warlord laureate.

HAPPY HALLOWE'EN!
warrior poet.
berserker barbarian.
savage battle-bard specter.
lightning-striking viking lich king.
yeah.
all of that.
friends,
i get a little bit metal every now and again.
so, this morning,
while i was listening to red fang,
i was in the right mood for tying strips
of coffee-dyed 'burial shroud' jauns all over myself.
uh-huh.
and once i got all the bits and pieces put together,
i called up my personal stylist,
elsah,
and she did my makeup to make up for what my still-living face
lacked in dessicated doom, gloom, and undead fury.
stay ugly?
stay dope!
check the abominable woodsly wizard-type teleport:

c'mon.
i put it down,
and i gets it IN.
neighbors,
i love hallowe'en.
so much, so hard.
it's my favorite one,
and i can't resist getting decked out and dressed up,
even if i'm only going to work.
expert is as expert does,
and being all-alonely isn't any excuse for not getting activated.
black metal mummified master of my own o'ween.
that's a thing.
*
this is when the veil between here and now and the hereafter touch.
the ghost circles radiate outward,
the smoke rings contract inward,
and in between,
really real life folds and unfolds.
i am grateful for the time i have been given,
and i count myself especially fortunate for the ones i span it with.
this is all we have;
never quiet, never soft.....

tricks? treats!

spiced pumpkin cupcakes.
vanilla pastry creme filling.
maple cinnamon frosting.
sprankles.
over-the-top goobieblop dollops.
wait...
what does that even mean?
it means that it's time to get all samhain'd
and deadbody ghost circle crazy in the woodsly goodness!
HAPPY HALLOWE'EN!!!!!
YEP.
trick or treat, mutha-b!tches.
today is the day.
all day.
and we've got fancy bits of business to keep us busy.
check the seasonally-specific orange-and-black-type teleport:

see?
we know what's up around here.
we put all the parts together in one place,
and let the flavors explode all over your face.
yeah.
that's so a thing, and it rhymes, so it's got to be true, too.
rules is rules.
and don't act like the two color dots and two color frosting
doesn't take treat activation to eleven.
you know it does,
you know you like it.
you want they?
good.
we GOT they.
-
but wait,
is that all?
c'mon, what are you?
an A*-hole?
of course there's more.
there's always more.
duh.
teleport:

rock bloxxx!
these F*ers got the icing drizzle and the sprankles.
yuuuuuuuup.
if i get nothing else right,
i'll get a batch treats baked up good and proper.
without sweets, the bitter's just not as bitter.
oh, wait,
scratch that,
then reverse it.
yes.
*
i'll admit,
i'm kind of phoning it in right now.
sorry, neighbors.
but i've got flights to catch,
rabbits to speak on,
colder and wetter places to span time,
unniversaries to avoid,
and november is where and when it all happens.
at once.
a maelstrom of doo-doo buttery sh!t hot despair an' that.
yeah.
more collisions of storm fronts and battened hatches and bare backs.
jeez.
the greyest hours are yet to come,
and in just a few more days,
even the clocks look backwards again.
huh?
dang.
sure,
there are plenty of bright spots-
but for the moment,
the rain and the cold are clouding up all the views from each and every
advantageously dissed vantage point.
ouch.
it's all really happening.
that's the whole point.
the best parts?
yeah.
nevermind about those.
those are all mine.
the stories are always true,
but sometimes there's more to 'em;
never quiet, never soft.....

hats on hats on hats on hats...

my friends?
still better than yours.
sweet de made me a new hat,
and it's almost the same color as my eyes.
no, really,
check the honeyed-olive-type teleport:

see?
you can't even tell where one ends and the other begins.
expert.
crocheted treats for my big dumb head?
yeah.
i GOT they.
i love hats, neighbors.
that's a thing.
and y'know what else i love?
yup.
hallowe'en!
i started my costume making finally.
i have some headgear underway.
teleport:

uh-huh.
hmmm?
no.
that's not cloth intestines.
what's wrong with you?
that's cheesecloth.
duh.
how else am i gonna get all funeral shrouded?
c'mon.
if you live in a fortress,
it makes some sense to assume you're probably a king.
...and kings wear crowns, stoopidhead.
indeed.
i doo-doo that hallowe'eny sovereign specter-type sh!t.
believe it.
***********
i've got days off,
and more to do than i can fit into forty eight hours.
then,
there will be tricky treats, treaties, truces, and tricky tricks, too.
and then it's off to minnesota for the last time.
uh-huh.
i'm on the run from my old life,
at least for the weekend.
the rest will resume a week from now.
it's all really happening, kids.
every last second,
second helpings and second thoughts,
second guesses, and second choices.
there is so much more of this than ever before,
and somehow,
i'm STILL grateful for the time i have been given;
never quiet, never soft.....

all the things.

ouch.
so,
maybe i'm bad at using sharp things?
whilst cutting a cardboard box up,
so i could package up some treats for some people,
i chopped my finger up instead.
teleport:

jagged gash!
t.w.s.s.?
you can always tell that it's deep
when the slit's sides don't line up right.
yuck.
oh well,  neighbors,
cyanoacrylic adhesive to the rescue!
it's glued shut like crazy,
but it still dripped blood all over the damn place.
gross.
neighbors,
i hate blood, when it's on the outside.
and what's more,
i hate when it makes a reappearance.
yeah,
poppin' seams and spilling that vital sauce,
even in small increments,
is pretty much my least favorite.
what?
oh, heck, yeah-
i'm definitely a great big baby about that.
***********
is it self-aggrandizement if it's true?
duders,
i guess my personal flavor is delicious.
y'know?
otherwise,
why would it get bitten so hard?
you don't put in inside you if it doesn't taste good.
like,
i mean,
i'm definitely not bragging,
but
my hard styles are the freshest,
and the loudest,
and the most expert,
even if, in practice, in person, together in one place,
it really all kind of adds up to being the worst.
but, like,
all the constituent parts, though?
there are separately special attributes,
and selective sections of this caricatured character,
complete with endearing flaws, foibles, faux pas, and frailties.
it's the sh!tty bits that make it all so much more effective.
just sayin',
every perfume has a sour note hidden in it.
that's a real thing.
but, like,
by being a real sunovab!tchin' cannonballbag barbarian
battle-beastly bigmouthed bard,
i'm actually taking really realness to eleven,
by playing at playing as albie rock.
weird.
somehow,
emoting by rote,
and chewing the scenery until it eschews the fourth wall
is even more honest than just telling the truth.
uh huh.
but,
not everyone can do that......
so instead,
they seem take away the face-valuables,
and the outer layers,
that when they're applied to other other individuals?
yeah.
contagious.
infectious.
invasive.
it gets in there.
there's a harmonic resonance to being like this.
the catchiest terrible song,
unplayable on any but the ugliest instruments.
and then, it still never really sounds the same.
ugh.
rules is rules.
just sayin',
i do what i do, and it does what it does.
really real activators just put it down like that.
all i mean is,
one of me is two of me too many;
never quiet, never soft.....

nailbomb.

so,
i'm wondering-
how many orange nail polishes is too many?

i mean,
too much is the right amount, after all.
i'm just sayin',
hallowe'en times call for hallowe'en spirit,
and my claws are ready to show their true colors.
big surprise,
they're gonna get unnecessarily fancy.
uh-huh. i actually can't even help it, friends.
i have some questionably fashionable tendencies.
i get activated and expert with those ornamental jauns, though.
three shades of solid orange,
one clear glitter coat,
green, black, and autumny leafy metallic foil?
yes.
i do what i do,
and i doo-doo that decorative enameled fingertip sh!t.
nail painting party?
mmmhmmm.
i think you're invited.
*
oh, man.....
neighbors-
y'know that feeling?
yeah.
the one where you look at someone and it's not like it was?
at all?
like,
whatever there used to be is long gone?
yeah.
THAT feeling.
ugh.
the one where you peep your peoples and really, truly, finally,
once-and-for-all see for sure and certain that while they still
look exactly like somebody that you had to have in your life,
and have important times with,
they're not even close to that anymore,
and they aren't ever going to be that person ever again?
yuck.
duders,
sometimes, though,
it's not like it was,
but in the opposite direction.
like,
when somebody suddenly somehow flips that switch,
and the sparkles and the magic start glittering and flitting
around their face when you see 'em.
y'know?
like,
yeah, sure, they're alright,
but then,
they're a whole lot more, and it's just all right?
*
look,
friends,
there's this analogy i really like,
and it sort of applies.
sure,
the guy was actually talking about the societal breakdown
in the inevitable fiscal/social/governmental implosion of doomsday,
but that's pretty much what any good relationship is all about.
there's a certain urgent emergency to being together,
if passion hasn't yet been replaced by complacency
masquerading as contentment.
awwwwwwww.
meeting compatible people is hard,
so it makes sense to pick the ones who want to get activated.
teleport:

When you're faced with an overwhelming, life-threatening crisis as in the Titanic being hit by an iceberg, and you happen to be aware before anybody else is that the ship is going to sink and that there aren't enough lifeboats, and you know how to build lifeboats, and you try to deal with that in however long the Titanic had before it went down — you're likely to run across three types of passengers.

You'll run across a type that is basically deer in the headlights: "Ship's been hit! What does that mean? What do I do? I don't know what to do. I don't know where to go. Should I do that? I don't know." That's one group.

There's another group that says "We get that the ship's going to sink. We get that we're all going to die unless we make some lifeboats, and do it fast. Show us what to do."

And then you have a third group that says: "This is the Titanic. It's absolutely unsinkable. So we're going back to the bar for a drink and all you doomsday sayers can just take a hike."

Now if you're the one who knows how to build the lifeboats, which group of people are you going to help?

-Michael C. Ruppert, COLLAPSE 

...........
and doesn't that make sense?
assuming love and lust and loss are all a lot like a sinking ship-

and they totally are-
c'mon.
really,
relationships are formed from the impact of two forces colliding,
and the way in which that crash is handled determines the
relative success or failure.
i mean it.
the choices we make are the answers to the questions we haven't asked.
and yet,
you never stop asking questions,
and you never don't get a choice.
real life is a hard style.
you only save the ones who want to be a party to their own saving;
never quiet, never soft.....

celebrate?

you gotta have secret filling.
huh?
that's just what i meant-
secret filling.
you know....
no?
in the middle, dummy.
i mean,
if the option is available,
you really can't NOT do it.
it's way way waaaaay more expert than just the stand-alone
straightforward no frills everyday business.
c'mon.
the whole point is that there's more.
y'know?
yeah.
i put brown sugar and maple syrup and cinnamon
and ginger and nutmeg and allspice and a pat of buttery yellowness
all in a small pot,
and then i added pumpkin, and tapioca flour and flax seeds and vanilla,
and whipped it all into a frenzy over a little bit of flaming heat,
until i made a thick and fluffy fancy fall fudge for the middle.
the middle?
yes, the middle.
neighbors,
check the celebration-type teleport:

vanilla on vanilla yellow vegan cake,
with vanilla sweeter-than-sweet-creme frosting,
and juice-dyed organic hippie earth-tone sprankles!
.......with pumpkin blops dropped into the middle.
yuuuuuuuuuup,
surprise an' sh!t, kids-
there's pie in your cake,
because too much is the right amount.
yes. they're delicious.
yes. i'm kind of about that sort of thing.
yes. those are spiderweb muffincups.
c'mon, y'all-
it's site-specific seasonally-appropriate decorative activation.
rules is rules.
***********
work is so slow.
the nights are so cold.
and in between work and nighttime?
and in between nighttime and sleep?
and in between sleep and work?
ugh.
hours.
and hours.
and hours.
and all the time it's all really happening...
excruciating, elapsing, collapsing.
these days right here,
they take forever and there aren't even close to enough of them;
never quiet, never soft.....

i mean, it's the time for it....

apple pie!?!
yeah.
graham crackery super-goodness,
with cinnamon and butterishness, and all that,
crumbled, moistened, formed, and baked?
yeah.
neighbors,
i make one mean motherF* of a piecrust.
and you know what goes in there, don'tcha?
yuuuuuuuuup.
goobie-flippin'-blops of holy sh!ttingly expert
thinly-sliced finely-chopped cortland apples,
spices on spices on spices,
brown-style sugar, cane-style sugar, mapley syrup,
agave nectar, vanilla, and just a pinchy pinch of salt.
that's what's up.
check the teleport:

oh, right,
and it's got oatmeal sugarcrumb streusel on top, too, b!tches!!
it's the way that it's done, duders.
it's got the gooey goodness,
the crunchy crusted crumbles,
and the gingery grains of the bottom-most layer.
that's everything you really need in one place.
i doo-doo that bakey makey treatsy sh!t.
word.
***********
there are parts,
and then there are parts.
and beyond that,
there are the good parts,
which always lead up to the best parts.
i just want to be a part of all of it.
is that too much to ask for?
it might be;
never quiet, never soft.....

it's gotta be dirty.

duders,
just look at the corners of the floor.
spidery webs and dust clumps are mandatory.
is there greasy fry-oil filminess
on all the surfaces exposed to open air?
i hope so.
are there jars and cans of ingredients you've never heard of?
yeah.
now you're talking.
neighbors-
if you want a really great one,
it can't be from a clean place.
there's a magic ratio of filth to flavor,
and it cannot be denied.
check the festy dirthole-type teleport:

mmmmmmmm.
FALAFEL.
i don't know what lebanese bitter pickles are,
or what the weird red sauce is, either,
but i DO know that these guys put sumac on their jauns.
uh-huh.
it was six inches in diameter,
and they it got double squished-up and panini-pressed on a griddle,
after already toasting the wrap before the hummus and tahini base coat.
whoah.
pickled pink sh!t, and two kinds of weird sauce?
yuuuup.
light and dark beige smeared on it,
and jalapenos, too!
the place has no name,
a lotto machine,
and a married couple who give absolutely no F*s.
so expert.
they even had to make the falafel balls from scratch,
with sh!t off of their own dusty gross shelves,
right in front of my face!
yeah!!!
for realsies.
the dude was mashing fava beans and spices an' that right there.
you can't get fresher freshness,
or not-quite-hot-enough-oil, either.
that just makes 'em extra greasy,
which is of course to also say,
extra delicious.
friends,
i can't tell you strongly enough-
this place is doo-doo buttery and so 'sgusting,
and that's exactly how i knew for sure
that that sandwich was gonna go to eleven.
rules is rules.
...and because i was waiting,
the guy was totally giving me white-hot molten falafel balls
to snack up on while i watched him press and pound and prod
my double-wrapped waxy-papered and foiled toasted tube
of elite hottness and wet pickley smears of color.
yup.
dirty is good.
remember that;
never quiet, never soft.....

a wild pack of family dogs.

duders,
my peoples,
all together,
in one place,
at the same time.
that's the kind of converging cosmic chaos and raw energy
that activates all kinds of new and different levels
of battle-ready berserker beastliness.
really,
we all have our roles to play in a loud, fresh, hard-styled voltron
of old times and old habits and old bones and old grudges.
well, yeah, i mean,
we're a family, y'all.
c'mon.
so,
y'wanna peep in on the fam'?
wow.
you do?
ohhhkayyyy,
have it your way.
check the bloodline werewolf teleport:

that's the guru.
fountain of wisdom,
bastion of brutality,
lion in winter.
...he don't like nuthin'.
that's a real-life true thing.
*
up next?
the whitest kid you know.
teleport:

m.g.
she loves to run sh!t,
business and 5k's and everything in between.
she's one crackery connecticut shoreline entrepeneur.
yeah.
she can do more pull-ups than you, too.
*
last but not least,
we'll double-down with the time travel-type teleport:

generations!
my ma, and my littlest sister, anna.
twinning?
i think so.
double barreled sicilian mount etnas!
my mama is capable of blurring herself on camera;
my sister will blur your vision with b!tchslaps;
and both of them will bring the thunder right to your mincey face
if they happen to decide that your sh!t is weak.
fact.
they have skills, neighbors.
that's real.
yeah.
so,
you can see there's a family resemblance, for certain.
the thick black barbarian blood runs strong in these veins.
each and every one of us reps the hardest style,
and chooses our own wrench, really.
a great big F*ing fat one
every time.
***********
family, though.
it's somethin'.
once in a while, we get it right.
this was one of those times...
we made sure to make harvest's party a good one.
i mean,
we're not complete A*-holes;
never quiet, never soft.....

emergency.

so,
when your kid turns thir-flippin'-teen,
and you pick her and her sister up from school,
what could be better, really?
oh,
only two things, i think-
first,
if your best buddy meets you somewhere,
like,
maybe at the spot where you rep on some emergency tofutti?
hmmm,
perhaps.
teleport:

yuuuuuuuuuup.
huh?
oh,
he's an adult, and he dresses himself, actually.
yeah.
fr'uncle paul, a.k.a. the cucch,
and the berfday girl, and her sister, and i,
know where to get the party started right.
right?
right.
once all the experts were in one spot,
a couple scooples of that icy creamy treat got activated.
that's the second thing, neighbors-
check the autumn-colored sweetness-type teleport:

c'mon.
sprankles!!!
that's what's up.
and how good do they look, though?
you know it, friends.
seasonal shots of color on top of our cold hottness.
believe it.
traditions are for the generations, y'all.
*
berfday shopping sprees,
and berfday dinners,
and berfday cake,
and all kinds of family togetherness.
we GOT they.
it's just sort of what happens,
yearly.
i'm already back home, though.
too much is the right amount,
and when it comes to connecticut,
any at all is already too much.
the height of good manners is knowing when to leave,
and i'm nothing if not a sophisticated masochistic gentleman;
never quiet, never soft.....

cake is where the heart is?

what's up, neighbors?
you want to know what happens when it's berfday cake time?
oh.
okay.
check the teleport:

c'mon.
two layers of heart shaped hottness,
cemented together with sweetcreme frosting?
of course.
...and are those golden glitter sprankles,
like it's a heart of gold,
like neil young got baked into a harvest moon
full moon berfday party time treat?
yup.
i mean,
what am i?
an A*-hole?
no way.
after all,
i know what being expert is all about.
***********
so,
i'm headed south.
back into the fanged jaws of the urban landscape.
uh-huh.
today is the day-
i'm going home, again.
okay.
it's not home, exactly.
that's right here in the echoing emptiness of the cold grey
woodsly goodsly Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
but,
i AM going back to where i came from.
yeah.
that's real.
hamden, connecticut, i'm coming for you.
huh?
yes.
if it wasn't for harvest and maple,
i think we'd all just be content to live and let live,
with hours and hours worth of longitude between us.
for realsies.
we'd probably never see each other otherwise.
now don't get me wrong-
phones and roads both work in two directions-
coming and going.
it's just all this really real life that interferes with making time
for collateral comrades who share the same ingredients.
so, actually,
i suppose those girls are some sort of magnetic focal point
that summons up some overarching family togetherness sh!t.
we'll take these minutes to join forces and feast and fete for their sake.
...and then,
we'll immediately remember why we never do this sort of thing
berserker barbarian battle-beasts,
and blood-feud savage stormswept gypsies,
and werewolfen warrior poets,
one and all....and all in one place.
it's like combining hot fire and gunpowder
with short fuses and sharp metal shards.
it is always dangerous and there are always explosions .
oh,
don't get upset-
we all share the same shortcomings,
we all shoot first and ask questions later,
and we all take every single thing too far.
that's what family IS.
eleven is as eleven does, duders,
and we are consistently over-the-top,
off-the-charts,
and out-of-control.
we're gonna get it together when we get together,
and then we're gonna take it apart.
infinite nature always wins.
today is definitely the day.
berfday parties and berfday cakes-
it's all really happening,
that's the whole point;
never quiet, never soft.....

hearts.

two hearts?
yeah.
freshly baked vegan white chocolate cakes,
heart-shaped, because they're made with love an' that.
awaiting the added sweetness
of a cemented relationship with sticky frosting in, on,
between, and around 'em.
check the right-out-of-the-oven-uncooled-type teleport:

they're still naked and in their pans!

and while they may seem separate and entire all by themselves,
i assure you,
they are not two,
they are one.
they just need a little bit of help to get it together.
but, c'mon, guys!
cake is what happens when it's berfday time.
y'know?
uh-huh.
and berfday time is what's happening, too.
ready or not, willing or unwilling,
i'm headed to connecticut, neighbors.
it's true.
the right thing to do remains right even when it isn't any kind of fun...
and it really can't be avoided-
believe it, kids-
i've got responsible adulthood to engage in.
yep.
my oldest daughter,
my miniature marvelous magical doppleganger,
harvest,
turns 13 on monday.
yeah, that's right:
thirteen!
daaaaaaaaamn, duders,
i've got a teenaged daughter.
what the F* happened?
i mean it.
you blink and it's all gone by.
time travel doesn't even pause to let you catch your breath.
y'all can either keep up,
or you'll just end up old, busted, and alone,
having missed all the moments that built your whole life.
y'gotta go harder, fresher, louder, and all that,
or else you lose whatever's good.
...and that's pretty sh!tty, now, isn't it?
so keep up, obviously.
and never stop.
*
the thing is,
i miss you.
yeah.
i mean it.
it's all always almost enough,
but too much is actually the exactly-right amount.
that means there's never enough,
and that's too tall an order to fill.
rules are rules,
except when we break 'em;
but i think disassembly is required...
especially if we want to build a bigger and better something
with the salvaged scraps of before and afterwards.
no?
beats me, really.
i'm just busy being expert,
and putting the pieces together one at a time.
there's a place for everything, and everyone;
never quiet, never soft.....

bloxxx

yup.
neighbors,
the moon is SO full.
but,
it's being shielded from sight by a thicket of rainclouds.
it's muted.
the low rumble of a far off battle,
the thunder of a distant stampede,
...that's what it feels like.
the bass-boosted barbarian blood-boiling drumbeats
are being obscured, muffled, hidden, and constrained.
uh huh-
rainy nights keep the beast-mode mayhem of a hard, hurt,
heavy heart from fully transforming into a furious ferocious fever
of active overreactions and making it worse.
i can't stand the rain.
and it's taking the last of the color with it-
matching the wolfish grey grizzled grit and grist on our grim faces
and the gilded chagrinning smiles across our mouths,
to the glistening colorlessness of the trees,roots, and rocks.
we're washed out,
but not diminished in the slightest,
and the dropping drips are each and every one turbo-charged
with lunatic energies, werewolfen watermarks and free-form atoms,
self-destructing outside my window
with a crash apiece on my metal-topped rooflines.
awash in brightness, above these clouds,
the skies over the woodsly goodness are feelin' sad to see us this way;
and as such they're crying moon-eyed tears,
infused with cold silvery blue light
into the darkest darkness down here.
uh huh.
there's a lullaby in translucence and tin being played in pitters
along the bitter brow of the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
hard styles make for sound sleep and lucid dreams.
***********
but,
there are always quick and silver linings lacing the edges
of the infinite natural cycle of good, bad, ugly, and dope.
believe it.
what's the best way to get busy?
baking.
duh.
i couldn't let the opportunity to create some hottness pass by.
not while i've got all the ingredients right here,
just waiting to get combined together into something expert.
i make it all get activated.
i mean,
i'm actually NOT an A*-hole.
just sayin'.
check the cookie-crumbling teleport:

rock bloxxx.
that's right.
peanut buttery coconut oatmeal jauns.
with the chocolaty drizz,
and those coconut cookie crunch sprankles.
yeah.
the ground-up coconut is fatty-boombattie enough to keep 'em softer
than the peanuts would normally permit.
it's real.
soft enough to melt inside your face right after the shell
of gooey deep dark brown and crispy light brown get broken up
by your shiny bright flashing gnashing chompy-choppers.
word.
i doo-doo that chewy crispy crunchy super-hot treats-style sh!t.
i have dozens of  'em at the shop, kids.
and if you visit?
no tricks,
you'll get treats for your trouble.
really.
the moon doesn't care,
and neither do i.
we're (were)wolfing them down.
and i don't just mean cookies;
never quiet, never soft.....

battle!

oatmeal blondie!
pumpkin cake!
beige on beige battle royale?
yup.
marble swirled double batter no-holds-barred bars?
that's a thing.
coiled around each other in a convection conflict of confection
and combat?
that's right.
jeez.
twin evenly matched monsters made out of treats
sounds pretty much like a title fight inside my mouth.
check the teleport:

look closer.
there's really truly two kinds of cake locked in an embrace.
awwwww.
see?
they're not really fighting, neighbors.
actually,
they're making out.
they love each other,
and under the covers of that cinnamaple cider frosting,
they make those sprankles sparkle.
...and that's exactly how it's supposed to be.
duh.
*
how'd i bring 'em together?
i took the way by which i make brownies,
cut it all in half,
removed the brown,
doubled the dopeness,
added some orange-colored winter squashy stuffs,
some oaten excellence to the other,
and freaked off both hot pots of melty butterish and soymilk
with totally different approaches to elite bakery activation.
then,
it was all just a matter of proximity and stimulation.
huh?
what's that, now?
is it expert?
c'mon.
of course it is.
you should know already that that's all i'm even interested in.
the thing is,
despite being different,
the heat made them both do exactly the same thing together.
that's pretty damned romantic for a baked good.
***********
werewolfen animal instincts!
friends,
i get so tired, and i sleep so little....
you'd think i'd be exhausted enough to stay in slumberland.
nope.
not a thing, not a chance-
and i wear myself out with lots of exertion every day.
hell,
i exercise restraint more than i exercise my mind and body.
holding in everything,
every night, and most days, too.
and these days,
with the silver circle in the nighttime sky
sending it's summons to every base and brutal urge inside me?
yeah.
it's great news,
if you like fighting with yourself;
and moon-eye gazing away at obvious and inaccessible folks;
and if you like not sleeping;
and sighing the biggest sighs you've got.
i've kept my hands from doing what they want,
and i've kept my face near enough to bite,
but i haven't.
infinite nature never goes away, y'all.
it's there, waiting, prowling, howling, scowling,
a hungry pack of senses and senselessness.
it all costs something.
i'm paying;
never quiet, never soft.....

baking it away.

coconut,
ground walnuts,
crushed almonds,
cinnamon,
confectioners sugar,
pretendy butters,
agave syrup,
a splash of maple syrup,
smashed up flax seeds,
vanilla bean paste,
and a splash of cider.....
cook it in a pot,
pack it in a mini-muffin cup,
bake it in an oven.
what do you end up with?
this:

fancy-style macaroons.
they spent most of the day stuck in their little tins,
each cup clutching the coconut and never letting go.
the tightest death-gripped hug for each and every one of 'em.
however,
all that not giving up on their part
didn't stop me from squishing them until they had no fight left.
they held on and on until the bitter end,
but sometimes you still lose for all the effort, y'know?
yeah.
i'm kind of a d!ck sometimes, it seems-
but,
i also get to have super-fancy crispy crusted macaroons.
in my face, down into my belly.
if i hadn't broken up their relationship,
i'd have missed out on all the magic i made...
F* that.
reinforcing negative behavior is what i'm best at, neighbors.
that's a thing.
*
baking makes me calmer.
really.
you already know that.
these days,
facing the full fat face of a full flippin' moon,
and a long set of days
leading up to a long flippin' weekend
down in connecticut?
baking is saving the day.
hard.
there's blood and there's sugar and there's hot fire.
...on the inside;
never quiet, never soft.....

thanks, ma.

you guys know i love getting mail, right?
it's true.
and when i get treats in the mail,
my whole entire day gets a little tiny bit better.

neighbors,
yesterday i got a lovely little surprise in the post box.
uh-huh.
check the parcel-package-and paper special delivery-type teleport:

c'mon
real-life-leafy, tree-barky, stick-winged love birds.
what?
how do i know they're LOVE birds?
don't be dumb.
they have to be.
i mean,
there's two of them.
because just one is just too lonely.
that's definitely a thing.
my ma hooked it up with that thoughtful sh!t,
for me,
from the new york botanical gardens.
gift shop jauns are good for you.
hell,
anytime anyone thinks of me,
it's got to be some sort of validated vindication for all the infectious,
invasive, insidious idiocy that i inflict on the world around me.
the idea that i sometimes get presents for being such an A*-hole?
yeah.
so expert.
i'm on your minds, kids.
i get in there.
i'm sorry, and you're welcome.
lovely lovers in sticks and branches, though?
just what i needed, just when i needed it.
the universe provides just enough to keep you going.
and sometimes, so does your ma.
that's real.
***********
the sky is missing this morning.
it's grey,
and the clouds are down around the roots of the mountains.
we're obscured,
and the expensive, ever-expansive,
ever-expressive answers are hidden high above us.
all it takes is looking up and being patient,
and eventually it gets revealed;
never quiet, never soft.....

fourteen.

today marks fourteen years since i started tattooing.
yeah.
fourteen hand-cramping, back-bending, interminable years.
in a row.
tattooing has been good to me,
and tattooing has been bad to me.
really.
i'm just sayin'.
almost every lasting interaction in these last long
hard, cold, lonely fourteen F*ing years
has originated through the tattoo shop.
or, at least, one tattoo shop or another.
i mean,
i don't really go anywhere else,
so meeting people is confined to the studio hours.
ugh.
tattooing.
after all this time,
it is arguably the worst thing that ever happened to me,
and also, inarguably, the very best thing too.
would i have made the friends i have without it?
one or two, maybe;
but,
would i have met my (x)wife without it?
....no.
would she have been able to meet someone else,
and then be able to afford leave me without it?
.....also no.
then again,
if we're being fair and honest-
i kinda had that one coming.
at least, if getting even is what we're getting at.
F* tattooing.
it provides with one hand,
and it takes with the other.
hell,
i haven't spoken to my first client,
my old friend, mitch, in years.
damn.
it's bitter, and it's sweet,
it's salty, as in: harboring a grudge.
and it's salty, as in: dripping sweat, and dripping tears.
there's a balance to all of it, neighbors.
for the first time in fourteen years,
i almost forgot that today is the day.
it was at once a relief and a quick burst of panic.
did i miss it? did i care?
no, and yes, it turns out.
tattooing is not the love of my life,
that's just the truth of it.
however,
it IS my bottom b!tch,
and i'm gonna always hit that.
***********
how'd i celebrate?
yard work.
i blew leaves into the neighbors' yards;
i burned leaves in piles;
i raked leaves across the grounds of this Folk Life & Liberty Fortress;
i used a dull maul to battle-bash wood to bits;
i stacked the bashed bits;
i fertilized plants;
i acidified the soil around my blueberry bushes.....
basically,
i labored along in the woodsly goodness like a serf,
nowhere within sight nor sound of a tattoo.
and it was pure bliss.
when it was all over,
i activated twenty-two dumps on my face.
teleport:

word up, friends.
a fat faceful of filthy sesame-oiled diapers,
filled to the tippity-tops with all the delicious i could handle.
it went to eleven, twice,
and i let it.
packing up and folding over those dumplings is relaxing.
there's something to show for it,
until you eat them.
like those leaves,
the piles were high until they burnt to a blackened ashy dust heap.
that's the way it goes.
it all just seems so damned amazing...
...until it isn't.
ugh.
-
dear tattooing,
     somehow,
     you win again.
                  xoxo
                      love,
                         albie
-
it's all really happening,
all of it, all the time.
and as much as i complain about the way it's unfolding,
i'm still grateful to be a part of it.
the other options just don't seem as appealing;
never quiet, never soft.....

dumps.....omega level.

filling?
first thing in the morning,
you duders know i was up and at them,
slicing leeks,
mincing cabbage, crumbling tofu,
shredding carrots and celery, toasting sesame seeds,
babying some spinach,
and crunching up some mung bean threads.
uh huh.
i make that sh!t work...
it's the insides, y'heard?
and it's what's inside that really matters.
all the rest is just dough.
filling the order for flavorful filling is what i do.
teleport:

a big bowl of brown and beige?
yeah!
it's got those liquid aminos, too.
haha.
c'mon, it's really just tamari, trying too hard.
awwwww.
-
anyway,
we stuffed 'em and rolled 'em and boiled 'em and fried 'em.
and then we set 'em up to look so sexy.
check the teleport:

you all are just jealous of these dumps on your face.
that's definitely a thing.
scallion blooms?
yep.
we did that too.
super-fancy unnecessaries?
always.
and we all know it's scallions that make the sauce so damned good.
oh,
don't even think for a second that we didn't make two kinds of sauce.
c'mon.
we aren't like that.
i mean, just one sauce?
no way.
that's what poor people do.
haha.
true story.
however,
ginger, garlic, sriracha, chipotle ho'sauce, smoked hot paprika,
black pepper, oily sesame seeds and a splash of soy?
that's that expert business for heating up the second bite.
obviously.
it's thick.
that means you add the juicy one, and let those scallion bits catch the heat.
smart.
we know how to make a meal into something special.
that's another thing.
***********
time traveling into the future?
yep.
that's also a thing.
and we do that. too.
there's a system to it,
with added hot fire and explosions to it,
that make it possible to do it the way we do it to it.
no.
really.
and when we span time, all together,
it's altogether greater than if we went at it alone.
honestly,
it's unfolding faster than we could fold dumplings,
and it's opening up in spiralled circles in every direction.
we pinched our pouches shut,
but the evening blew apart in front of us.
that's big bang-type jauns.
outwards and upwards forever and ever.
with full bellies for fuel,
and fully intending to never return back the way we came;
never quiet, never soft.....

yeah.

....and then,
when it seemed like everything was already at a low point,
this happened:

yuuuuuuuuup.
stay ugly, stay dope.
it's a thing.
there's just no denying that a costume change
can be a character assassination waiting underneath
the waxy plastic weave of a cheap wig and a hat.
transforming us into a pair of A*-hole twins?
yeah.
we doo-doo that playing-dress-up-type sh!t.
of course we do.
why?
neighbors,
because expert recognize expert.
we know how to use what's there
and make it rad by taking the level of terrible to eleven.
the worse it gets the better we know what to do with it;
never quiet, never soft.....

n.g.f.l.

.....i don't care about that.
what?
about what?
oh.
right.
sorry, neighbors,
i'm repping that in medias res jauns over here.
right in the middle.
you know.
that's where i want to be.
dead center.
spot on.
right inside.
and it's sorta happening.
ever so slowly.
twisting, coiling, entwining, vining, reaching around-
i'm all wrapped up in some real life sh!t.
i mean,
there are hard styles,
and then there are hard styles.
y'all can keep your ratchets,
i'm choosing the wrench.
woooooooord.
oh, i'm definitely taking the path of greatest resistance.
i prefer impossible odds for getting even,
and i only want the things i have to earn.
there are far easier, accessible, safer ways to get it,
but they just don't count nearly as much.
i want exactly what i deserve.
really.
kids,
when it comes to something for nothing?
not for nothin', but i don't care about that.
see?
we got you all caught up.
now,
it's time to move forward;
stepping out into fall's flora and it's steady decline into grey.
the woodsly goodness has the things in it i like.
that's a thing.
it's where i do what i do.
what am i doing?
y'mean besides doing the best i can?
what else would i be doing?
don't be dumb.
***********
ugh.
duders,
since when am i considered nice?
i mean, sure,
maybe in private i get a little bit nicey-nice.
but in general, essentially, on the whole?
no.
i'm just not buying into it.
what?
oh,
i'm not saying i'm intentionally mean-spirited,
malicious, or awful.
i'm not actually an A*-hole after all.
c'mon.
i may be a miscreant of grievous mischief,
a wanton wordspitting glib and guileful fun-maker-
but it's just that.
y'know?
all in good fun.....for me at least.
i give as good as i get,
and i pay what's owed,
but i'm not giving something for nothing,
anymore than i'll accept that as payment for unrendered services.
if you've earned it, it's not being nice.
it's doing right.
nice isn't allowed unless it's a side-effect of truth-telling.
what really gets me worried is the idea that nice guys finish last.
and i think that's a real thing.
i'm not trying to act as the agent of my own undoing, guys-
i'm looking for a come-from-behind victory;
a surprise ending;
a plot twist;
a late-day, last-minute, midnight reversal of fortune.
second place isn't gonna cut it, either.
the universe is cruel,
but nature always wins...
and nice has nothing to do with it;
never quiet, never soft.....

silver medal.

maybe i was supposed to be a giant?
i think that's real.
yeah.
otherwise,
why would i have these great big grabby glovely ones
hanging out at the ends of my wrists?
they're obviously for someone who was intended for greater things.
like, just maybe,
all the goodness designed to diffuse throughout an entire
oversized complete person got pulled and pooled by gravity
into just the ends of my arms.
i mean, c'mon-
it would explain why they're so damned long,
and why there're spidermitt monsterpaws dangling at the tips.

no?
but on the really real-
these twin choking jokers,
and their wide-palmed spans,
and their starving stickly stalks?
yes.
they're made for taking,
and for talking,
and for tempting, teasing, tickling, tracing, trapping.....
and most of all,
for devouring whatever they touch.
i'm serious-
my hands have teeth.
metaphoric masticators of all sorts of knots.
from sore backs to messy entanglements,
i've got ten long, gnarled, knobby fingers ready to bite into all of it,
and get a taste of what's in store for us.
ugh.
it's not easy,
not letting them loose to hunt up the things they want.
they're just so hungry.
i mean it.
and there's parts on parts on parts,
so much prey and so much pain
and so many pleasing pokes and prods and pulls and pushes.
neck-napes;
back-smalls;
hip-handles;
those are the part and parcel of what i'm prestidigitatingly digesting.
c'mon.
that's expert.
anyway,
it's all about the hands, kids.
all the best secrets are always in the hands.
true story.
***********
ummmm,
but, like,
just HOW bad at girls am i?
holy F*ing sh!t, neighbors-
i'm the best at being the worst.
and what's more,
i'm taking the blue ribbon first prize trophy
for being a tarnished soured silver second place finisher
in the highest concentration of consecutive instances.
huh?
oh, stop it....
i go for it.
y'know, the gold.
just like it says on that heavy hand up there^^^^
it's just that i'm such a sucker for all those interesting individuals
and tremendous brunettes that i forget myself.
and that's no joke.
ugh.
yeah, i'm kinda caught up in that sh!t.
i go for it every time.
the good news?
i get just a little closer every time,
and i never ever ever give up.
failing is fine.
hell,
i've been doing that like a professional for decades.
it's quitting that's where i draw the line that can't be crossed.
-
now,
what do all of y'all know about hard styles?
yeah, i'll bet.
but on the ones?
mine are harder.
i promise.
hmmmm?
c'mon.
just relax, a little baby bit, dear-
i'm talking very specifically about the general theme
of being brought low by aiming too high...
it's kind of a sure-fire way to be certain to always miss the mark.
huh?
take it easy.
i'm right on target.....for coming up short.
what?
yeah. you're probably right.
i suppose pouting IS unbecoming of a warrior poet.
it's all really happening though.
that's the whole point.
jeez.
i just always want more.
i mean,
that's the objective, isn't it?
never less, never easy, never enough;
never quiet, never soft.....

getting fresher, going harder.

duders,
i think i'm onto something.
hmm?
yeah,
a little special secret sumthin'-type jauns,
for all our collective faces.
well,
all the faces without chocolate, wheat, or nut allergies.
those faces have to kinda F* off this time around.
but, for real, neighbors,
i made a new thing.
and i'm pretty sure it's an expert addition to the roster
of baked-up betterments for these barbarian battlements.
no?
hold on, kids-
before you get bored and act dumb,
check the teleport:

flaky pastry pockets?
yeah.
pie crusts cut into small circles, folded over, and pinched shut,
wait,
like dessert dumplings?
wordimus prime!
that's exactly F*ing right.
chocolaty coconut candy filling on the left,
chocolaty walnut crumble filling on the right,
with drizzle and dips in dark chocolate respectively.
uh huh.
i'm taking the treats game up another 'nother level.
i rep eleven as the baseline for being better than the best.
is it working?
ummmm,
i dunno, actually.
i'd like to think so,
but i might actually be too smart for that.
awwwwwwwwwwwww.
but,
those little two-bite crescents are damn good tasting, anyway.
**********
there's no question i'm forever bad at girls,
but i'm unrivaled at being good at people.
and when girls are being themselves,
they're dangerously close to being people.
yup.
and the way i interpose myself between the overacting reactions
of everyday people and the overreactive actions of a self-propelled
active participant in really-real hard styles life?
yeah.
i'm at my absolute most proficient.
when there are responsibilities to assume,
i'm good for it,
but when there's worsts to assume?
i'm made for it.
i speak fluently in the tongue of true terribility.
yeah.
that's a thing.
real life documentarianism is what i'm doing.
i promise not to rewrite history to make the victors seem heroic,
or the losers look like villains.
the good guys don't usually win.
rules is rules;
never quiet, never soft.....

fall food.

apples?
yes.
you can't like fall and hate apples.
they're pretty much the introductory big fun fruit
for all your autumnal excellence.
y'know?
and it's currently fresh, ripe cranberry season, too.
that's a winning combination if ever there was one.
so,
if we add in some oats and some brown sugar and all kinds
of mapley cinnamony buttery goodness,
it seems likely that all of it, together,
in one place,
at the same time,
will be totally expert.
actually, neighbors,
it's an assured outcome,
once you factor in all of the super-sweet activation
that the applied appliances and sciences that blow up
and bust moves inside of my Folk Life test kitchen .
seriously.
don't believe me?
really?
what are you?
an A*-hole?
fine, be like that....
but first just check the teleport:

i mean, c'mon, right?
it almost looks healthy,
what with all that streuselly crumb business on top.
uh-huh.
cranberry apple bread.
that's what's happening.
and it tastes way less good for you than it looks.
because it tastes really really mutha-flippin' good.
for realsies.
***********
harder and harder and harder?
sure.
it just seems to go that way.
that's a thing.
i'm just sayin',
since when has any of it been easy, anyway?
not usually.
at least,
not where i'm from,
or where i'm at,
or where i'm headed.
i've got a trajectory, kids,
an overarching path that unfolds directly from the frying pan
and immediately downwards,
into the fire.
yeah.
when you are engulfed in flames,
it's hard to think about the bigger picture,
or how that glow warms up and enlightens your surroundings.
.....so there's that.
and also,
all of it is always really happening all the time anyway.
pyrolytic erosion is real.
slowly but surely,
sustained heat abrades and erases the features,
and diminishes the integrity of whatever is exposed to it.
that's the truth.
stand too close to the hottness,
and you'll definitely wear down and out.
dwindling?
yeah.
i think that's how it works.
more combusted bustedness;
never quiet, never soft.....

skipping.

Perfect Fall Days are here.

a lot of rain over a short period means

that the foliage has mostly fallen,

and what's left is yellow and brown.

nobody ever really wants to look at the grey skies framed
by trees that look like a bunch of sad old bananas.

and that means that there's nobody around,
no traffic, no tourists, no congested shops and streets,
and plenty of open spaces to see the world opening upwards-

and that's expert.

real fall times also mean that the air is getting crisply sharp and snappy.

uh huh.

sweaters and scarves and hats and all of that are back in full effect.

yeah.
for serious,
i'm pretty excited to get bundled back up,

and hide a whole lot of the awkward angles i'm composed of

under layers of warm woolen wraps an' that.

the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze almost makes the wind
seem sorta tolerable.
but only just sort of.
there's real life out there in front of us,
and under us,
and all around us,
and i'm pretty sure that it's becoming a season wherein
all the better parts and better people are surrounding us on all sides.
that opens the door for Folk Life fusiliers to spit hot fire down
with lightning-striking viking verbose virtuosity
that we've come to know so well.
y'know,
it's like an enfilade of expertism.
i think so, neighbors.
firing lines between the lines of written words,
battering and beating and bludgeoning them all
into shapes and sounds that resemble
worthy words and totally true stories about what's going on.
that is,
if there's anybody paying attention.
stories are for other people,
the spirits and memories of what's inside these clasped hands;
these clenched teeth;
these shut eyes;
the close kept savagery of the way it all fits together...
otherwise,
i'm only doing it all for myself,
and i already know what my secret heart holds in store.
y'know?
yeah.
i thought you might.
***********
oh, yeah...
the fair ended the other day.
i didn't even go for the last day.
long nights, hard times, harsh words, lost tempers,
and bad feelings spoiled it the night before,
and it spread out and into the next morning, day, and night.
hard styles know no bounds.
it just felt rotten, and looked stupid,
and really, it sort of was.
it's over and done with at any rate.
bye bye.
see you next year:

anyway, i'm sorry, friends.
it just doesn't ever get any better.
there's only more of all of this.
it's never easy,
but it's a whole helluva lot better than nothing;
never quiet, never soft.....

crashing.

wood.
i got it.
y'got me?
oh, i know you do.
i need to be warm, neighbors.
i mean,
i'm only human, after all;
and for as warm-blooded and hot-headed,
and fire-spit spiteful as i may be,
my fingers and toes are pretty much totally benumbed,
because it's always colder inside the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
that's a thing.
i mean,
manual dexterity is a must if you're into touching....
and i'm alright with admitting that i crave contact,
and that feels are my favorite part.
oh, i know,
feeling and feeling and feelings,
the senseless and the sensible and the fifth sense or whatever.
as much as i may want to,
there's no point in putting my palms where they aren't wanted,
or with manhandling anything if i can't tell what's happening.
i've got lifelines and thumb-wars and pinky promises
all lined up for whatever comes next,
but it doesn't mean a damned thing if i can't close my fist around it
and hold onto what's here.
what?
yeah.
maybe that isn't exactly clear.
so?
the point is,
i got a lot of firewood delivered,
and it's gonna warm me twice an' that.
you know the routine.
check the teleport:

word.
cords, kids.
that's what's up.
good news,
the very instant it got delivered,
it got soaked under a storm of rainy daylong deluge.
lugubrious and waterlogged and totally saturated with hard styles.
*
what the F* is sleep?
hmm?
sleep is for weak wimpy mincey minky mashmouth diaperbabies.
i don't hang out with that sort of thing.
instead,
i'm up at all hours,
and i'm involved in actively acclimating myself to even longer nights,
and ever-more hardened styles.
except i never ever actually get all that used to it.
uh-huh.
that's real.
so instead i stay up as long as i can,
and maximize the minutes to make them matter more.
it's not easy,
but i guess it has to happen.
right?
my cold hands may mean a warm heart,
but i need a warm bed to make 'em worth a sh!t.
an empty bed is the coldest one,
and an empty hand can be a helping hand,
or it can be a wave goodbye.
it'll take more than mittens to save these days;
never quiet, never soft.....

do you like waffles?

early morning bombardments?!
expert.
up and at 'em, secret super-surprisey,
extra-sunrisey,
wide-awakeful,
and awaiting a wonderful woman...
who showed up with a hot cuppa tea.
huh?
i dunno.
what the heck is arriving empty-handed?
(she also brought me brand new black tights;
that's a thing. i needed 'em. she got me 'em, nice!)
how did i find such a good one?
i kept my eyes open.
that's it.
what else would i do, really?
i cultivate coincidences,
and i cross my fingers that active participants cross my path.
raw uncut pure animal magnetism it isn't,
but,
over time,
the overlaps all converge for a good morning.
sooo,
y'know what happens when i have a.m. company?
oh.
well,
if you've ever visited in the morning,
then you probably do know all about it.
but,
if you've been a nancypantsed weak sauce diaperbaby
and stayed in bed at your own home in the early times,
then let me let you know what's up.
i show my appreciation for the ones who make an effort.
all you've ever gotta do is just show up.
real talk.
check the breakfast-type teleport:

waffles?
F*ing right, neighbors.
coconut and oatmeal and brown sugar and sour cream-ish,
all stirred up into one extra-buttery batter.
they get caramelized on the outsides like that.
that's also expert.
believe it.
cranberries and cinnamon and pecans all maple-glazed,
on top of grade B extra-thick maple hottness,
and a snowy blast of powdered confectioners action.
word.
i doo-doo that breakfast of champions sh!t,
but only for the good ones.
so, like, just how rad did they taste?
c'mon.
what are you?
an A*hole?
they were completely mutha-flippin' delicious.
obviously.
as if i was gonna make 'em suck sh!tballs,
and underimpress the bombardier in my kitchen.
no way.
duders,
i am really grateful for the few folks who
participate in this effed-up Folk Life i'm living.
the least i can do is make some kind of treats for 'em.
y'know?
woodsly goodsly activation.
that's what i want.
***********
oh,
and i tuned-up one more falafel last night.
because i couldn't resist.
yeah.
teleport:

yep.
hard styles surround me.
stump-creatures in light jeans,
and so much huntery camouflage,
and all of the dental hygiene you'd probably expect
from all of those wide-bottomed thick-browed cave-dwellers.
the fair, on a saturday night,
is a harder style than you'd expect.
a lot harder.
still,
i went, and ate,
and got turned around and around, and a little bit detoured,
on the roads that roll down the long way home.
that's true.
i traveled the starlight expanses of secret mountain passes,
for longer than i'd expected, in places and spaces i rarely visit.
it wasn't that bad,
but it wasn't exactly what i'd intended.
time-traveling only moves in one direction,
even when you've got to turn around and backtrack
along the paths you've taken on purpose or by accident.
it doesn't stop when you do,
and it all keeps really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

feel awful?

i did it.
yes.
i did.
what did i do?
i did what i set out to do.
what?
oh, well, for starters,
i activated another 'nother feel awful falafel friday.
yeah.
that's a thing.
check the fee-awesome-then-feel-full-type teleport:

yeah.
a couple more of those.
that left side one has a whole mess of kalamata olive meats,
with their tinny salty wet selves.
pretty much an elite addition to eating the same thing every day for a week.
and that other one?
with those kernels of sweet corn?
c'mon.
if there's secret extra add-ons available,
i've gotta get 'em in me.
*
and just to take night in a direction we might not have expected,
i repped a little flashback to yesteryear with my dudes.
for real.
remember the activation society?
well,
it's still around, it seems.
carlos and austin and ted and i got expert
on some fairtime foods, and fairtime fun, and fire-style works.
word up, neighbors.
twenty minutes of nonstop redneck flashlight-and-torch style
low lying explosions in the sky directly over our heads
and right before our shrapnel-dodging faces?
the fair is a strange place at night.
just sayin',
creatures who'd otherwise evaporate in daylight
come oozing out of their warrens and burrows to stare at the lights
and sniff the smells, and be a large part of the cause of the smells.
jeez.
it's gross, but i guess it's necessary.
without them, we'd just be us, y'know?
*
and i had one more falafel,
because feeling awful is measured in all forms of pain,
from stomach-aches to damaged self-esteem.
teleport to full-fledged functional awfulness:

real talk,
i probably should've eaten even more.
because too much, taken too far, is the only way it has to go...
lucky for my butt and guts,
i was already having a sh!t-salad sandwich of a time
before i ever entered the gates.
how expert is that?
hmmm.
feeling awful was the goal, after all,
and i totally did that.
hard.
yeah.
i follow the rules i've enacted,
and i obey the decrees that worthy warrior poetry dictates.
it happens,
with or without us;
never quiet, never soft.....