firewood would, would you?

the equinox needed some fuego-a-go-go, yo.
for realsies.
uh-huh.
duders,
that savage stormswept berserker gypsy jauns
is what's up with it.
huh?
yep.
burning blocks of wood for light and heat.
that's what's up.
...with it.
like,
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.
awwwwwww.
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.
neighbors,
check the teleport:

yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
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.
instead,
i'll let the crooked cartilage meander across my middle-features,
giving a broken middle finger to the rest of my head.
awwwwwwwwwww.
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.
what.
the.
F*.
?.
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.....