are ours to bear.
it's called accountability,
and it's the real deal stamp of responsible adulthood.
hard styles, hot spit, furious warrior wherewithal,
withering werewolfen woodsly wisecrackin',
failed flirtations,
hardline inflexibile assertions and dissertations......
What Is can't be rewritten as it happens, homies-
so maybe i do come off as a showboat,
and a bit of a pr!ck,
but i said those things,
and i did those things,
and i can live with that;
never quiet, never soft.....

basement music.

folk music in a library basement?
some duder,
from somewhere,
was down there telling stories about classic
new england old-timey hottness,
and playing old-as-F* instruments,
and generally getting busy like an expert
for a whole big batch of probably-literate,
albeit long-in-the-tooth bluehaired thousand year olds.
and me and the cucch, too.
that's what's up.
we spanned so much time drinking coffee,
and smoking stumps,
and trying out new flavors of special berfday pipe tobacco,
that we may have been operating under the auspices
of stimulated brainwave activation....
just sayin',
we found a weird flier for the folk show,
and it was titled: 'banjos, bones, and ballads'.
we absolutely HAD to get rad with that.
in a library basement, with homemade pie and sh!t.
that's real.
refreshments were served, kids.
the performer/professional storyteller,
mr. jeff warner,
said something pretty awesome, though-
until about a hundred years ago,
if you heard music,
you were in the same place where it was being played.
word up.
we know how to waste time, neighbors,
and we know when and where to do it, too.
that fella playing and singing and performing
was dooooooooooooooooooope, though.
spoons, and jaw harp, and banjo, and guitar,
and concer-mutha-flippin'-tina, my ninjas!
check the teleport:
and this one too:
he repped those spoons, friends.
for serious,
this dude was a non-terrible spoon man,
and he got live with 'em like a warrior poet
from the sea-shantytowns of yesteryear.
and that wasn't even it, my ninjas.
the banjo was made out of a big ol' piece of walnut,
way back in the real olden days of yore an' that-
and what the F* are frets?
that's just a slab of wood,
a finger pickin' plank of super-dope twangy america jauns.
heck yeah!!
tension pegs for tuning keys?
so fresh.
time was spent, freely,
on the simplest things.
good times with my peoples,
good days in the windy warm weather of mid-september,
good times in a library basement.
fun is how you make it, mutha-'uckers,
not where you make it.
wherever we are?
that's the place to be;
never quiet, never soft..... 

Tuesday, September 18

buy one, get TWO.

y'know what's dope?
new shoes.
y'know what's even doper than new shoes?
a LOT of new shoes.
we skipped buy one get one.
no bogo, yo.
that's right.
we teleported to the future, instead,
and bought one,
but then got two other other sets
of feet-flavorizing freshness.
my big-A* trout flappin' flippers are
about to be clad in turbo-sexiness time three:
c'mon, y'all.
you already know i had to have that hottness.
six shoes for two footsies?
too much is always the right amount.
rugged wingtips,
suburban dads,
and folk life man boots?
i GOT they.
the new fall lineup is in flippin' full effect, friends.
us ugly ducklings need all the help we can get,
and if i start at ground level,
and slowly but surely work my way up?
there's something to be said for a man with a sense of
personal style.
every girl just may actually be crazy
about a sharp dressed man,
at least,
according to some bearded weirdies with guitars-
but if even just one girl goes a little bitty bit
kook-a-loo cuckoo-crazy over my brand spankin'
new pep-steppin' walkie-stalkers,
i'll take it as a landslide victory.
just sayin',
focus on the sasquatch stompers,
and lay off the facepiece,
and we'll get along a whole lot better.
awwwwww, man.
today is the day.
when isn't it?
we've got no agenda,
no plans,
high hopes,
and tandem turbo-dope Hamden Warrior spirit
all up in this b!tch.
anything could happen,
and whatever does is bound to be expert.
me and my numero uno ninja,
actively participating,
as events unfold along the secret universal plotlines.
Folk Life & Liberty,
in 24/7 360 surround sound,
and hi-def realtime activation.
we gets it in;
never quiet, never soft.....7x30


my yard has that bait and switch b!tchbaggery.
we lure the luxurious ursine experts into the yard,
and rep a hard style hibernation activation sensation,
for everybody's face!
true story.
check the teleport:
stay black, my ninjas.
you want nature?
we GOT they!!
back porch nutrients,
compost stank allure,
and future skin-rugs,
and breakfast,
and a whole day off.
all the good things,
all in one place.
my lawn could use a mow.
aaaaand what?
i've got bears, mutha-F*er.
they prefer a more natural habitat an' that.
that's a thing, probably.
getting ready to hunker down in the caves and crevices
for a long, deep slumberland sleepytime?
feels like it.
darker days,
colder nights,
and fuzzy black A*s:
it's all really happening, kids;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, September 17

we keeps it crisper.

b!tches better recognize,
we know how to bake it up like champions.
the first below-freezin' evenin'?
we brought the mutha-F*ing hottness, ninjas.
apples and maple syrup,
and brown sugar, and vanilla,
and cinnamon, and nutmeg, and allspice,
a pinch of iodized sodium chloride to keep it savory,
and a dash of cloves, a sprankle of ginger,
a dashing splash of apple-type juice,
and mace, y'all.
that's a thing.
add it all up,
cook it in a pot,
stir it around with a furious slurry of starch to
thicken the plot in the pot an' that,
and then cookie-crumb crumble that dutch-style hard-style
oatmeal magic all over the tippity-top...
...and then go right ahead and check the teleport:
stop droolin', duders.
when it's time to get it poppin',
me and the cucch do what needs doing.
we always have, and we always do.
(we also know how to power down some quantities...SON!)
great big steaming dreamy heaping helpings of hottness,
from the oven to our faces, in sweet shovelfuls,
covered in whipped-creamy kind of stuff.
you really should've been here.
i mean,
flavorful freshness was getting activated
in each and every single direction,
up, down, north, west, ALL the angles got covered,
all dang day and into the dark dang night.
for staying home and being less-expert,
you just might be stoopidheads a little.
but maybe not necessarily in a bad way?
like really good stoopidheads.
is that even a real thing?
i sure hope so.
(mostly for your sake, stoopidhead.)
it's the weekend's precipice for worthy warriors
of woodsly goodsly imposing composition and
disdainful dispositions an' that.
what i mean is,
i've got some tattbombing to inititate,
and then two whole days to do whatever i can,
as hard as i can, in the hardest-style that i can,
before it's back to the weak-sauce waterbath
of tepid teamwork and smelly team spirit.
where's my ninjas at?
we've got to get busy getting busy!
i'm ready,
and i'm waiting;
never quiet, never soft.....


we activated a wholesome hearty party-time
powerhouse of asia-type soy-saucy activation last night.
on the ones,
we got molto expert with the big burly bowl scenario.
check the rich brown ricey teleport:
wait a minute....
brown rice isn't buckwheat.
sans-soba bowl?
i mean,
what's up with no noodoos?
awwwwwwwwww, man.
y'know what?
F* noodoos, ninjas.
we did it over rice,
and we did it SO hard!
cabbages and snow peas and onions, and scallions,
and celery, garlic, ginger, broccoli, bean threads,
and two different kinds of brown blarpity protein blops.
two kinds?
two kinds.
we got fresh and sexy with some s'chuan soy bricks.
what does that mean?
i think it means tempeh teryaki,
with our own custom homemade black-strap sesame sauce.
do we really get rad like that?
...don't be dumb,
of course we got rad like that.
and then,
to take the mass-building brutality to eleven,
we added in some other other store-bought brown squares
of soy-type, seitan-infused, pea-protein nutrients,
straight from the mutha-flippin' future.
that's a thing.
you know it.
and you missed out a little bit.
of course,
there's only so much of that sort of stuff you can
slug down your gullet before it begins to boil, and roil,
and sort of seriously spoil the rest of your evening
with some digestive unrest.
(that's the best part)
if you aren't hurting yourself,
you aren't doing it right.
we sustained many shark-gluttonous injuries
in our supping situation last evening.
broken buttholes, b!tches.
we doo-doo that overindulgence sh!t.
it's really great to have my closest buddy up here.
wavelengths of the same length are all we're on.
all the time.
unstoppable kitchen expertism,
incredible coffee consumption,
inside jokes,
outside chances,
gratitude, generosity,
and professional appreciation.
it's all really happening,
a little bitty baby bit better, and more real,
with my main ninja sharing it with me.
i am grateful for this time;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, September 16


apple crisp and rustic outdoor firepit freshness?
i think it's what has to happen.
i mean,
it's cold,
it's kinda windy,
it's pretty flippin' septembery,
and my ninjas are up here in full effect.
Hamden Warrior spirit,
and terrible decision making skills means one thing-
that's getting expert,
and participating,
at the same exact time.
just sayin', neighbors,
we've got a half a peck of fresh-picked cortland apples,
and those b!tches are crisp as F*, son.
we've also got crawnchy caramel-type vegan goobieblops,
and all those ingredients to make it get crisp.
(that's cookie-style magic granola gayness up on top)
we'll even drizzle a little maple syrup upside some
fakey-style whippy cream, and get totally rad?
who's coming over?
on the ones, mutha-uckers,
there's bound to be a viking village-pillage-razing,
rip-roaring pit-full of thatched-roof conflagration to keep
us roasty toasty warm throughout the early frosted iciness
predicted to pounce down on our sh!t-shot seurat
dew-pointilism tonight.
that's primitive barbarism, and dessertly delights,
repping the woodsly goodness and the interactive excellence
of hanging out, breaking bread and balls, and generally
appreciating the presence of your peoples-
because too much of two different dopenesses
is exactly how much of all of it needs to really be happening.
you know it's true.
it's brisk and bracing,
it's effacing and embracing;
the sunday morning sunshine-and-wind combination
is one holy helluva way to pregame prepare for
the sundown showdown of rosh hashana.
just sayin', kids;
i'll take a shot at any new year's anything,
because that's a gamble on a do-over
for this year's doo-doo buttery business.
i'm tellin' all y'all-
a brand-new go at a better one?
color me converted,
even if it's only for a sunset and a shofar-blown blast
of rabbit-rabbity enunciated renunciation,
rebooting, freebooting, and boot-knocking.
that's no jokes, yo.
i'm ready for the new what's next,
and i'm waiting until tonight to turn it on,
and turn it up to eleven.
there will be baked goods and refreshments available
to all the worthy warrior poets who'd like to join me;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, September 15


check the teleport:
flashburn counts as a bright spot, right?
i hope so.
mutha-lickers, my main ace homeboy,
my best friend, my best man,
my numero uno in-flight-refueling wingman extraordinaire,
the flippin' cucch,
is in residence for a week at the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
that means big fun!!
good times!!!
expert active participation!!!!
all the way to eleven, all the sunovab!tchin' time.
word up.
tag-team tandem jauns,
synergistic motion,
ALL the hottness.
today is the day;
never quiet, never soft.....

sucked dry.

i took yesterday off.
it's true.
i mean, i totally worked an' sh!t,
but i was most definitely on leave from my senses.
oh, y'know-
because the friday freakazoid F*-fest was in furious full-effect-
a crucial creature kaleidoscope was the only option on the docket,
in terms of visuals, residuals,
and interactive interrogative overreactions.
the boogeymen and women of the woodsly goodness
were all oozing and schmoozing with the very best of us.
which is to say: me.
i'm a lonely fella, folks,
but i don't know that this solution was what i was hoping for.
it was a massive monster mash-up of miscommunication,
hard styles, loooong hours, shortchanged movie-checks,
and generally genial-yet-unsatisfying grinding on that
tattbomb jauns.
it keeps happening, kids.
all of it.
lots of dangling carrots, tied to beat-down ugly sticks.
semi-exposed and fully malformed.
the stumplestiltskin blarpers keep trying to get me to
guess their names.
what do i win if i do?
a couple of dollars, a wasted hour or two,
an absence of understanding, commonality, and satisfaction,
and a whole other 'nother day of digging a bigger hole.
more bleak outlook outreach for your face?
but remember,
you asked for it-
every day is like a giant spider.
no foolin'.
anti-social, bloodthirsty, and totally mutha-F*ing 'sgusting!
so gross.
that specific specimen of organ-melting, sticky webbed entrapment
lives just above the door to the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
she kills everything she kisses.
i dunno,
but when the world around you, and up above you,
is a whole lot like shelob,
us just-be-dope moths get suckered in, coiled up,
immobilized, neutralized, injected, dissolved, disintegrated,
and digested.....and then sh!t out like nutrient-depleted
doo-doo buttery blops of old news.
awwwww, man.
how much do i hate spiders?
how much is the biggest amount?
double it, my ninjas.
i just can't hang out with black widows with black hearts
and hourglass A*s.
personally and professionally,
all there is is all the monsters.
thunder-sundered blundering through these hours and hours.
true story.
spanning time and spacing out and spelunking the deepest
depths of the darkest parts.
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, September 13

kicked in the face.

for real, duders.
i caught much wreck at soccer this week.
falling, tripping, shoving, diving, running,
leg breaking, unguarded shin-splintering,
cleat-wreaking foot snapping,
skidmarked skinned knees,
grass rash, bug bites, sweat-sting,
and balls to the mutha-flippin' faaaaace!
who lost their temper?
it wasn't me, kids.
violence of action in the spirit of play?
i'm pretty much all about that.
games are for fun, stoopidheads.
if you can't have fun?
don't play games. nose hurts though.
that's real
smooshed flat,
and then bounced back into place.
for a mini-minute i felt like i was back in Hamden again.
warrior crew ninjas get punched in their grills a lot.
just sayin',
i got a baby bit homesick for a second,
and then got my brain back into the game.
and somehow,
in my graceless ugly duckling waddle across the footy pitch,
back and forth, and to and fro,
i pulled my groin, too.
side-wiener self-destruction.
ice and stretches haven't helped either, neighbors-
lucky for us, though,
my whole entire crotchal puffery is at present
my very least relevant area of expert execution.
i doo-doo that, too.
inopportune soundtracks.
y'all know what i mean.
the perfectly wrong song, cued up, turned up,
and sung out at the least useful time.
a long car ride, all alone,
and a brand new avett brothers album?
those jauns tried to do me in.
winter in my heart, friends.
sappy sad songs and stretches of country roads.
it's definitely a hard style.
and that's just my type.
two kinds of beauty,
three kinds of misery,
across all four corners of the world.
five senses, lost, and senseless-
six feet under the soil;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, September 12

better days ahead.

do bagels count as toast?
i hope so duders,
because i doubled-down on some round brown
circles of savory sourdough and cinnamon sugar.
my barbarian broiler makes oven bread taste even better.
peanutty hottness on one side,
dry sweet crawnchy bits on the other other ones.
Tea 'N' Toast,
times two.
(and a vegetarian glucosamine supplement for good measure)
you better believe i'm supportive of synovial fluid activaton.
i don't really know what that is, exactly,
but it says on the bottle that those jauns are important,
like eagle's egg nutrients for your knees an' that.
i'm not a young man,
but my joints are the rusty hinges of a forgotten age.
my bendy bits are easily twice as old as the rest of me.
like, ice age glacial sediment an' sh!t.
prehistoric elbows and knees,
stone age ankles and wrists,
vertebrae from the early devonian age,
all placodermian plates of fossilized and fused fury.
just sayin', my ninjas,
the bright spot in my morning is that hard-hearted
heat-infused crusty couple of circles,
and the sweaty cuppa irish breakfast blend,
and from there?
hobbling, wobbling, fumbling, floundering, and failing.
every step brings me closer to self-destruction.
i'm filling sandbags as fast as the water rises, if you feel me.
staving off the stumbling bungle of broken legs and bent backs,
with gratuitous dhalsim yoga flame stretching,
on my way to another day of running out the clock,
running on empty,
running towards nothing,
running away from home,
and running wild in the streets.
it's all really happening,
and it's powered by that delicious looking most-important
v.i.p. meal up above us;
never quiet, never soft..... 7x29+1


i'm on that grind at work these days.
rough edges and hard styles,
and thoroughly rural requests and behests
to bequeath the olden days from underneath
the entombed womb of my early career.
okay, ummm-
tattoos that still look like tattoos,
y'know, like circa '01-'05?
SO much black outlines.
those blarpity blops are the marching orders
i've been receiving,
and therefore type of zippity zap-bombing i'm delivering.
lucky for all of us,
my memory is elephantine in every sense.
and so i doo doo that "all 'er and no 'ist"-type sh!t, ninjas.
real talk.
i will take pictures that aren't flat and busted,
but not today:
even though the molto blue hues are pretty much invisible,
i really did put 'em in there.
oh well.
how do i get through it?
i keep one idea firmly affixed to my frontal lobes, neighbors-
there is no such thing as a lousy job,
only lousy men who don't care to do it.
straight up early new millenia style,
reppin' throwback jauns in the modern age.
it's like my man earl simmons says-
give 'em what they want, they all can't get it.
i'm not sure what that exactly means,
but i do know i am all about it.
figured it's appropriate to mark what the nose is smelling
alongside the grindstone,
whilst the 'ists are convening in colorado.
it's all really happening,
on both sides of the coin;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, September 11


i always feel like there's something
i'm supposed to remember today.
it'll come to me.
give me a second.
in the meantime,
it's the weekend for worthy warriors
in the woodsly goodness's chill embrace.
there are cold shoulders and icy stares abounding
and resounding off the rocky crags and sheer cliffs
of this mountainous vale of valuable monotony.
uh, yeah.
that's a thing.
there have been days of this, duders.
of this sequential inconsequence,
this irrelevant reverence for revenants.
you know about that?
ghost circle smoke rings of spirit and memory
fading and degrading as they spread out
and expand across space and time, ninjas.
it's all really happening,
but it isn't making any difference.
just sayin',
there's a to-do list so long
it's become a couldn't-possibly list.
and that's a helluva hard style,
what with winter well on it's way to the heartless hearths
of the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress, y'heard?
it's a good damn thing i spit hot fire,
because there's very little hottness,
and even fewer scraps of kindling in the great big,
cavernously empty woodshed.
no wood in the goodness?
is that even real?
oh, it's real, mutha-lickers,
don't you even worry your little bitty baby heads about that.
words bring little warmth.
and actions only serve to shout a bit louder,
and generate a degree or two of heat
but only up until the fuel exhausts itself as we exhaust ourselves.
awwwwwwww, man.
believe it.
freezing, frozen, frosty, fresh.
there's a combination that unlocks the future,
but there's also an equal and opposite solution that seals
us up in glacial immobilarity.
(that's a wu-TANG word, relax)
if only i could remember what i said i'd never forget.
ah well,
i've got to remember to remember to forget you forgot me;
never quiet, never soft..... 

Sunday, September 9

thicker than water

bloody sunday type sh!t, duders-
that's real.
teleport todd's thigh:
throwback attack to the one-shot spot illustrations
of yesteryears gone-by an' that.
sometimes, the old times are the best times.
like playing plaza soccer,
and listening to H20 's sacred heart...
'all the times you slipped between the cracks 
disguised as something sacred
never knowing that i wanted to
hold you in my arms, protect you,
never let the world upset you,
i'm handing my life over to you.'
besides the very last line,
that whole chorus is dooooope.
remember it?
you should.
i'm on a don't forget your roots weekend, neighbors.
hamden warrior poetry,
in F*ing full effect;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, September 8

every gun, every time.

shooting club member?
you know i am.
i especially like the stern-faced inspectors
who light up like little kids when they see me.
for real.
they start out wanting to see my membership card,
but i don't ever need to prove i'm me, y'all.
i mean,
who else brings ALL the guns?
who else holds a pistol up,
and is halfway to the target before pulling any triggers
simply because his arms are extendable appendages?
who else hollers like the only 'hood ninja at every single
bull's-eyed bullethole that gets blasted?
on the ones,
how can somebody confuse that with anything else?
bad eyesight must be the culprit.
or poor judgement in regards to processing available information.
from a distance i may look like a very hairy
famine-spirit embodying all aspects of starvation,
but take just a couple steps closer?
you can't help but see it:
staggering tsunamis of swagger.
that's not a bootlegger from prohibition, b!tches.
i'm a worthy warrior wookie in a tight shirt, -
with limbs lanky and big swinging balls all clanky
and hot fire spit simultaneously smart, sweet, sour, and skanky.
i doo-doo that multi-caliber active participation, neighbors.
i've got a good group of shooting buddies.
it makes the whole thing way more awesome.
i shot my friend ben's 20gauge shotgun.
laying down a line of heavy lead slugs,
single-action single-file style.
was it dope?
don't be dumb, duders.
check the teleport, and see how much i liked it:
i get pretty mutha-flippin' psyched
about how totally expert shooting guns is;
and then we all shoot guns,
and talk about guns,
and hold guns,
and load guns,
and shoot so many guns,
so much, and so hard.
what do you kids know about form over function?
i'm talking about making sure you're wearing dope socks.
for real.
if you don't look fresh, you aren't fresh.
kind of like vegetables at the market an' that.
my sh!t is crisp, son.
AK-47 revolutionary jauns.
with skull and bones hosiery, mutha-F*er!!
...aaaand what?!
getting busy,
building bridges over self-wrought gaps.
i don't get it either,
but it's all really happening.
taking time from one place,
and investing it in others.
there's never enough,
but somehow,
there's always more;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, September 7

rot blossom.

i found this:
some kind of doomsday death flower,
blooming on the grounds of the Fortress.
la flora de muerte?
i think so.
maybe not.
what could it be?
an omen?
a hard-style harbinger?
a mushroom?
an allergen-activated allegory?
i'll bet at least one of those is definitely true, kids.
there are shelves of 'shrooms sliding out sideways
from the sheer faces of so many different places:
turkey tail explosions abound, friends.
so expert.
teeming overlaps on ALL the tree stumps.
they supposedly are good for you.
i'm not about to start munching up on 'em just yet.
i prefer to poison myself the old fashioned way-
with misplaced hope and delusional optimism.
we've got so many minky, mincey, mushy 'rooms
ruminating in this rich, loamy dirt the woodsly goodness
seems to provide as convenient fodder and feed
for their super-mario kingdom.
i haven't found a 1-UP yet, though, neighbors.
awwwwwww, man!!
turns out, in real life,
you can't collect enough coins to buy an extra life.
this is all you get.
nice to see us all making the most of it.
but on the other other hand, b!tches-
you can get more poultry-type myconids to show up, though.
real talk,
the ugliest orange-sliced discs all up in this forest,
laying about like bumps on a log.
i'm almost positive this is an edible variety.
i'm not about to bite down on that slimy slab of
slug-slathered, spongy, spore-spitting steak fungus.
(mostly because i made it sound gross)
i'm sayin',
being 'pretty sure' just isn't close enough in this case, kids.
blown-out buttholes and neurotoxic brainfires aren't
the way i'd prefer to pass this friday nighttime.
especially not due to some caveman forager trial and error sh!t.
i doo-doo a lot,
but not intentional fast-poops and projectile puke partying.
for sure.
then again,
it all kind of depends on what alternatives present themselves
as better options for spanning time on a warm september evening.
i guess we'll see how it goes.
i've got black and grey wings on the tattbombing zipzap menu.
in a row.
on unrelated individuals.
i'm pulling ahead on the victory scale for certain.
hard styles and black spikes are tag-teaming up to try
and take a shot at the title.
don't worry, my ninjas-
my styles are harder;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, September 6


the sun came out, friends.
but not before the glum bummery mood
instigated some sprouting sh!t from the sopping soil.
out from under the mouldering detritus of the roadside
woodsly thickets and groves,
the new hottness was poppin', hard.

perfect stoner toadstool?
straight from the pages of your eight grade notebook!
you used to be lame, yo.
real talk.
and that's that's not it, either:
ill gills!!
a hansel and gretel footpath of fungi fruits was trying to lead me
deep into the forest,
probably to the gingerbread house of a big, fat, butt-nasty witch.
lucky for me,
i had places to be,
and turned myself around, back towards the paved passages
of northern mountain travel,
and well away from that hungry cannibal woman.
let's face it-
it would've taken way too long to fatten me up enough
to be worth stewing me all up in a cauldron.
crisis averted through willpower and prior planes.
there was one last fresh filthy one:
i don't know exactly why this photo sucks as many balls as it does.
i suppose it could be because the geists of the goodness
get grossed out and look away
in that nanosecond before the flash.
i mean,
that sh!t is 'sgusting.
what even is it?
i've got a whole big book that would tell me,
and a google machine that could too....
but i'm gonna live in mystery for a minute,
and let one of you fill in the details.
test your naturalist knowledge-
what is it?
coral from the morel family?
i dunno.
i DO know that mushrooms are my homeboys.
that's not anthropomorphism,
it's more like obtuse philosophy.
real talk.
breaking shins, toes, knees, and ankles.
that's how i spanned the median zone of yesterday.
playing futbol, b!tches.
running around being pretty terrible,
trying to defend a tract of territory from
rushing attackers and hard-style strikers.
it's never pretty.
warrior poetry i've got,
poetic kinesthetics, not quite so much.
i suppose i could use the exercise;
i might look slightly less like a skeleton scarecrow stick figure.
and we can't have that, neighbors...
with that knowledge of caloric catalyzation in our domes,
let me ask all y'all question:
what's up with homemade ethnic brown people food?
like beans AND rice and spicy red rojo activation?
with 'cheese'ish filled-up tortillas, pan fried all authentic
by my culinary compadre carlos?
on the ones, ninjas-
dinner at my house is what's up.
smoky chipotle-type ho' sauce,
sweet smoked paprika,
liquid smoke,
gunsmoke, maybe (not really)...
we activated the flavors and el sabor of the future, kids.
good duders getting particpatory around the pots and pans
of the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress kitchen?
that's dope.
it happened;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, September 5


my name is mud.
my road home?
like, for real,
the sloping dirt drive that leads to the Fortress?
also mud.
the coffee in my mug?
you guessed it:
it's dirty and it's mixed with moisture,
and it's a slow death by quicksand in the mire
and lack of hot fire that's fizzling out the fusiliers' fuses,
so that everybody loses,
in the gray gaytardation of a supersaturated sloppy
morning mess that indicates without question
that summertime has segued into bummer-time,
staring now.
i'm sayin', neighbors,
there's a whole lot of wetness all around me-
just not in the grown-up figurative sense.
get it?
awwwww, man.
it's been one soggy-bottomed diaperbaby mess
of a weekend in the woodsly goodness.
that's only ever good for one thing, y'all.
myconic icon teleportational activation?
check it:
you can't stump nature.
umm, right.
rot monster fruits live up in the decapitated trunks of trees!
i love northern new hampshire,
and i love the woodsly goodness.
for realsies, kids.
i DO like stuff.
.....just not a lot of stuff.
driving down rural tree-canopied wooded mountain roads,
tramping along country-style hard-packed earth,
or stomping across soft slimy mud?
more often than not,
these days,
being out and about and amongst and amidst
the soil and the stones is exactly how it all really happens.
true story-
early september gets poppin'.
the idea is that everything good is happening underfoot.
so keep your head down,
not in ambivalent anonymous avoidance,
but in active participation.
look up, and you'll miss the forest's floor-to-floor flora,
and fecund fauna, flourishing in full effect, all around us.
watch your step,
and walk with purpose;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, September 4


what kind of day are we gonna have?
you know it:
when has it ever been an option to choose otherwise?
just sayin'.
and neighbors,
do you see that 18?
i can only presume it represents my street address.
i mean,
the wrenchiest wrecking and the tyrannically titanic,
tetanus-tinged time-lapse temerity and tee-totaled temperance
all occur in synch, temporally speaking.
clockwise counterintuitive time travel loosens 
the moorings on the flooring, 
whilst battening down the fattening hatches in batches
of b!tchbag burglarized time banditry,
burgling and bugling and bulging all the biggest and baddest
bits of the battlements and balustrades of
the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
which happens to spearhead that woodsly goodness
at 18 pierce road, ninjas.
(that was definitely the long way to a short story)
hard styles, 
all the way to eleven.
well and truly, all the time.
today is the day!
my littlest sister is having a berfday.
right now, even.
let's all hope it's a happy one.
y'know what i mean?
with cake and candles and sh!t.
i'm all about that sort of thing.
i may even bake up a bundt for myself,
just so i can celebrate with solidarity in absentia.
i doo-doo that sort of oven-lovin' appreciation.
then i get cake.
vacation sumertime is done.
way donezo, even.
no matter when the equinox is slated to activate,
that back-to-school foolery,
and back-to-the-grind foolishness,
and all the in-between lean times and long stretches
of unrestful disuse and declaratory drudgery
are ALL in F*ing full effect.
that noted and payed it's due and propers,
just what am i gonna do on this lonely, lazy, rainy tuesday,
in this semi-abandoned soggy mountain vale?
i'm gonna choose the wrench.
don't be dumb;
never quiet, never soft.....7x28

Monday, September 3


it's not always about what you do, duders.
it's about how you do it.
infinite natures,
infinite potentials,
infinite affinity for that Folk Life & Liberty.
all of that, like most big action,
starts out as small ideas and sh!t:
we take rural really realness to eleven, neighbors.
do you know how we do?
and i mean, we,
as in the worthy warriors representing
past futures up here in the woodsly goodlsy realm.
how do we do what we do?
we participate......actively.
loud, fresh, hard.
and hardly ever without some hot fire
and a strike or two of viking lightning.
that's word.
it's labor day,
and that goes double for me.
get it?
because i'm laboring all damn day.
yet another 'nother summer holiday where i'm zipzappin'
some sh!t-hot crap on all these third-day-off-in-a-row
doo-doo ninjas who need to spoon over all their bottom-dollar
movie checks in exchange for a mounded, mountainous,
meted-out heaping helping of hubris-enriched harm
and ham-fisted hurtfulness.
there's a time and a place for flipping the F* out like
a berserker savage of scorn and sarcasm.
that time is all the time, and that place is everywhere.
today is the day,
like a werewolf;
like a battle-bard;
like a Fusilier;
like a man;
just sayin'.
it's the how that matters.
that's been the cathartic catalyst for creativity lately.
check out the professional appreciation i enact
when handling that old-time hand-cannon hottness!
that's a face worth a few words, huh?
i love guns.
i especially love shotguns.
check out the blurry fury of a flurry of burly activity:
that's absolutely what had to happen.
a bolt or two, from a pair of gaping side-x-side holes,
belting out a ballad of barbarian badassery
into the universe like a thunderheaded smoke-signal
from the battlements of true-storyland?
we do these things.
dressed in white-people clothes at that.
that's no joke, either:
like i said.
we keep it classy.
the how is what's essential here.
we do it right,
and we take it to where it needs to go.
i guess we're chauffeurs for that flavorful Folk Life jauns.
getaway-car wheelmen riding into the great escapades
of the great north woods;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, September 2

jackrabbit, br'er rabbit.

somebody is kidding me.
vacationary summer tourist season is ending,
and it is ending in a knotted mess of
tangled traffic, sh!tty kids, rainy weather,
and mislaid and waylaid and unlaid plans.
september has got itself off to a pretty ridiculous start.
i may need a new pottery mug to get it poppin' ninjas.
just sayin',
when i drink the last cup of tears, pressed, fermented
and fomented into a witches' brew of b!tches' sap,
i want to feel the heft of the heart of the earth in my hand.
stoneware, fired clay, burly blops of rugged elemental
hottness, dug out, shaped up, and fired away,
formed and folded, manhandled and molded,
into a great big sexy-A* mug,
a chalice of malice,
a stein of frankensteinian liquid containment.
a kiln-fired cup made out of dopeness,
so i can have a cup of tea later on.
sorta like this one:
lemon-custard-colored happiness?!
i think so.
that's it, neighbors.
it doesn't take a lot to elevate the expertism to eleven.
small specks and motes of light,
incandescent twinklings to give out an inkling
of that bright, bright, bright tightness free-falling
out amongst the dark shadows and freestyle hard styles
of the dichroic and archaic recesses of the long nights,
sleepless stretches, and empty expanses in between
the spikes and spears of self-involved importance
here in the woodsly flippin' goodness.
get it?
thinking about how sh!t-smeared the weak sauce
of a long weekend is doesn't mean that there aren't
good things happening alongside the lame ones.
even the lowest points and worst days aren't without
those brementown battle-beast bandmates.
a better fate than death awaits us anywhere?
(admit it, brad, it wasn't ALL bad......)
just sayin'.
you know 'em,
you love 'em,
jeezus kee-rist you wanna hold and touch and shoot 'em.
well, ninjas,
i doo-doo that double barreled berserker business,
and i do it damn well.
after a long, hard, grueling, mewling, no fooling
and no refueling day of doo-doo buttery tattbombing,
a box of 1oz. lead slugs spewed forth from the smooth-bored
business end of a manly kamikaze cannon is what's up.
shoulder-bruising finger-snapping hot fire,
flung from the mouth of a magma-spitting monster,
pumped up, and popped out,
and performing bulimic barbarian binging and purging,
like a serious series of fortunate flamethrowing furious
glorious gargantuan gunfighting greatnesses.
and when it's going on with rad duders alongside you?
good friends make good times better.
that's a thing.
and young friends usually make it look better.
shallow values?
no way, mutha-'uckers-
i am grateful for the folks who make up the majority
of worthy warrior poetics here in the woodsly goodness.
i span time alongside some pretty flippin' good ones.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, September 1


it gets said every time,
and it makes absolutely no difference
in the downward direction each and every day takes.
that's that wishful thinking and silly speaking
that spreads across all the rest of the empty squares
on my calendar to plead with secret plans for leniency.
it hasn't worked yet.
not once.
and yet, i still say it.
two times.
in a row.
every first and foremost day of each and every month.
that's just because i doo-doo what i do,
and i don't stop,
but i also recognize the velveteen pretend-type jauns
that come hand in hand with holding out hope
for a reversal of misfortune.
hard times stay hard,
hard styles don't let up,
and hard hearts don't soften,
no matter how many times you speak the magic word.
whether it's rabbit, or abracadabra,
or please.
you only get the time you get, neighbors.
y'know who makes the most of that?
no wasted motions-
sprout, spore out, shrivel up, and rot.
y'all ever see asparagus seeds?
you have now:
weird, huh?
you know how it goes, kids-
nature wins.
there's dust and gas over there,
us over here,
and good and bad luck in the middle;
never quiet, never soft.....