Thursday, January 31

the longest goodbye.

oh, sh!t, duders.
it's all really happening,
and none of it is expert.
who had a busted up furnace wrecking his weekend?
yeah, it was me. good guess.
who ate dinner alone again for the millionth time?
yeah. me again. nice work.
a vegan cheesy pizza helped fill the empty place in my body, yo,
but it was purely mechanical function.
(and really, there are other empty places not yet sated)
my appetite isn't what it was a week ago.
i got it poppin'.
i'm not an A*-hole after all.
check the flatbread teleport:
stuffing my face was like plugging up the drafts in my freezing house.
the cold is finding it's way in through hidey-holes,
because there's missing pieces where the whole used to be.
you know it, friends-
the first of the month is tomorrow.
a.k.a. moving day.
the big departure, the final step, the emptiest nest,
the bare walls and blank spaces where pieces of my old life used to be.
january ends today, kids,
and while there are a few points of interest impending with the onset of february,
all the balls in the whole wide world are being sucked as hard as ever.
uh-huh, that's real.
really real, in fact.
after today, it all changes all over again.
i'd like to say i have no regrets.
i'd like to say it was all worth it.
i'd like a lot of things that aren't the F*ing truth, y'all.
but this is how it actually ends, friends-
an indifferent shrug and other plans made.
no somber salute to the serendipitous series of happenings and stances,
no acknowledgement of the actual elapsed and spanned times.
just a shudder, a sharp intake, and a slow exhale.
i don't think i mean goodbye,
and i sure as sh!t don't mean farewell.
i guess that leaves us with 'so long'as our swan song, huh?
and in so many different ways, too.
it's one thing to know someone is dying,
but a whole other 'nother thing to watch them take their last breath.
(with apologies to my friend greg for co-opting his line)
i'm here, alone,
and i'm watching those metaphoric eyes close for what must be the last time.
i've never been one for going quietly,
but you can't force conversation on the close-lipped.
that equates to tyrannical tirade parades up and down the stairs,
talking exclusively to my own damn self.
at least it's clever, and brutally honest, and savagely poignant,
albeit rhetoric of the first order since i'm already on board with all of it.
that's right neighbors.
february is coming,
but everything about the last eleven years has left the building,
and that is a literal fact.
or at least, it will be when the movers show up tomorrow.
today is the day, again.
the last day.
of the month;
of the reign of tandem cohabitational warrior poetry;
of the entire era of woodsly goodsly teamwork and cooperation;
of ALL of it.
the Fortress will remain in my safe keeping for as long as i can manage it.
so there's that.
the rural reality of white-mountainous remote dwelling is intact, too;
it's just the contents therein that are all kinds of F*ed up.
echoes of yesterday, and actual echoes inside the sparsely furnished former hottness.
yuck, mutha-uckers.
no me gusta.
the Folk Life & Poverty Fortress just has not got the same flair, does it?
awwwwwwwww, man.
broke, broken, and dope.
that's the set-up for the second month of '13, i suppose.
starting now.
you know the drill.
i mean,
you've read it all before now, and you probably will again-
i repeat myself when i'm lonely.
i repeat myself when i'm broken.
i repeat myself when i'm ugly.
i repeat myself every day, don't i?
check it out.
what's black and white and worst all over:
just the right face for this sh!t-salad sendoff.
some truths are harder, some styles are uglier,
and some ugly truths rep a damn hard style for sure.
spirits and memories and concentric overlapping ghost circles
and evaporating ephemeral smoke rings.
all of them are oppressively present at this precipice.
there's an edge we're stepping over, y'know?
it's not letting go that's scary,
it's choosing to fall in order to learn to fly.
rocks tend to plummet, not rise,
and albie rocks are doubly so inclined to descending.
i guess this is it, kids.
nobody leaves with the title,
but everybody leaves eventually;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, January 30

true romance.

hey duders,
y'wanna know somethin'?
i dig love.
i'm into it.
i mean,
y'all already know i get fresh when it comes to gratitude and generosity,
but there's also a special secret place that i save for romance, too.
sure it's a few weeks early,
but failing to plan is just planning to fail, right?
you know it.
check the earlybird special on the hearts and sweets teleport:
i can't help it, neighbors.
i just truly like valentine's day a whole bunch.
yeah, i doo-doo that crossed hearts and open hands kind of sh!t.
i know, yo-
it shouldn't just be a designated special day for selling cards and flowers,
trimmed in lace and boxed up like chocolates-
there should be something else that starts those comfortably warm
and familiarly fuzzy feelings across our faces.
heck, i even agree that genuine devotion and all that is for every day!
i'm serious.
but, then again,
and feel free to damn me for a fool-
i appreciate a focused moment specifically meant for taking it to eleven.
...that's a thing.
and whether or not i'm all by my lonesome,
which is more likely than not, after all,
there will be roses and candies and alcohol-free drinkies,
and i will still be wearing pink and eating some sweet sprankle-activated somethin'.
be mine, i say.
to myself, i think.
and i say, "yes", because who else's could i be?
for realsies.
me and my man austin did a quick trip to portland, maine.
that meant vegan food and crackery grocery stores.
and that meant getting ALL the super-fancy ingredients for the my newest project.
the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress has a test kitchen now.
a bachelor padded bakery and theoretical food-science vegan laboratory.
that's right, kids.
albie rock is making a baked greats cookbook.
what's that?
oh, you're very welcome.
so now it's on full-blast and full-steam ahead.
barreling into the future one cup of flour at a time.
i need taste testers and beta-recipe participants,
so make sure you're available,
and we'll make the magic happen together.
if you play your cards right,
you might even get to be my valentine.
sour grapes and sweet hearts, my ninjas.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, January 29

rock bloxxx.

i'm all about toasted coconut, kids.
that's real.
and i can't resist chocolate chips, either.
i guess it's just a couple more character traits/flaws we can add to the list.
i'm also really kind of into drizzling expert sauce on stuff.
yeah, it's true.
since i'm not gonna get to snack up on any girl scout cookies,
even though i bought twenty flippin' boxes from my daughters,
i figured i could play to my tendencies,
and let my infinite nature out of it's ninja bag for a minute or two.
check the semi-samoa-style teleport:
boo-ya, b!tches, like the tribe, an' that.
yes, neighbors,
i toasted all my own tropical palm fruits,
and i melted up a burly blend of dark chocolaty syrup to drip
all over the craggy caps of these elite cookies.
i mean,
c'mon, y'all.
it's not like i'm an A*hole, after all.
i got a haircut today, too.
i'm having a great hair day and a horrible face day,
so you'll have to wait to see what style i'm repping for trimmed beards and domes.
i wasn't about to show up and interact with my brand-new interim hairstylist empty handed.
don't be dumb.
i always pay my debts.
F* that.
i always overdo it,
with the fire and explosions added it to it.
that means that i bring treats as well as tip money, my duders.
i'm sort of secretly nice.
my friends are still better than yours, y'all.
not only did i get a hooked-up cup or two of tea at the local corporate coffee chain,
but after delivering a dose of those righteous rock block cookies to my
barbarian barrista b!tches at 'bux this afternoon,
they hit me off with a special care package later on this evening.
so they spelled my name wrong, big deal.
in reality, that always irritates me,
but when accompanied by freebies from the heart,
it's gift-horse dentistry to delve too deeply into my displeasure, no?
...and they were quoting b.i.g., too.
that's a nice touch, even with the dubious quotation marks.
another 'nother full day of doing a whole bunch of very little and spending big loot.
hard styles and emptied pockets.
it's all really happening;
and somehow, it's still looking a little bit better than yesterday.
i don't get it,
bit i'm sure excited about it.
long goodbyes segue into big hellos,
and you guys know how i feel about those;
never quiet, never soft.....7x49 jesus!

Monday, January 28


the brightest spots these days are turning out to be false lights.
fox fire, neighbors.
ignis fatuus.
will o' the wisps, always getting further the closer i try to approach.
distance is measured by time as well as space,
and it's been lightyears since i could hold a candle to any sort of sunny disposition
i'm getting farther from the fairy-flossed flames of bright bright brightness,
and nightswimming in the icy deeps of the even darker places.
illumination is often disappointing.
it burns out and fades away.
there's light without warmth,
and the shadows cast by these duplicitous lucifers are long and deep indeed.
every artificial lighthouse has a narrow beacon at best,
a slim slivered silver slice of unidirectional artifice that sends more into obscurity than it reveals,
until we crash on the shoals and shatter on the shores,
and find ourselves stranded and waiting to be stripped bare and picked clean
by hungry ghosts who know enough to bring their own torches with them.
hard styles, kids.
they never really soften, do they?
there's that going on,
but it's also a beautiful day in the immediate area surrounding that somber sh!t.
real talk,
it's time for weekends and strong finishes.
i doo-doo that, duders.
even the worst times can make for the very best times.
i mean,
without stories, a storyteller is well and truly something else instead, right?
so here's to dilated students of wide-open places and really real life,
and diluted pupils peering cheerfully teary-eyed into concentrated camps
on either side of every argument.
the viewpoint from behind the light is just as limited as it is when facing it.
back-to-back face-to-face-offs, kids.
the moon wanes, the sun shines,
the snow reflects both, but is only diminished by one.
every day is the worst day,
and today is another 'nother one of those;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, January 27

against the chill.

hot fire, mutha-F*ers!
that's the only way to activate a full moon under a cloudy sky,
with wildly whipping winds and arctic air blasting and basting and lambasting
our whole entire cold-weather layers to the beige underneath.
uh-huh, ninjas.
that's real.
it all starts with expert firestarting skills, for reals.
word up.
one spark is all i'm really gonna have to use to get it poppin',
and with the activation society watching,
my combustion capabilities needed to step up and swing away.
that's real.
teddy and austin came over to span a saturday night under the bright silver sky,
sipping hot chocolate and getting over on ma nature with some raging blazes.
and the blaze was raging, indeed:
the currents that carried the frozen air kept the embers billowing and the tongues
wagging like hungry wolves made out of flame.
...and i might have accidentally burned a whole bag of papers somewhere other
than inside the site-specific circle designated as the furnace for furious fuego.
it happens, y'all.
but on the plus side, that meant we suddenly had TWO fires.
and obviously, that's twice as dope, neighbors.
all good things eventually expire.
and the roaring defiance to the elements we experienced early on waned quickly
in the strength-sapping bear-hug of bitter cold and brute-force winds.
sh!t-hot coals?
we burnt it down to the white ash, ninjas.
i am grateful for the time i have been given,
and for the normally weird-averse friends who tolerated my idiosyncrasies
on an otherwise otherworldly elite saturday evening.
it's all really happening,
alongside some worthy warrior poets or otherwise.
time doesn't take time outs.
never quiet, never soft.....

plugging away.

hey kids!
i got some new treats in the mail yesterday.
nothing big, or overly showy, but definitely an excellent accessory all the same.
sometimes there just needs to be a little flash of personal hottness, y'know?
i'm sayin',
it's not much, but it sure does makes a difference.
a little gulp of fresh flavor, a new spice on the same old meat,
you know it- all that kind of dressed-up mess.
in this case?
some subtly super-fancy unnecessary discs of dopeness, for my face.
more specifically, for the giant stretched-out buttholes on either side of my head.
i did, with my new threaded headgear, ninjas!
how expert, neighbors?
you know they're rad.
like fasteners that keep the bearded weirdie contained between a horseface
and some elastic lobes.
big holes, friends, need big plugs. stuffed tight with gourmet woods an' that.
i'd probably be more excited if adding new earrings to the mix
wasn't just another 'nother way of decorating a big ol' hairy pile of sh!t, kids.
i doo-doo that.
and here's why it doesn't work:
all squinky-eyed like a dwarven delver from the deeps, duders.
buttoned up and bundled too.
this personal style i ply?
it's a hard style at all times, and even harder at the best of times.
stay ugly, stay dope.
real talk;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, January 26

again with the tattoos.

more like werewolf of the east, maybe...
is that even real?
i think so.
check the teleport:
me and my markers got it going on with it all over again.
full moon activation must be responsible,
because i showed up for work with ill will and malcontent intentions.
a big block of empty arm seemed to soothe the savage battle-beast,
and the ink sank deep into the skin from shoulder to elbow.
a few hours later,
and we have the start of something that doesn't suck.
this type of hand drawn hottness is certainly not the norm for a frigid january.
i mean,
usually it's crap-slapping sh!t-salad sandwiches smeared from ear-to-ear
across the smug grins and dry skins of some real rednecktard A*holes.
lucky me,
i guess my rabbity-rabbit recitations are starting to pay off.
i surely do hope so, y'all.
i could certainly do with fewer awful folks and maybe even one or two
dedicated duders with decent ideas.
it's still a permafrosty icy wind-blown tundra of terrible everywhere outside.
the remedy?
one hot stormswept raging barbarian fire.
good things come to those who activate;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, January 25

blanking out.

it's another below freezing day with above average levels of super-gaytardation.
i wonder why it is that i don't get paid for all of my incredibly loud, undeniably fresh,
and uncontestedly hard-styled compelling storytelling?
i mean, i tell true stories about tall tales and prehensile tails,
and spin yarns by the silken-tongued colorful and coiled skeinful.
so why do i have to lure in the listeners with traded tortures and bartered barbaricism?
for realsies, ninja-
i want movie checks for what i want to do,
and not what i feel i have to doo-doo all dang day at the tattbomb studio.
as it is,
i'm swapping spit and vinegar, or at least a bitterly emboldened batch of bravado,
and a soundscape of attack-and-defend back-and-forth repartee
with those fewer and fewer and farther between brave souls who expose their skin
and their innermost secrets to me during our spanned time together.
i don't know if they enjoy it,
but i'm pretty sure i can't stop it happening.
i think it all always really has to.
you don't even know a fraction of it, neighbors.
i just talk so god-damned much.
it's almost as if i'm somehow less alone if i can hear that A*-hole inflection activation,
and the rapidfire enunciated anunciations of an archetypal archangel of the morning starlight.
that's some devilishly complex insinuation, kids.
i hope you're enjoying it.
even frozen solid under a full F*ing moon,
there's never not hot fire keeping my jaw thawed out.
and i've got a semi-collapsible pair of creaky knees i'm resting on,
over a thick layer of pure ice,
and i'm howling, friends. i swear.
with wet-cheeks, all runny nosed and bleary-eyed,
until my chapped lips crack and my frostbitten skin flakes off like snow.
maybe i'm shedding my winter coat?
maybe i'm just making sounds.
maybe i'm soundly defeating the everloving quiet of an empty house and an empty life.
or maybe it's just so cold and dark that i should put myself to bed.
that actually sounds better than any of the other other blurted-out big business
and polysyllabic savage stormswept gypsy gibberish i've spread like gossip
and/or wildfire across the farthest reached of the woodsly goodness.
word up-
goodnight moon;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, January 24

oh my darlin'.

hey there duders,
what do y'all know about citrus?
yeah, that's what i said- citrus.
it's delicious, and too much of it is the right amount.
those are the only two pieces of necessary information i'm going to need.
i spent some time zesting the sh!t out of some clementines.
uh-huh. my microplane was working overtime,
scraping off the oil-soaked ragged rinds of a fistful of those elite orangey orbs.
into a big bowl of buttery sticks and powdery sugar.
but i couldn't just leave it alone and let it end there, could i?
no way.
i mean, if
so i found some pure lemon extract,
and fired in a splash of orange juice, i was in the market to make a perfect ten dessert,
i'd be leaving the kitchen a F*ing loser.
my jauns go to eleven, ninjas-
so with the help of my mightily-rotored stand mixer,
i whipped it good and hard,
until light fluffy vanilla-bean infused sweet heavenly frosting got activated.
check the teleport:
word up.
chocolate fudge cupcakes, kids.
that's what's up.
and goobieblops on top of that spread-heavy frosting,
over a thin crusting of caked-on sprankles.
my next goal is to up my decorating game, kids.
pastry tips are on the list,
and then i'll have a broader spectrum of blop-applicators super soon.
i know you want one,
and you know you want one,
but the price of each cup is one visit to the woodsly goodness.
to the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress i call home,
or even the sh!t-salad sandwich where i ply my trade
and trade barbed words and crooked insults with the minky, mincey
mealymouthed meatheads that frequent said establishment.
if you can't hang out, then neither can i, y'heard?
in the meantime,
that means these delightful dollops of chocolate and fruit are mine all mine;
i'm wolfing down individual servings of vitamin C,
and keeping all the vitamin D to myself at the same time.
which amounts to more mutha-F*ing nutrients an' that for me, my ninjas.
everybody wants something,
so somebody must be looking for that, too.
well, okay.
and while every day is the worst one,
every treat gets a little better than the one before it.
i may hold multiple titles as a grand champion of real-life documentarianism,
but small victories will still lose you the war, friends.
so let them eat cake in the meantime,
and whatever starving artistry ensues will have to be attributed to the
presence of preventative warrior poetry in motion.
it's all really happening, y'know?
and today, as always, is the day;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, January 23

three times as much.

it only ever goes too far,
for too long,
and with way too much to reasonably tolerate.
you know what i mean?
i mean every single day.
so what am i gonna do to get through it?
you already know what i always get busy getting busy with.
check the dark brown activation, my ninja:
triple mocha chocolate chip brownies, y'all.
that's no joke,
so you had better believe it, b!tchbags-
chocolaty chips by the bagful, all gooey up inside the moist, thick,
brown blops of burly coffee-stained super hottness in cake-type form.
...and two loco cocoa-cappuccino kinds of frosting.
add it up.
uh-huh. one, two, and three.
that's triple the dark and delicious decadent delights, kids.
just like i said.
what's that?
is it dope?
what are you?
an A*hole?
too F*ing right it's dope.
i mean,
that's vanilla mocha creme all over the top of that fat block of righteous sexiness,
and rich, buttery mocha chocolate sauce drizzled all over the face of that!
i kind of overdid it, neighbors-
which is to say i did exactly what needed doing, of course.
baking some goodies usually means i'm figuring something out.
and based on this epic feat of treat activation,
i'd say there's a whole lot going on up here.
i may or may not figure any of it out, or get any closure, exposure, or rapture
from the rampant rapport i'm lacking with other emotional roller coaster riders.
warrior poetry is tough business, y'know?
and it's always really happening.
all of it is really going to have to keep happening,
but indoors,
because it's too damn cold outside to even pretend i could want to be out there.
i'm freezing, and no matter how many heavy blankets i heap on myself,
it's just not as warm as an embrace.
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, January 22


eleven months of inadvertent abstinence, neighbors.
who celebrates being celibate?
A*-holes, that's who.
i'm definitely NOT rejoicing at the lack, dearth, and absence of available choices
for clever, competent communicative conversation,
eye-to-eye contact, side-by-side spooning,
or good ol' fashioned hard-style pounding, either.
it's a hard style for sure.
nobody likes a crybaby,
but everyone appreciates a good black comedy.
it seems i'm foredoomed to waiting with bated breath,
and digitally mastered baited hooks,
high-tensile pickup lines, and sinking feelings.
every single day adds up to weeks adds up to months adds up to now.
and now this is happening.
or isn't happening, more accurately..
awwwwwwwww, man!
oh, c'mon.
usually, i can at least appreciate the depreciation of my present value in social currency,
but today is the day, duders, and i'm staring down the barrel
at a burgeoning bagful of bulging brass clankers, if you feel me.
wait a second- you don't feel me?
no, i didn't mean it like that!
i'm kinda taking it to heart at this point, friends.
and i'm taking drastic action.
that's right.
self-harm by way of shark-gluttony:
ALL the sad frozen dumplings for my F*ing face!!
there's a hole that needs filling, somewhere.
presumably in the pants of someone special....
for now, though, there's a bellyhole that needs stuffing.
down the hatch and down the tubes and down the flippin' drain.
eleven, yo.
it's so cold outside.
it's even so cold inside.
i've got the heat turned way up,
the woodstove roaring,
and i'm bundled up like i'm a bag lady with all my warmest worldly possessions on at once.
i look dumb, and i feel stupid,
but i'm warm, mutha-b!tches, and there's nary a soul peeking in my windows,
so outside of this unauthenticated account,
there's no real proof other than the fact that i am reliably honest, like it or not.
with a heavy emphasis on the 'or not'.
frozen solid, and waiting for a break in this chilled-out windy weak-sauce worst weather.
there's always a thaw someday,
but it sure won't be today;
never quiet, never soft.....7x48. XI months. 

Monday, January 21

civil unrest.

it's mlkj day.
well, it is almost everywhere else, anyway.
but not up here in the very white mountains, kids.
no way, not once, not ever.
i don't get it, either, but it's true.
these ninjas can't hang out with giving propers to any one black guy,
no matter what dreams he had.
instead, it's civil rights day here in new hampshire.
everybody gets the same amount i suppose,
but it sure doesn't feel like it when compared to all the other places
that aren't quite so monoculturally inclined.
whatever, though, y'all-
nobody refuses a day off, right?
so call it whatever you want, and enjoy that three day weekend jauns.
just don't expect these honky-A* crackers to get with the lingo, yo.
i'm home alone again.
the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress is getting used to being a sole proprietorship.
a man's home, neighbors, is surely his castle.
and that's that absolute sovereignty-type sh!t, y'know?
i'm pretty sure it's a real thing.
i'd like to believe that my edicts are the absolute law of the land
within the liberated terrible territrory i call home,
but i will admit it's hard to be a benevolent dictator when you live with someone
who doesn't share the same sentient sentiment.
it's been a F* of a year, kids-
and all of a sudden, after a whole long dark cold dismal stretch
of hard-styles cold beds and heavy hearts,
the cherchez la femme fatality of berserker besieging seizure from within,
and the beset-on-all-sides sh!t-salad sapper sandwich is all almost all over.
for serious.
the next three days are just a petulant precursor
to the next three hundred and forty somethin'.
a Fortress of solitude, son, plus one dumb dog, is where we're headed.
i'm not ready, nor am i especially willing,
but i bow to the unyielding infinite nature of the secret universal plan.
every day, over and over, and it's never actually ever over.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, January 20

waiting is dumb.

this guy knows what's up:
only one week later, and he's back already.
we'll see if he can keep it up,
but i'm psyched to see a ninja reppin' that more-is-better approach
tattbombing his way towards completion gets my movie-check seal of approval.
what's that you're asking?
why didn't i finish the whole leafy part?
i'll tell you, but you have to promise not to get upset-
okay. he had to leave promptly at six, because he had to get home
to watch "the game".
what game?
i dunno.
and what's more, i don't care.
sports and sports and sports and sports 'n' sports 'n' sports.
it's all the same to me.
it was a full day of doo-doo buttery finger-wrecking zappin', though, yo.
that's real.
a fully-formed, half finished set of two different big tree tattoos today, kids.
and after all that arboreal activation,
i'm ready to saw some logs.
was it the worst day, again?
c'mon, don't be dumb.
it always is;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, January 19

so that's it.

the worst is over,
and the even worse has finally begun.
is that real?
i think so.
every day is somehow still the worst day.
over and out and upside down, it's always more.
and that includes today-
that's it, duders.
under the cover of a fresh discomforting comforter of blanketed snowfall,
the woodsly goodness is on mute.
...sounds good to me,
but then,
i can't hear anything out there except the tiny tinkling crystals that are drifting 
down and out from the grey ceiling that seems to get lower with every glimpse.
like an orchestra of chimes and triangles in miniature, 
each one pealing it's own uniquely unappealing song at the same time as it's peers.
anyway, it's still pretty flippin' quiet, neighbors.
and that means that the early morning wide-awake-up-call of stomach and headaches
and their ensuing gutwrench alarms is overloud between my ears.
that's foreground noise, my ninjas.
and it's loud, and hard, and stale for lack of fresh and refreshing fundamental feelings.
oh, i was just saying i can't sleep.
that's all.
no big news, really.
it's all really happening, kids.
nothing can stop that.
just remember,
without the bitter,
the sweet's just not as sweet;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, January 17

just add water.

that's the whole entire secret to making soup!
'just add water'.
it's just a pile of stuff.
on the real, though, i kind of do make a mighty fine cauldron of wet dinner.
that's a thing.
it seems simple enough, too-
put a bunch of sh!t in a pot and let it get hot for a while,
and then eat it.
we all know that apron-wearing warriors of worthy kitchen virtuosity
can't let it go with the flow like a bunch of simpering weak-sauce watered-down
diaper-babyish brothy b!tchbags.
i mean, we're not box-mix incompetents, right?
for realsies-
too much super-fancy, unnecessary move making is exactly the right amount,
especially if over-the-top depth and breadth of flavor are to be achieved.
i have to activate some really next-level game changing new hottness to
the same old tried and true techniques for cultivating comestible conquests.
check the victorious bowl of soaked vegan heroism, via teleport:
it's got ALL the treats, neighbors.
kale, fire-roasted tomatoes, potatoes, celery, carrots, onions,
garlic, chickpeas, zucchini, a hearty soup-base of water and other other liquids,
sage, thyme, basil, ground mustard, rosemary, nootch, g.p.o.p. (duh)
and pre-sauteed mushroom, to keep 'em from getting rubbery.
but the really extra-expert part is those six-grain croutons, y'all.
word up.
flame-grilled over the open range, blackened up with char-kissed magic,
and then doused in oil, pan-fried, tossed into a sack,
and shaken like a bad baby with all the herbs and spices,
and then baked into crispy cubes of unbelievable soup-enhancing performance.
F*ing right.
i doo-doo that spend-the-afternoon-over-the-stove sh!t.
i can't help it, y'all.
nature always wins.
not much beats a big hearty bowl of good-for-you stew.
i had three.
too much of too much is even better than more than enough.
full bellyhole?
warm, nourishing, and wet.
i like my food like i like my women.
that's 'sgusting.
....every day, friends, is the worst one yet.
at any rate,
it's thor's day.
or thursday, for all you non-viking-type duders;
and that means it's back to work in the soupy syrup of semi-sloppy snow.
awwwwwwwwww, man!
i've got another 'nother full day of tattblasting on some folks,
and another 'nother day of black and grey imagery.
what even is color, kids?
darkness and somewhat lighter darkness.
that's about it.
it's all really happening,
all over and over and over again;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, January 16

bake sale.

when i'm trying to put problems in perspective,
and reshape the sh!t-salad shambles of things in my life,
i bake something first.
every time.
no, but for realsies.
the kind of situational process and procedure that requires some planning
and preparation, as well as expert execution,
and then results in incredible mutha-flipping treats
is a mandatory component of the focus for some foreshadowing of things to come.
i mean,
taking whatever is laying around, combining it in approximate proportions,
and adding some ovenly hottness for essential activation is kind of a metaphoric
metamorphosis of personal development.
i mean, right?
if i can't take a batch of individual ingredients, combine them in order of importance,
beat 'em up, roll 'em out, and then turn them into something altogether better than
the pile of pieces i puzzled over at the onset,
then how am i supposed to analyze and attack the daily dilemmas and doo-doo butter
that drizzles down like sh!t-salad from my very own perpetual personal waking nightmares?
awwwwwwwwwwww, man.
that's kind of bleak, neighbors.
but speaking of drizzles....
check the overcomplicated but completely in-synchronous sexy time teleport:
quadruple layers, players.
loooooook at my foooooooood.
do it.
c'mon, y'all-
it started off with a graham cracker crushed whole oat buttery cookie big bottom base,
with chocolate-chipped up chocolate crumb cake on top of that.
you know i custom-ground that flour blend inside it.
intricacies inside of delicacies inside of gluttonies.
it's all really happening, folks.
and when it cooled off enough to accentuate the hottness?
double-vanilla frosting, with the dusty bean crankles got slathered like lather
all over the cracked fudgy upper crust.
that only makes it out to be a perfect ten, ninjas.
in order to take it all the way to eleven,
i also added a sensually-explicit chocolate ganache goobieblop driz on top of that.
i know i'm fancier than i need to be,
but in order to flourish, i have to apply flourish.
a big fat F*ing faceful of this turbo-flavorful freshness hasn't really helped out
the unalterable secret universal plans designed for my really real-life much.
and it all started out so motherb!tching well, too.
i blame the shark-gluttony, kids.
big reckless savage bites of a baller-A* square of carefully-crafted culinary elitism.
it cancels out the methodical plotting and calculations of my recipe-less theorizing.
get it?
real life unfolds.
that's the truth.
it's still snowing,
it's still cold,
and now it's also dark.
hard styles and long nights and ugly truths and handsome desserts.
when is all that happening?
pretty much all the time;
never quiet, never soft.....


my favorite new england scenario?
that's easy.
almost sixty degrees one day,
and snowy like a yeti with eczema's dandruff the next.
y'know something?
i like the reliably unpredictable violence of these extreme swings in weather.
ma nature's temperamental moods are so expert.
just another 'nother universal earth mother's mutha-'ucking hair-trigger tantrum.
today is the day, duders.
just like all the other ones.
this type of quick-change switch-up is just the sort of thing that identifies all
the overzealous and impatient imposters out there.
who are they?
you know 'em.
the jerks in shorts and flippy-floppies in the snow on the first warmish sunny day;
the same ones wearing their fashion ski-bum A*hole gear and talking overloud
about the slopes and powder conditions at the first flake of a flurry on the next.
maybe it's not for me to say;
after all,
i dress like a gay british skeleton almost every day.
highs and lows and rain and sun won't cure that, either, kids.
hard-styles in the absence of personal style are the way it is, i guess.
whatever, my ninjas.
it's snowing up here in the predawn woodsly goodness,
and it looks like it's gonna keep snowing for a while.
abominable blizzard wizards are what we've gotta be to keep the hottness poppin'
and the stoves stoked and the firewood stacked and all that other other huddled
and cuddled-up winter warrior poetry composed.
listen up-
i've even got chestnuts, neighbors,
and all sorts of fire: open, closed, shut, and sh!t-hot.
and that means it's roasting time up here.
folksy super-rad flame-kissed treats on a blustery day off?
and what about that whirley-pop jauns?
what do YOU mean what whirley-pop jauns?
check the teleport:
it whirls!
weirdie crank-handled popple-type activation!
i mean,
how flippin' Folk Life is whirley-popped corn gonna be on the woodstove?
the most, probably.
word the F* up, right?
we doo-doo that sort of stuff.
and when i say we, i mean me.
that's it.
i'm ready for whatever comes next.
the chaos of high pressure and low temperatures and other kinds of frontin', too.
especially storm fronts, y'all.
raging berserker gypsy sh!t, even.
it's a day off, alright.
off the tracks, off the beaten path, and maybe even off the list.
a wintry mixed-up wednesday in the great white northern reaches of the mountains?
you guessed it-
every day is the worst day;
never quiet, never soft.....7x47+1

Monday, January 14

stumps, scissors, and sauce.

holy crap, duders!
fifty F*ing degrees of farenheit hottness for our faces?
that's some epic solar-flare fuego from space-type sh!t,
warming up the woodsly goodness with extreme activation,
devastating the doo-doo buttery winter doldrums with savage stormswept
summertimely seasonally-inappropriate expertism.
it was a really nice day outside, today.
that's the news.
perfect for sitting around looking dirty and smelling bad.
that's kind of my specialty, son.
check the teleport:
just ugly, with being dope still pending.
whatever, my ninjas-
the air was so crisp and refreshing,
and the glare from the melting snow was completely blinding.
.....and that is dope.
i only did one tattoo today,
on a hairdresser.
one rock, one paper, and you guessed it......
it also had some kind of dynamic wet black-and-grey
fluid-nonspecific sauce spurting and/or dripping off of it.
not off of the skin, neighbors.
off of the scissors:
wet expensive weirdie scissors?
i GOT they.
i can't believe it's come to this.
internet dating is starting to look better and better.
oh, how the previously smug and self-centered have fallen.
i can't believe i'm even considering it,
but this long, arid, searing dry spell of all-aloneliness has gone on long enough.
i'm getting ready to type up a litany of lechery,
and let all the big-boned old women of the woods know
there's a new dose of disappointment waiting for their affections.
every day is the worst one, kids.
and it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, January 13

still here.

fresh to frozen to thawed and then frozen again.
all that leads to bloated up and bleached-out b!tchbaggery, y'all.
i'm just sayin',
it's a hard style,
living up here in the woodsly goodness.
...that's for sure.
back in the heyday of ultimate pumpkiny funtimes,
i got a whole bunch of gourds for the tattbomb studio,
and they've done their very best to stick it out through hot and cold an' that.
for realsies.
i looked through the fog for a bit, and found this friendly little face
braving all the elements to hang out outside with me at the shop today.
check the last-seasonal teleport:
the better question would've been- 'why was i outside, instead of working?'
because i had a zero mutha-F*ing day of stagnant gaytardation.
a zero day!
that's a big festy 'sgusting all-day doo-doo butter smearface, for my face!!!.
a whole dang day of hanging out where i'd rather be anywhere but at any given time.
...and for free!
i couldn't just sit there though, yo.
so i cleaned up the place, and stumped-up some smoky stogies,
and scrubbed all the equipment i could get my gloved-up hands on,
and i even had time to scribble a little bitty bit with a marker.
yeah, i mean it.
light-action activated expert arthur-making actually happened.
check the nerd-book graphic-novel influenced teleport:
it's talking about dead things?
monsters are dope.
that's a thing.
what's one more good thing about being a fully-grown old-A* man?
picking whatever dietary disasterpiece suits my whim of an evening.
like what?
like french-style fries for dinner, duders!
you'd better believe that happened.
two kinds of fries, two kinds of elite sauces,
one unbalanced starchy fried-up meal.
what's better than a zero day?
a zero day with a brutal stomach ache!
i win.
sundays are no fun when the world is turning it's back to you.
never quiet,never soft.....

Saturday, January 12

i still sometimes do this.

tattbombs, neighbors!
on occasion,
i get to start something kind of fun.
today was one of those days.
check the holy sh!t-sized first-tattoo scars and bark teleport:
a big ol' flippin' tree.
not the worst choice for a first foray into the world of tattzaps.
me and my pens put the multi-hued molto-layers of activation to it,
and a few hours later,
the duder left with the beginnings of what may end up expert.
tattooing over scars and dried-up wintertime wood heat flaky skin is no fun.
that's real.
but anything can happen, i suppose,
so while today was a foggy-bottomed soggy mess,
work was productive, albeit a applicative challenge, if nothing else.
i've got a sh!t-ton of graphic novels that arrived today,
and that means i've got more work to do.
nerding it up doesn't just happen, y'all.
real talk;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, January 11


we look pretty mutha-flippin' cool, especially when you can't tell it's us-
that's some special operational lightning-strike winter force sh!t.
and that's word.
get a glimpse of what you'll see out your windows when society collapses,
and the activation society rises:
that's craaaaazy talk, neighbors.
stop it.
i'm mostly foolin', anyway;
.....because you'll never see us coming until it's too late!
it says eleven on my calendar page, y'all.
i guess we'll find out if that's accurate or not.
as of right now?
it's friday,
i've got nothing going on,
no appointments on the schedule at the studio,
and i'm freezing.
there IS a box of vegan cupcakes waiting at the tattbomb shop for me.
so i will be stuffing my big fat stoopidhead with ALL the frosting, kids.
because too much is the right amount,
without a sugary sprankled treat,
this whole day might be doo-doo buttery.
no way, my ninjas- i'm just not having that;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, January 10

separation anxiety.

no amount of 'tactical nylon' is gonna take us away from certain realities.
for example,
the reality of olive the dog flipping her F*ing sh!t about being left inside
whilst we got so freakin' fresh and loud as hard we could outside.
i'm talking about masterstrokes of stroke-type barking, and shaking,
and back-and-forth racing to each and every portal to the woodsly goodness
facing our faces out the front of the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
my dog has mental health problems, neighbors.
those include an inability to accept distance at proximity.
she could see us, right there, existing independently,
but she couldn't be with us,
and that short-circuited her already hazy, haywired, thickheaded numb skull.
you don't have to say it.
i know it too-
oh, okay, fine;
they DO say dogs and their owners resemble each other over time, don't they?
so reality didn't care that we were playing pretend at all.
and i mean, at all, at all...
occasionally, really really real life intrudes, duders.
have you ever been so upset about missing out that you could practically crap yourself?
that's a thing.
dogs do that too, only they take it to eleven.
what's better than playing woodsly warrior in the yard with some buddies?
check the answer-style teleport:
tactical-type paramilitary militia dog turd-heap poople-scoopling!
sooooo glad we were documenting our big action.
that would be describing it as mildly as possible.
i guess we've got to watch out for minefields on the homefront, friends.
there's nothing like making your feelings known,
once all the barking in the world has gotten no results.
it can't all be awesome all the time, y'know?
that's the fundamental exchange rate of the secret universal interactive planagram.
everything costs something.
and if the fee for a day of dopeness was a wafting mound of soft warm sh!t? be it.
i was prepared to pay, and what's more?
it was worth it;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, January 9


we are grown-A* men of the woodsly goodness.
and yeah,
we love guns and trees and snow and ALL that sh!t.
and yeah,
we also play dress up,
because woodsly goodfellows of warrior poetry are dope.
check the teaser-type teleport:
my ninja austin, y'all.
he can snap a shot like nobody's business.
in order to really make it extra good, we invited another guy over to make war.
we had a playtime party in the cold white north, y'all.
me and thatcher got to put on some crazy-person gear,
and made some time to frolic around the Fortress for a few.
there's plenty more of this,
but just to whet your appetite for destruction,
check the carjack attacking teleport:
wordimus prime.
plain sight open carry photoshoot participation?
i mean, we are the activation society,
and we doo-doo that berserker winter-type business!
that's right neighbors,
my other other neighbors drove right past us without even noticing.
i guess all that multicam works!
that, or the octogenarian oldies were too busy trying not to die of old age.
one or the other, for sure!
all guns is dope, friends.
and all my friends are pretty dope too.
good times got spanned pretty hard,
and that's real flippin' talk.
i got treats all over the place today.
that's real.
you'll see.
...just not tonight.
i'm off to read up on some nerdy dungeon jauns.
but before i go, though.
check the scary silhouette-style teleport:
that's right.
we're coming, mutha-b!tches.
and more than likely,
we mean to do you harm;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, January 8

hot fire, and presents.

(two posts again today, buddy- but with plenty of pictures to help you along)
berfday berserker barbarian battle-beast blazing biers?
pyres for fires, and so many burning brands and branches, are what's up.
i doo-doo that hot fiery fury in the dark of night in the dead of winter.
because it's dope!
you guys like all the self portraits, these days?
then this isn't gonna impress you much either....
teleport towards the wolf-eyed warrior of fireside active participation:
that's my new hat, again.
that's right-
they pom-poms, b!tch!
my preparations paid off a thousandfold in dividends of light and heat and smoke.
that's right, neighbors.
i spanned an expanse of space in a spun spellbound seance of silence and solitude
in the ghost rings and spirit circles of the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
from just one lonesome spark, a tower of glowering glowing infernal flames was born.
check the timeline teleport, y'all:
a single match is all it took to get it cookin',
and within a minute, a beacon in the woodsly goodness was signaling to the skies
that commemorative concentric circles of truth and trial had commenced.
from there, things progressed apace-
the line of light stretched up and away, and the forest realm was illuminated.
that's that minas morgul magic witch-king jauns, y'all.
the snow was melting, and steaming, and an open-air sauna got activated.
you betcha.
there's a specific kind of excellence that a well-wrought fire evokes.
i needed it, my ninjas.
and i'm awfully glad i got to get it.
i may have been all alone,
but the spirits and memories, y'know, the woldengeists an' that,
were all with me.
me and my thoughts and a powerfully strong roaring raging ragnarok reverie.
nature and the elements therein,
that's all there was, and that's all there is.
hot fire, friends.
word up.
i went out to dinner with jessica.
oh, it was weird, for sure, but it really happened.
the restaurant recently flipped the script on it's menu, too,
so all the added extra buttery b!tch-sap and butchered body-parts
made for some interesting ordering a la carte.
it's always something kids.
lucky for me,
my homegirl elsah also stopped by, between dinner and dessert,
and dropped off a great big bag of presents for my F*ing face.
believe it, brother.
it's like i told you already-
my friends are better than yours.
that's no jokes, jerks.
check out the highlight delight she delivered to my doorstep:
what a knocker!
who's there?
winged green man!
winged green man who?
we're not doing that, guys.
i am really very lucky in almost all ways,
save the one i want and need the most.
i'm grateful for the time, and the place, and the people i have been gifted with.
i also appreciate the irony of the absent keystone in this archetypal archway.
it's all really happening,
categorically incomplete and comprehensively inconclusive;
never quiet, never soft.....

making wishes.

you gotta have cake on your berfday.
that's real.
because without candles to huff and puff and big bad werewolf-style
blow out the hot fiery exhalations of extinguishing goodness,
how else could you get to make an extra special once-a-year wish?
you know the rules.
you sing the song, you make the face, you close your eyes,
and then you send a silent secret message into the aura around you or whatever.
it's a thing.
this year,
i had single serving cups of really rad expert homemade magic, neighbors.
it's true.
check the teleport:
sexy sunovab!tchin' berserker berfday cakes!
triple vanilla bean, whole-grain, quad-sugar sweetened, pudding-in-the-mix,
double-moist, from scratch batches of barbarian baked greats.
with cocoa and chocolate activated cinnamaple frosting, and multiple sprankles.
because i only have an interest in gettin' fresh waaaaay off the charts,
to eleven.
i had to make my own battery bakery business, friends.
and, damn!, that's depressing.
i mean,
on the one hand,
that means they surely taste better than any other alternative-
since i've got that showboating showoff-type jauns down pat;
but on the other hand,
it would've been so nice to be disappointed in the taste of other folks consideration.
munch up on and digest that for a bit, broskis.
but i had the goods, and i know all the words,
so i sang the happy happy song, and i took a shot at that wishful sh!t, too.
check out the teleportational self-portraiture:
rules is rules, yo.
do wishes come true?
ummm, don't be dumb, duders.
of course they do!
...but only if they aren't any good.
that's the way it goes in real life, y'know...
when you don't dwell in make-pretend fairy-flossing story time,
it's the suckie wishes that always seem to come true;
and all the other other easy-fixin' work-shirking weak-sauce sh!t
is what falls short of the mark.
there is no such thing as epic real-world good-time before-times restoration,
because those jauns are for waterbabies and nancypants butterballs, y'all.
making moves, doing work, and getting busy is how the magic gets actually activated.
participation trumps passive hoping every damn time, without question.
i mean, real talk?
i even saw a shooting mutha-b!tching star last night.
i'm for serious, son.
no jokes.
a tiger-tailed trail skidding across the ionosphere on a crisp, clear, starry nighttime.
it was most probably a quadrantid meteor, since they're in season right now;
i still closed my eyes, held my breath, and tried my luck again, though.
the heavens supplied me with a mulligan, so i took aim,
and fired off my second shot at wishful thinking.
hold on to your hats and horses, because here comes the big news, my ninjas-
it didn't work. all.
awwwwwwwwwwwww, man!
hard styles and hard times and even happy berfdays can't change the truth.
what's really going on?
empty beds and empty hearts and an empty F*ing life, kids.
older and wiser and still more of all the same everything else.
if you don't think so, you must be selling something.
as you wish?
mostly dead, more likely;
never quiet, never soft.....7x46

Monday, January 7

so much.

it's been some kind of full day over here in the wallowing hollows
of the emptiest life in the woodsly goodness.
oh, yeah.
there's plenty going on.
it's a ball out berfday, y'know?
there was an expensive stinking stogie stump getting smoked earlier,
to ensure that i smell as bad as i feel.
that's real.
how was it?
take a peek, and judge for yourselves:
being manly never tasted so terrible.
and since we're speaking of dubious tastes,
how about expensive gourmet weirdie grown-up carbonated soft drinks?
i don't mind if i do, neighbors-
kola with a 'k', son?
check the teleport:
it's fancy, and it might even be delicious,
although my money is on the opposite being true.
it was expensive and unnecessary and therefore probably disappointing.
we'll see.
i haven't cracked it open yet,
i'm waiting for just the right nighttime nightcap moment to arrive,
and then it's a glugging chug down the gullet for that primo-supremo soda pop.
that's a love note scribed longhand from my main ninja handsome adam-
he got it poppin' all the way to XI for your mutha-F*ing faces-
check out this hottness from the future:
activated like a flippin' expert.
somebody doesn't have to F* right off, that's for sure.
it's official,
my friends are better than yours.
(unless they're your friends, too, of course!)
it can't all be happy happy, though, yo.
my dog hunted up,
and also successfully trapped this little A*-hole:

a vole!
what a squeaky racket that small sucker can squawk out!
a little mandible mastication from my cantankerous canine,
and he was well singing and sneaking and hiding from the unholy hurtin' she put to it.
we doo-doo that kind of sh!t up in here.
jessica wouldn't let nature take it's course, of course,
and in an attempt to relocate the freeloading squinty-eyed stoopid F*er,
he had to live in that cup for a few.
my terrorist terrier tore it up too well,
and it died of it's tenure inside the jaws of destruction.
(final outcome? nature wins!!)
i really love olive the dog sometimes, ninjas.
a sacrifice to the berfday gods from my own savage battle-beast!
and now, this is happening:
wordimus prime.
a pagoda-style pyre of potential hot fire.
a crazy blaze of barbarian glory, guys.
it's the best part of any berfday where hard-style pounding isn't on the menu.
awwwwwwwwwww, man.
if it gets hot enough,
maybe i can self-immolate and scatter my ashes on the winds of war and change.
you don't know the half, friends.
it's another 'nother day in the life of this worthy warrior poet,
complete with slow motion instant replays and penalties involving boxes.
hard styles are all there are,
and long, cold nights are the only kind we happen to have on hand up here.
it's all still happening.
i wouldn't have it any other way,
and happily, i don't have any other choice;
never quiet, never soft.....

happy? berfday!

happy mutha-b!tchin' candle-blowin' hard-hearted older-and-even-busteder berfday. me.
awwwwwwww, man!
thirty seven years old, in a row,
and today is the day it all starts over and over again.
my early late thirties, kids.
that's a thing.
what. the. F*?!
check the greyskull teleport, y'all:
stay ugly, stay dope.
that's every day, all the time.
and it's the truest story, told truly by yours truly to all my worthy warrior poets.
it's written in wiry hairs and wrinkly eyes, y'know?
the maintaining and remaining heinous part is easy, i let my face do most of the work on that;
it's the just being dope part that takes all the effort.
every day some new kind of participation gets poppin'.
...because it has to.
expert activation is in order,
since the likelihood of my berdfday wishes coming true is inconceivably far-fetched.
i think a more realistic brutal berserker barbarian battle-beastly birthly celebration is more appropriate.
flipping the F* out all day?
i can most definitely doo-doo that savage stormswept raging gypsy furious werewolf sh!t.
and why not?
it's my day, right?
i already started it off with three times the heroic T'n'T hottness, y'heard?
buttery, peanut buttery, and black(power)berry jammie-jam.
today more than usual, the object has got to be more, neighbors.
i mean, what else could it be?
early morning surprises were also on the table, my ninjas.
berfday times mean anything can happen, i guess.
my estranger-danger housemate, jessica, gave me a present.
yeah, for realsies.
that was nice, no question, and since i have always and forever loved getting treats-
word up.
and i woke up to a holy sh!t-ton of warm wishes an' that,
from the far flung corners of everywhere else, and a few from hereabouts, too.
berfday surprises, yo.
i like 'em, sometimes.
take a closer look at what's inside that brown paper and vining twine:
real talk.
i seriously doubt there will be any terrorizing,
but the devastation of spirit and memory are nearly complete and total.
thirty seven years old,
in the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress,
in the woodsly goodness,
in the rural northern mountains.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....