Saturday, November 30

one to go.

this is it.
the last day in november.
what did i do today?
i drew some dumb pictures,
i drew some not-so-dumb pictures,
and i ate a whole lot of chinese food.
that's it.
check the teleport:
and i outlined this big pain in the ribs, too:
it is actually straight,
but swollen lines on swollen bodies tend to blarp out
and get a little twisted in the captured images.
yeah, neighbors.
november wasn't the best one ever,
but it sure did have a whole lot of expert elements.
i'm so grateful for the people who made it possible
for me to span time like a worthy warrior poet,
and for the woodsly goodness where it all really happens,
and for the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress that i dwell in.
there are a few great ones around after all....
we'll just have to see how they deal
with the hard styles of a long december.
it's coming right up;
never quiet, never soft.....

i'm doing it wrong?

i thought snapchat was for disappearing boob pictures.
but i never got any.
for whatever reason,
i've got an epic color palette on my phone for those jauns,
and i've been getting busy,
and keeping it expert for a little minute now.
i know nobody wants to see my beat-up old face,
but i've done my best to make it interesting.
check the free-time's-a'wastin'-type teleport:
that's what's happening these days.
i jus can't do what i'm supposed to, i guess.
you're welcome for the d!ck-pics,
and when i say d!ck,
i obviously mean the guy in the photos.
hard styles, kids.
stay ugly, stay dope;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, November 29

look at my food.

i overdid it.
dinner for eleven,
taken to eleven,
in quality and quantity,
but eaten by just four people.
too much is the only amount.
that's real.
don't believe me?
before you judge too quickly,
check the vegan-means-i'm-smug-and-satisfied-type teleport:
SO many expert mutha-ucking treats on one plate!
i made a lot of everything,
despite actually scaling back the massive portions of yesteryear.
fatness for my loud, fresh, face,
and volume for all the loud, hard heroic buttholes in the postscript.
i'm just talking about those tofurky farts.
we definitely brought the thunder,
once all the greasy lightning had been gobbled an' that.
oh, c'mon.
garlic mashed potatoes?
we need those secret recipe skin-on smoothies for our faceholes!
garlic-and-broth-blanched baby kale?
it's baby-sized, and that's so darn cute.
it tastes grown-up,
but we appreciate style-points awarded for presentation.
soy-glazed fried brussels sprouts?
you know it.
harvest insisted on those,
and made them mostly herself.
homemade medium chestnut-colored golden roux
and nootch-blasted smooth brown gravy?
of course.
if you can't slather a sloppy sauce on top of all
your beige-on-beige business,
you're probably F*ing up.
no jokes.
a globe of blarpity beige fake-turkey-type extruded soy-and-seitan?
tofurky is just the weirdest,
but, i mean...
obviously, we had to have it.
these kids love traditions as much as i do.
really real ones know about samesies.
we like the same stuffs.
and that's all good stuff.
now wait just a minute...
is that maple-sweetened cornbread with all-new third-generation
activated futuristic hottness,
in the form of sausage-seasoned tempeh dressing/stuffing?
you'd best believe i wasn't gonna miss out on MY favorite sh!t.
i don't take shorts, y'all.
what am i?
or worse,
an A*-hole?
no way.
but what about homemade cranberry sauce?!!!!
the good kind.
i said the good kind!
don't be gross!
it's not the weird orange-peel and clove crap.
i get it poppin'.
i make the maple and brown sugar, apple-cider simmered,
vanilla-splashed pure crimson bog-harvested magic
that makes everything taste like the holidays peed out red gold sorcery
as a perfect accentuated exclamation.
me and mine had a fine feast.
and two desserts.
folded filo dough apple-pie triangles,
and graham-crackery apple-tart with whipped-creamishness.
too much, kids.
it's how we show our appreciation for having enough.
because enough is never really enough.
food is good.
good food is better.
great food and even better people makes it all the best.
thanks have been given;
never quiet, never soft.....


take a peek at what harvest,
and maple,
and i made happen yesterday,
from morning to afternoon to night,
whilst we spanned time after time upon time
getting it going on up in front of the stove and oven.
blue potatoes, butternut squash,
hand-peeled popped-open red pearl onions,
brussels sprouts, baby carrots, butterishness, g.p.o.p.
salt and pepper makes for a fancy color-change roasted jauns.
and what about this business right here?
check it, via teleportational activation:
pecans and dried cranberries and cinnamon and olive oil
dumped, draped, and drizzled over diced butternut squash?
what about this other other teleport:
maple sweetened sweet potatoes,
with brown sugar sprankles,
and caramelized red onion and leeks,
and tempeh bacon crumbles?
then what were we gonna sop up all that succulence with?
agave and honey and corn and bread,
all in the same place!
there're leftovers galore.
the fridge here at the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress is bursting.
we know how to add the over-the-top epic-level shark-gluttony
to any celebration.
we get it in, neighbors.
and we keep it at eleven,
because expert recognize expert.
real talk, real life,
we have been given some time to fill with freshness,
and we've accepted the challenge;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, November 28


hey, neighbors-
happy thanksgiving,
from all of us to some of you.
sorry, y'all,
but we're just not equally as thankful for everybody.
we like the ones we like,
and the rest can F* right off.
we're grateful for the time we've been given,
and the opportunities we seize,
and the talents we've been naturally endowed with,
and for all the expert sh!t that really happens all around us.
it's just that if it isn't dope,
it has to F* right off.
rules is rules.
we don't give thanks for nothin', duders.
that's real.
oh, c'mon.
i'm cooking.
so much,
so hard,
so hot.
we are SO gonna stuff our big fat greedy gaping vegetarian faces
with lumpy potato blops,
and sweet potato blops,
and mashed potato blops.
potato-shaped battle beasts are what's up.
there's no question about that, kids.
hungry hungry jauns an' that.
we are vegetarian monsters, after all...
furious, raging, gluttonous territorial destroyers,
and that's pretty flippin' dope.
which means we woodsly goodfolk won't be F*ing right off,
now, will we?
wordimus prime.
today is the day,
for professional appreciators to be professionally appreciative.
that's it.
there is a feast being baked,
and simmered,
and sauteed,
and broiled,
and grilled,
and roasted,
and toasted,
and all of that sort of thing.
we have plenty to eat.
we have a house full of warmth and light and laughter.
we are spanning time, together.
this is the day for gratitude and generosity,
for expertism and activation,
for all of it to unfold exactly like it's supposed to.
never quiet. never soft.....
(with apologies to shawn hebrank for co-opting his hippo love affair)

a fresh ride.

i mostly don't care about cars.
that's no joke.
i don't place excessive value or status on what
kind of vehicle i'm currently cruising around it.
it's conveyance, mostly, and that's it.
some people geek out over fancy tricked-out,
geared-up, big, burly-engined performance machines.
i mostly just hate walking in the elements.
wind and rain can totally suck all the balls.
real talk.
that said,
after five hard-pounded years,
my car finally succumbed to my poor operating skills,
and sh!t the bed.
the car is dead,
long live the car.
brand spanking new hottness.
i GOT they.
my new car search involved just one thing-
i showed up at the dealer with my old busted jauns,
pointed at that molto fresh-looking rig,
and just asked one essential determining question-
is this one expert?
and then i bought it.
no test drives;
no features and options explanations;
i didn't lift up the hood;
(i wouldn't know what i was looking at anyway)
no weak sauce back and forth haggle b!tchbaggery.
i said i wanted the dopeness,
they showed me the car,
and we made the magic happen.
the first time i sat in it,
i drove it off the lot.
really real mutha-'uckers be like that.
believe it.
ballin' out on big ticket purchases during the slowest season,
and during the holiday season,
and during the early-winter season?
i doo-doo that ill-advised up-here rich-type sh!t.
stoopidheaded luxury activation is what i needed.
being dumb is good for you.
i know, i know,
i mostly don't care about cars, still.
i definitely don't care about YOUR car.
that's for sh!t-sure.
documenting these days, y'all.
because it's all really happening.
i've got harvest and maple here with me,
cruising around in our brand new conveyance,
keeping it rural,
keeping it real,
keeping it Folk Life & Liberated.
this is What Is,
and i'm pretty flippin' pleased to be a part of it;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, November 26

mexican monday.

hey duders-
y'gotta use all the pots.
one pot for rice,
and one pot for beansm
and one pot for heroic tempeh crumbled mexican magic.
it was burrito night at the Fortress,
and it was totally flippin' expert.
and i'll tell you guys something else-
cilantro was the big action hero of the evening.
that's real.
i know,
some of y'all can't hang out with it,
but that's because you prefer your parsley styles to be weak.
that's okay if you're a delicate diaperbaby,
but, as a fully-formed and functional man,
i happen to take mine to eleven.
got it?
cilantro is just the next level of leafy garnishy goodness.
check the oven-toasted-type teleport:

Wu-TANG, amigos!
the tempeh had fresh tomatoes, and tomatillo, and sweet onion,
and chipotle ho' sauce, and smoked hot paprika,
a pinch or three of turmeric, jalapeno pepper,
salty soy sauce(for those ethnic fusion jauns?),
g.p.o.p. (duh) and a simmery broth to supersoak the whole thing
into a soft and succulent supple sloppy jose filling.
there was fancy rice for those fatty wraps, too.
with seeds and sh!t in it.
i seasoned it up with some spicy spices an' that,
because a bag of grains isn't good enough on it's own.
that's real.
and black beans made a special guest appearance,
simmered with all the bits and pieces you'd expect,
like 'matoes and spicy pep's and cilantro, and onion,
and a splash of fresh lime citrus juicy-juice
just to make sure we got all our nutrients involved in the process.
i expect a lot from my beans, kids.
no jokes.
all of that,
in a whole wheat circle of cultivated coincidence,
a punch of daiya(rrhea) fake chee',
a sprankle of cilantro (too much is the right amount),
and a couple of slivers of fresh cucumber,
to encumber the foldover procedure and add a degree of difficulty,
as well as an added layer of texture and temperature.....
oh, yes, indeed, i agree-
it had to have all of that inside,
AND outside,
AND around the plates,
so that the onslaught of overindulgent inundation
and extreme expertism was insurmountable.
it's always a food fight up in this b!tch, folks.
me versus good taste, good sense, and good manners.
and it always ends the same way...
because i only ever win by beating myself
what's that?
how'd they taste?
they were the best ones ever, man.
don't be dumb.
how couldn't they be,
especially when i activated that burnt roasty toasty crust
broiled with exposed flaming hot fire, directly onto 'em,
and with that striped red and green double-drizzle two-sauce bossiness?
accompanied with hot salsa on the side for tertiary flavor overload?
what are you?
some kind of an A*-hole?
if you aren't 'bout that hottness,
you just might be.
real talk.
road trip?
bad weather?
most assuredly.
if i've gotta go get harvest and maple,
you'd better believe it will be a warrior roadway explosion.
rules is rules.
for a whole extra other 'nother day of thankful givings
with two of the best dang daughters a man could wish for?
it'll all be well worth the raging traffic jammie-jams,
and tollbooth turmoil,
and savage sideswiping turn-signal disregard that
i'm bringing southbound with me.
today is the day.
a roundtrip journey,
a snow day,
and anything could happen-
after all,
it all always really is, anyway;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, November 25


you know what i like, don'tcha?
bakery-type treats.
they're just all so expert.
and i'm kind of all about that.
this time?
this time right now?
it's bananas.
and walnuts and little bitty baby chocolate chips.
i get busy when i've got to,
and when it's this cold outside every damned day,
i want my oven going 'round the clock to make sure
that every extra little british thermal unit i can squeeze into the ambient
atmosphere of the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress is fully activated.
that's a thing.
piping hot,
and freshly sliced,
it's time to go bananas.
check the perfectly toasted-type teleport:
i make it look good,
and it tastes even flippin' better.
believe it.
these jauns go to eleven.
how do really real duders do breakfast?
fruit and nuts and chocolate and bread all at once,
in the same place at the same time an' that.
with a hot cuppa?
i F*s with that super-hottness in my kitchen,
because it's super cold everywhere else.
that's it.
i do what i do.
and i do it as hard as i can.
true stories, told truly,
for worthy woodsly goodfolk to enjoy.
there is always more of all of this;
never quiet, never soft.....

another one.

maybe just one more.
a death crab for cutie.
i've got a  few blue markers,
and i guess i should use 'em.
one more one shot slow day activation sketch.
i guess maybe i've just got something good going on?
could be;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, November 24

a good day for practicing.

i can't explain it,
but when i see a marker these days,
especially if it's a blunt-tipped, used-up,
flecked felt-tip sh!t-hot mess of a not-so-sharpie,
i gotta find some scraped-up, scribbled on surfaces
and make a mess on 'em.
that's real.
it's just one of those things, i suppose.
i couldn't NEVER make any artsy pictures again,
could i?
it sure seemed like it was likely for a bit, there, though.
stop it.
that's not true.
maybe every once in a while i get a little bit activated.
check the teleport:
skulls and skulls and skulls.
that's a thing.
a tidal wavy neptune lich spirit?
i guess so.
what's that now, duders?
don't worry about the extra colors of spent marker spit,
they're all still busted one-shot freestyle marky marks;
and these are even on twice-used crappy scrap papers...
but the idea is there, kids-
and it's a good idea....
practice is never bad for you.
check the sexy-dead-bird-type teleport:
i suppose i did get a little baby bit fresh,
and scrawl some extra essentials with a micron
all up inside of it's feathers and marrow or whatever.
little details sometimes make a big difference.
maybe not so much right here.
like i was saying-
practice makes perfect.
so getting into the habit of getting busier than busy can't be bad.
it's eleven degrees,
and it's windy.
it's still windy, i mean.
sucks all the balls, so hard.
what i wanna know is-
who invited this A*-hole weather to the party?
i'd have prefer if it'd stayed home.
there's no really warm feelings or even warm temperatures
in the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress today.
it's just too cold, too soon,
and i got caught just a little teeny tiny bit off guard.
activation society members todd and beau both
spanned time and broke bread with me yesterday.
of course,
competent companions and active participants
all in one place is obviously expert.
i was so busy eating treats and drawing skulls
that i never looked outside to see the snow magic
or the plummeting temperatures.
so now i'm shivering,
and that seems like all i've got to look forward to.
ah, well, friends-
if i'm gonna be cold and alone,
there's always more markers and up-cyclable papers
to keep me company,
and anything that doesn't end up being elite
will end up in the fire.
is that a win-win?
but it's decidedly better than a wind-win;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, November 23

supreme clientele.

my friends are better than yours,
and my clients?
they know about some sh!t, too.
i mean it.
why would they make me the weird treats they do?
for realsies.
crystal got tattooed for four hours,
and stopped by the next day with something she made special
just for me.
that's right, neighbors.
just for me.
you should be.
one expert custom cut, chopped, dropped,
and mixed-up monster menagerie,
glued and gutted and pieced together out of basement toys.
that's rad.
i think i might cultivate exactly the kind of coincidences i need.
after all,
too much, too complicated, and overflowing with extras
is exactly the right amount.
lucky lucky.
cold and windy, kids-
more of that is what's in store for the woodsly goodness.
i'm sketching out menus,
i'm sketching out plans,
i'm sketchy,
it seems in all the ways that aren't actually all that sketchy;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, November 22


hey neighbors,
more treat pictures are headed towards your eyes right now.
i'm really almost sorry, sorta,
that it's been a bakery-activated
and sugar-filled weeklong adventure in oven-heated creativity.
i mean,
i could be doing all kinds of other other things,
but instead i'm getting fresh in front of that stovetop,
stirring sh!t up and mixing in secret ingredients.
it's all made up.
it's all from scratch.
i'm writing down what i do, so someday you can make this stuff too.
you're welcome.
buttery short-styled-bread cookie circles are what's up.
that's a thing.
i added oatmeal, and coconut, and brown sugar to mine,
just to take it to eleven,
and keep it expert,
at the same time.
my own unique thumbrint to make thumbprint cookies my own.
and it worked out pretty damned well, too, kids-
check the checkerboard-type teleport:
chocolate and peanut buttery powdered sugar and vanilla goobieblops,
custom-blended, and pressed into the divots,
just to activatea little bit more of the dopeness for your face.
and duders?
they're so flippin' good.
melty and crunchy and gooey and buttery-ish and chewy.
all the textures, all the time.
oh, right-
don't even try to front like you DON'T like that double drizzle.
word up.
regular vanilla-style icing,
and a crosshatch of chocolate-type drizz' too.
expert means doing extra every single time.
that's it.
it's snowing,
and snow magic is good for you.
big crocodile teardrops of billowy white flakes,
falling down so softly,
and coating every single thing in perfect silence.
if you listen closely,
the tiny tinkling sound of ice crystals clinking against each is other
is barely audible.
the littlest noise in the most muffled moments is deafening.
and it's delightful.
today is the day,
and it's a good day;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, November 21


it's a little late for fresh ones,
but that wasn't gonna stop me, kids.
that's right.
i needed to activate some treats-making hottness,
and i wasn't at all prepared to let a little frozen fruit
F* up a frozen day with it's preserved summery sexiness.
what i mean is,
the frozen raspberries i had worked just fine for what i had in mind.
that's real.
chocolate is good for you.
it therefore stands to reason that chocolate AND raspberries
are probably sort of an extra-superfood, right?
i put them both together,
and they got completely expert right away.
go ahead,
check the teleport:
c'mon, c'mon, C'MON!!
crushed-up chocolate cookies, and melted butteryishness,
and a scoople of brownulated sugar bits and oat flour,
and a splash of vanilla makes a majestic crust, kids.
so good for all your minky little A*'s.
and your faceholes too, probably.
that's the stuff.
what about that filling?
raspberries, AND raspberry jam,
and chocolate-style chips,
and vanilla, and a couple different kinds of sugars and cocoa,
and all that sort of super sweet sh!t.
it's the creamiest and the dreamiest
and the smoothest soft 'n' firm brown miracle
i've had in my mouth in ages.
at least,
it's surely the brownest one, at any rate.
i even used the same raspberry trick on the frosting!
jam-boree jauns with red berry business,
in two-timing full-effect.
does that mean there's a duet of double blops
spread out in superfruity pink magic spellcasting?
it sure does.
too much is the right amount.
you know how it goes
these days aren't the best ones,
but they're a damned sight better than the worst ones.
there are times being had,
and styles being hardened,
and wrenches being chosen,
and it's ALL really happening,
even as the flurries fly and the nights freeze over.
i'm grateful for the time and the space i've been given;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, November 20


sweetened chocolate powder,
and cocoa,
and chocolate chips,
and chocolate syrup,
and instantaneously activated coffee time,
melted and meshed and melded all together,
in one big warm gooey fudgy pot of hottness,
and then baked into a big ol' brick of brownies.
yes, neighbors,
that's what happens when baking day rolls around.
what else would i do, really?
it sure seems like i do some gooey chocolaty things with my oven.
and just to make it a little itty bitty bit nicer to nosh my gnashers on,
i melted up a little custom saucy ganache-style treats drizzle,
and gilded the brown with even more brown.
check the teleport:
i get really excited to eat all these treats, friends.
no foolin'.
the thing is,
i don't want to be a great big fat person.
blarping out is just not sexy,
and that's no joke.
i'll have one sweet little rectangle for myself,
and i'll save the rest for all of y'all.
you win, i s'pose.
except that i still don't deliver,
so you'll have to stop by if you want a piece.
there's enough for everyone,
so don't be shy.
the Folk Life & Liberty Test Kitchen is cranking out,
some full-steam-ahead-type bakery jauns,
and i'm not gonna stop until i've assembled an armada
of awesome desserts to fill your bellies,
and make hole in your sweet teeth.
you're gonna brush and floss.
i know.
it's okay.
am i spending all my days off in the kitchen?
i doo-doo that busy little homemaker-type sh!t.
i just make a lot of stuff,
including a great big ol' mess.
i get dirty,
and i spread out all my stuffs,
and i leave a trail of crumbs and chips and dust and debris.
i can't help it, kids.
it's the way i create.
there's a lot of collateral clutter involved.
sprawling spirals and expanding circles,
webs, almost, of tricky, sticky strands of spun sugar and spilt syrup
catching as catch can all the causes and effects and affectations
of spanning time as a really real life crafty hermit in the woodsly goodness.
it's what's happening.
every damn day.
there are things to show for all the intention and effort,
but they all get eaten up and pooped out eventually.
hard styles?
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, November 19

pasta rarely disappoints.

macaroni, duders.
word up.
it's just so flippin' good....
and when you pile on the fall vegetable hottness?
it makes that specialty-type home cookin' extra good.
pasta autunno.
that's the seasonal opposite of pasta primavera.
you know it.
then what's in the pot?
diced tomatoes with roasted garlic,
red onions,
butternut squash,
snow peas,
and brussels sprouts.
i GOT they.
that's it.
seasoned with g.p.o.p. and tons of freshly cracked black peps.
and just to be sure you could tell it's special,
i put some extra fancy 'ronis in there with it.
check the teleport:
those happy noodles?
they are called creste di gallo!
they look like half-heart lasagna tubes,
but they're 'posed to be rooster top-combs!
cock's crests for your face!
macaroni people are so weird.
all those super-special different shapes?
i know they're all basically the same sh!t,
but i also love custom expert jauns.
they just look like they taste better.
...and therefore they do.
that's real.
it's so windy, y'all.
raging gypsy stormswept natural fury,
blasting through the gaps in the rollings hills and mighty mountains,
from west to east,
bringing biting cold and brutal blinding bits of autumn across
the grounds and rounds about town and country.
there's debris being blasted against everything,
the rustling and the whispering of a gentle breeze are far outdone
by the doomsday decibels of these roaring airwaves crashing around me.
it's good.
but only because i'm indoors where it's warm and still.
i still F*ing hate wind, kids.
forever and ever.
answers and war and change are all being wafted my way,
but i'm doing my best to avoid 'em all.
i'll just power down some leftover pasta,
and heat my insides with all those autumnal nutrients.
a better fate than windburn awaits me anywhere;
never quiet, never soft.....


did you just say garbage art?
how can that even be a thing?
i thought that those days had been left far behind.
turns out,
there just wasn't the right combination
of trash and circumstance colliding to amount to anything.
i'd actually just forgotten that the whole point of it all
is to keep making so many somethings that the quantity
becomes an appreciable quality in and of itself.
i think that means there will have to be more.
that's a thing.
don't worry,
i've got my marky-markers,
and i make my markery marks.
some wrinkled old busted cardboard
and a blunt worn-out black sharpie are all i need.
in fact,
that's actually all i even want.
y'all can keep all your fine arts,
and specific supplies,
but i like my sh!t to be just a little bit crustier.
check the coarse-art-type teleport:
devilish hellhammer basilisk-harpy-bat!
oh, for sure-
i am such a screaming nerd.
it felt sort of good to make some crap for no good reason at all....
one quick pass across the paper,
no sketches,
no plans,
no hopes for success,
and no worries about failure, either.
i mean,
it's made out of garbage, duders.
you only get eleven minutes to sit down, drop in,
and make something that isn't completely sh!tty.
that's it.
rules is rules, after all.
did it work?
i dunno.
it happened.
and honestly,
after the way the styles have hardened up
all around the arthur-making world i'm living in these days?
that it happened at all is something to be psyched about.
some people draw all the time.
scraps and pads and sheaves and leaves and folios
are filled with scribbles and doodles and notes an' that.
i know all about it,
but mostly i just bake treats.
maybe it's high time i start doing both.
too much is the right amount,
and there is a whole world unfolding in front of us, folks.
it needs to be filled to the gills with stuff.
i think that's the best thing that could probably be happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, November 17


it's pretty great.
i mean it.
the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress is great.
it's old.
it's busted.
it's ugly.
and it's F*ing dope.
every lonely lord needs a haunted castle.
it's kind of integral to the archetype.
every wizard has his inaccessible tower.
every mad scientist has his house on the hill.
that's a real thing.
you've got to play to the strengths you've been provided with.
and as such,
i'm inclined to combine all those elements in order to make sure
my museum-mausoleum-mansion fits the bill.
there's a whole lot to be said for being a hermit
when your spot-on site-specific space for solitude an' sh!t
is so mutha-flippin' expert.
just check the teleport:
damn, neighbors,
i love being home-
and for as cold and empty and creaky and leaky as it is?
there's just no place like it.
it's good for you.
and anyway,
my house and i have a whole lot in common.
we're both interesting and terrible and old and broken.
that's the truth.
and for a little minute, once in a long while,
we're warm and inviting and all that sort of thing.
tonight is that night.
a full moon,
a rainstorm,
a toasty fire,
and all the things that make the rest of the times,
when the styles are impossibly hard worth it.
i'll stay home, kids,
whenever i can.
it's where i belong,
and where i fit in,
and it's the place and space i am supposed to occupy.
this is my home;
never quiet, never soft.....


sleeping is dumb.
at least,
that's what i'm telling myself this morning.
i'm feeling more than just a little worn out.
but that's what happens when the night sky is aglow
with raging blood-iron magnetism
and really,
the results of that metallic skin-crawling and shapeshifting-
which is to say,
all of the motormouthed wild animal-type berserker careening that
i did through my entire yesterday probably didn't help much, either.
that's a thing.
despite the woodsly goodness being full of necktard lumberjack-offs,
there's no goodly woodsman to save us.
what big eyes i have,
the better to see this silvereed circle,
the better to squinky squint out an evil-see-ball scowl,
the better to narrow and nettle and needle and glare and stare with.
what big teeth i have,
inside this severe and thin-lipped  laceration i call a mouth-
the better to bite necks and pronounce profanity,
the better to off-key wassail and howl and shout and snarl with.
what big ears i have,
too bad i'm not listening to anything but my pulse banging along
at a breakneck rhythm inside my head,
drowning out all but the wardrums and thunderclaps of animal instinct.
what big hands i have,
i've got the whole world in 'em, sometimes,
and they've got teeth as big as the ones in my face.
the better to kiss and slap,
to caress and crush,
to shape and destroy,
to hold and harm,
and all sorts of other other good-and-bad-touch times.
werewolf jauns burst out, flip out, freak out, turn out,
and generally go berserk and barbaric and all that sort of stuff.
i'm sayin',
full moons just don't give a sh!t, neighbors.
it's not easy.
i mean, when is it ever?
but really,
the reign of unrestrained and free-reined battle-beast business
means saying a lot of things, at volume;
and doing a lot of things, so hard;
and spiraling outwards and upwards in a corkscrew dervish tornado.
and that's fresh.
sleeping is dumb.
that's real.
and the moon remains a prominent feature above me.
there's rain scheduled to dim the lights,
and dampen the dosage of skyfallen ferocity.
that's for the best, i'll bet,
since another 'nother day and night of raging stormswept gypsy jauns
can't be good for my constitution.
shedding my skin,
and shredding my self-image and self-worth
into scraps and shards of gnashed-tooth-and-nail beast bullsh!t
makes for longer than ever nights,
and harder than ever styles.
that's What Is today,
and today is the day, kids.
all the better to eat you with, an' that;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, November 16


what do y'know about being dope?
i mean,
those of us who remain haggard and hazardous have a special sense
of how to keep keeping it real at eleven,
but only because we have to.
that's a thing.
you can't stay ugly AND be a weak-watery diaperbaby.
y'gotta stay dope, too.
because if you don't keep it fresh?
that's a sure fire way to end up alone forever and ever and ever.
and i just can't hang out with that.
the thing is,
boring people do boring things,
and regular people do regular things,
and worthy warrior poets do real life lively lovely things,
and that's what makes it all so much better all the time.
and it's not that hard, really, now is it?
it's just a compilation of small acts of active participation
and activities that don't involve the same sorry sad sh!t
that everybody else is so damned interested in.
that all adds up to being pretty expert more often than not.
for instance,
check the handful-of-chestnuts-type teleport:
i don't even really like those dirty little doo-doo nuggets very much.
roasting them outside, under a full moon,
in the brisk and biting cold november air?
that's so dope.
just like i said.
and anyway,
they taste better when you run that fresh-to-death-type sh!t,
in the woodsly goodness, among the rustling leaves,
whilst the sounds and smells of a roaring open flame surround you.
expert means doing that other other stuff,
while everybody else is doing what everybody else always does.
i'll be eating some semi-'sgusting burnt brown nut-rocks tonight.
i'll bet y'all aren't doing that, huh?
i love this Folk Life so much.
reppin' flames and forests and scarves and fingerless gloves,
it's a whole lot like being a hobo,
except for the giant Fortress i'll climb back inside of afterwards.
it's all really happening.
werewolf nut-job old-timey jauns.
staying ugly forever,
and staying dope despite that deficit.
this is what is,
and this is where it has to be;
never quiet, never soft.....

fully empty.

jeez, neighbors-
the woodsly goodness is hibernating.
for all the daytime silence,
and the setting sun,
and the frost and the wind and the hard F*ing styles,
there's sure no shortage of high-wattage luminescence.
for realsies, tho.
the moon is beaming in it's waves of heatless light
through all the cold, leafless, bare grey branches
of all the sleepy trees standing sentinel around this place.
it's barely being diffused by time and space.
that's nearly a full-dose of lunar quicksilver activation-
reflected from our yellow sun
through blue-feeling filters,
off of that orbiting orb of magnificently magnetic zero
that kamikazes closer and closer and closer,
getting bigger and rounder and more swollen with supercharged wildness,
with gravity and playing both sides against the middle,
as we watch nighttimes get brighter and brighter as the waxing
there's no weight to the polarized pulling and pushing of these
semi-visible veins of pulse-pounding ,
but it's weighing heavily on our heads just the same-
soaking into the soil, saturating our skin and scalps,
and letting loose the moorings of the mournful, miserable,
infinitely lamentable infinite nature we keep caged up the rest of the month.
you can't be serious?
by now you know all about the berserker barbarian battle-beast business
that wild-animal savagery and stormswept inner turmoil produce in tandem
under the inauspicious illumination of a full flippin' moon.
the synergistic call-of-the-wild werewolfen overreactions
that moonlight spotlight conjures in those of us who are susceptible
to warrior poetics and
i mean,
it's obviously always been a thing-
complete with harsh language, hard hearts, heavy hands,
and an unhealthy disregard for civilized society and personal safety.
i've said it all before.
the thing is,
i repeat myself a lot.
especially when i'm sleepy.
and sleep isn't in the available-options selection
when the blue glow of that ghostly sky circle is shining down.
i'm wide awake, kids,
and i don't know if that's better or worse news
for all the rest of the woodsly goodfolk.
i anticipate a day of loudness, hardness, and molto freshness.
there are wild animals, and then there are wild animals;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, November 15

i'm just trying to pretend i'm warm.

i'll say it-
i'm cold.
more often than not,
i'm freezing inside the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
that's real.
sure, sure, sure,
i'm under a hundred blankets in my bed;
and i've got fleece-lined tights on under my clothes;
there's still a type of chilled-out climate inside these walls
that all the burning wood and burning oil won't cure.
it's all the damned grey everywhere.
it's silvery, and that's cool,
but it's steel and iron and absent of all the bright warm tones
that make the woodsly goodness feel alive.
that's doubly so inside the shadowed shelter of this expansive manse.
it's just a pre-wintry malaise, i suppose.
the thing of it is,
it's all really quite simply just a matter of mindset.
and i have just the thing change my mind,
so i can summerize and summarize all the mixed feelings
i'm experiencing over the seasonal sh!t-salad of this awful month,
and the ready willingness to say goodbye to this dying year...
what's the plan?
that's easy.
i stuff my face my sugary shark-gluttonous goodness,
until i'm big and fat and feeling somewhat better.
that's right.
i'm putting the warm-weather flavors to my cold-weather world.
yes, i am.
check the fruit-infused time-travel-type teleport:
pink parts for your thin red mouth?
oh, c'mon.
don't be such a baby about it.
you've gotta recognize one thing-
my toasted coconut reality goes great with powdered strawberries.
that's a real life thing, neighbors.
cream chee' and tapioca and brown sugar, and confectioner's sugar,
and a secret citric splash of lemon oil extract in with the vanilla paste,
-so little as to never know what the magic activation you're tasting is,
but enough to always miss it if it isn't there forever afterwards-
(that's definitely my style right there)
and with a goobieblop or two of seedless strawberry jammie-jam?
i get busy with my big business, b!tchbags,
because i am always all about that superfancy action.
and when we put it all together in a pot,
and it get's all whipped up into a creamy fun filling.
those little baked cups are just right for poppin' in your piehole.
even though they're tarts, and not actually pies.
oh, cream chee', and butterishness, and flour,
your menage-a-trois makes a sexy puff pastry,
so thanks for that.
toasted coconutty strawberry frosting is a new thing for me,
but it's a damn good thing,
and it's making it's big debut right now for all our faces, F*ers.
you're welcome.
ah, that's right,
you probably didn't even realize that you wanted it until you saw it.
i create need where satisfaction used to live.
i'm like that.
......aaaaaaaaaand of course,
i had to put that sprankle sh!t to it,
in the form of a cold-snap-styled coconut snowflake dusting.
i really just can't resist putting on that one last thing, y'know?
oh, i know you know.
that's what i like about you guys, after all.
you get it, you get me, you got me, i gotcha.
food writing?
i guess i'm just doing a whole lot of that for now.
i mean,
what else is there these days?
this IS what's happening,
and so this is what i'm telling you about.
really real life is sometimes just a bunch of tarts an' sh!t;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, November 14


toasted pecans.
that's some of that nutrient-rick protein-and-fiber-type sh!t.
they're good for you.
they're smooth shelled elitist privileged walnuts,
and that, despite their being more closely related to hickory nuts.
the thing is neighbors,
corn muffins are good.
oh, yeah,
we're making a segue from nuts to muffins, but they go together.
don't be such a worrywart.
corn muffins are good,
but they can be a bit dry, and sort of stuffy,
since sweetness is rarely invited into the mix.
well, F* that noise, nerds.
brown sugar gets blended into my cornmeal,
to put some soft and sugary new hottness to it.
it needs it.
and to make sure we take it to eleven in the a.m.?
toasted pecans get put all up inside 'em too.
check the teleport:
of course that's brown sugar on top.
what are you?
an A-hole?
then, do you think i'm an A*-hole?
go easy.
i mean, friends,
i do know how to get activated, for crying out loud!
it really doesn't ever get easier.
i mean,
there are overlaps and underscores
and intertwines all over the place.
hard styles and lifestyles and hard times for whole lifetimes.
it's all happening the way it's supposed to,
and i would possibly take more comfort in that notion
if the secret universal plan didn't so consistently throw
a wrench into the smooth-flowing cogs and gears
of time-spanning togetherness.
it all costs something, i suppose-
a wrench is not the worst of the wrongs there could be.
it's unfolding, friends,
that's real;
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, November 13

let 'em.

it's got to be time to get busy baking again.
those Rock Bloxxx from 11/11 are all already long gone,
so, then the question becomes:
where the F* are all the all-new treats at?
i know.
THIS is what november looks and feels like:
here in the woodsly goodness of new hampshire's
northeastern borderland-style mountainous climes,
it's a cold hard landscape.
the only thing that helps?
color-coordinated baked greats for our mutha-lickin' faces.
i started with a basic barbarian blondie-type thick-set cakey batter,
and i spiced it up with lots of cinnamon.
once all the brown sugar, and i mean all the brown sugar,
was dissolved into the warmed soymilky/butterish vanilla'd wetness,
there were a few oats, a tiny bit of coconut, and pureed pecans added in.
i mean,
sometimes you need a little extra rib-stickin' delicious density
all up inside your already expert treats.
that's a thing.
mapled-up diced walnuts and chopped dried cranberries also
feature prominently within the crumb of that beige and fudgy freshness.
i'm not actually an A*-hole, after all,
so i make sure to put too much stuff into too small of a square of fanciness.
how i added some super-creamy white frosting,
and a pinch or eleven of even more dried cranberries,
and a splash of silver-style sprankles on top.
that's right, friends.
if it doesn't go too far,
it's like i'm not actually even trying.
i'm only interested in everything elite,
everything over-the-top,
and everything that makes sure that all y'all know,
without a doubt,
that i'm showboating and big-timing and grandstanding in front of my oven.
that's the only way.
that's november for you.
the worst month?
i think so.
there's been neil young nonstop on the stereo for a week.
there's been lazy mornings and lazier nighttimes.
there's been colder beds and dirty kitchens,
and layers and layers and layers of fabric in every direction.
there's been freestyle hard styles inventing new ways
to break hearts, burn bridges, and beat ourselves up.
it's all really happening, after all-
even in november,
there are bright and sweet spots.
it's never really all that easy,
but it's never really all THAT bad.
real talk?
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, November 12

some small comfort.

it's cold.
the grey skies,
and the grey trees,
and the bare branches,
and the bitter wind,
and the spite of a hard and long night or two,
all at once,
in my face,
making my fingers tingle,
my nose run,
my cheeks flush,
and my throat hurt with every sharp intake of november air.
it's so nice,
inside the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
y'know what helps, a whole helluva lot?
a cast-iron hotbox,
filled with a roaring, blazing, raging self-contained fire.
check the teleport:
it's just what i need.
a superheated red-hot  maker of all things warm.
it's the season for it;
it's the weather for it;
it's the time and the place for site-specific serious sh!t.
it's so good, too.
there's a spot by the fire for all of y'all.
it's a big room in a big house,
and there're enough chairs for everybody.
a little extra body heat is just an added bonus, really.
in a time where everything is cooling down considerably.
that's the order of the day,
and the priority for the night;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, November 11

eleven eleven.

today goes to eleven.
that means it's time to let go of those checks and balances,
take our feet off the brakes, and the steering wheel,
and let ourselves go on one blistery blustery windy wild ride.
what's for breakfast?
Tea'N'Toast, obvi.
and also,
peanut-buttery, coconutty, oaty, chocolate dipped
mutha-flippin' Rock Bloxxx.
because too much is not even close to enough today.
check the crunchy sprankles-type teleport:
extra expert hottness,
as an added little early morning treat?
you know that today is that day, duders.
it's eleven eleven, tho.
all damn day long.
that's a twenty four hour window for making wishes,
with two especially double 'nother other 11:11's,
to add extra importance to that focused fantasy fulfillment.
and that's probably pretty good for you.
i think it is probably a real thing.
i'm making a lot of wishes today,
with full expectations that most of them are gonna come true.
or else.
i mean it,
on a day where eleven is the starting point,
my wildest dreams are gonna seem commonplace.
today IS the day,
because it has to be.
real coffee?
louder, fresher, and harder styles?
of course.
cannonball brutality and berserker fury
and all kinds of really real Folk Life,
and the pursuit of elitist activation and pure-being participation
from the break-a'break-a' dawn to the slammed-shut
nighttime nightlights and starbrights.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Sunday, November 10

the last scraps.

that's that then.
well, it's here, already.
beauty and burden in the same precipitous precipitation,
and this propitious powdercoat has been both
dreaded and anticipated for weeks now.
check the teleport:
yeah, neighbors-
this is the weather we all knew was coming.
and it got here before i could get done with all that needed doing, too.
the last sticks of firewood,
the last pass across the yard,
to collect those late-fall oak leaves that seem to linger on the trees forever.
the season caught up quicker,
my pace proved insufficient to stay ahead of it.
big surprise, kids-
nature wins,
and all my slow and steady work towards winter is
now a last mad dash to the finish line.
that's what happens when you aren't going to eleven all the time.
lesson learned.
dwelling and dwelling in my dwelling?
i doo-doo that inhabiting and mulling in a house-type sh!t.
the Fortress is empty,
save for all the thoughts swirling over my head like
one of those cartoon rainclouds.
black moods and white snow and hard F*ing styles.
there're ghosts in my memories,
there're demons in my past,
there're devils advocating on both my shoulders,
and they're all haunted houseguests keeping me company this morning.
what to do?
i dunno.
maybe i just a little bit try harder to loosen the strangler's grip
my monstrous hands have on the spirits of seasons past, i suppose.
but that's always easier said than done.
letting go is easy,
it's forgetting that seems impossible.
the labyrinth of my memory is full of one-way-mirrored oubliettes,
tiny pockets and cells of secreted-away but see-through small walls
full of all the things the rest of us try to bury down deep, y'know?
oubliette means 'a little forget'.....
and don't i wish.
they say those who don't remember the past are doomed to repeat it,
but maybe those of us who can't remove the superimposed afterimages
of overlapped times and time-agains are just as doomed...
to relive it contemporaneously?
i'm just sayin',
it's like watching three drafts of the same play being performed
side by side by side,
so the otherwise subtle shifts in dialogue and staging,
are all noticeable all at once.
...and then go ahead and try NOT to rewrite a final draft,
flawless and fluid, built on the base of those foiled folios.
you should try it sometime.
it really sucks all the balls.
that's real life, when you're doing it my way-
and it's all really happening-
all at once, and in a row, and back and forth,
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, November 9


oh, right.
because most friends give you a
'thanks for being the last visitor before we move' present.
oh, well, neighbors,
my friends are all so much better than yours.
check the parting-gift-type teleport:
my bedroom now has one more pair of eyes to watch
how little magic and mayhem get conjured within those walls.
even a nonplussed potato headed hippo lump face
will be bored to tears by the empty bed and loud snores
that echo outwards from under so so so many covers and blankets.
a little piece of louderhorn accoutrement,
proudly hung in the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress,
because expert recognize expert,
forever and ever and always an' that.
we went to the bare bones puppet thing last week.
it was the twentieth anniversary of those hippies getting rad
in some park in st. paul.
it was also my first time.
and it was also also the biggest turnout that they ever even heard of,
according to the outraged left-leaning line-standers waiting to get in.
and lastly,
it was also dope.
they said a cool thing to recap the overall theme.
check it out if you know how to click links:
barebones carry on jauns!!!!
hippies get it right.
other times,
you freeze your whole A* off in a crowded-up
clove, patchouli, and armpit scented park.
runny noses from gelid temperatures make it impossible to absorb
any but the most offensive aromas, tho,
so there was that to be grateful for.
...the thing of it is,
i'm prepared to do a lot of things.
to relive the unrelieved and unbelievable past,
in paraphrased overlaps and eerie similarities?
oh, i'll do it, for sure;
but only because i have to know if there's even a chance
to change the ending if you know what the outcome was last time?
some styles are so hard,
i can't even imagine how it they could happen in the first place,
let alone more than once.
the circles of spirit and memory,
the cycles of cultivated coincidence,
and unresolved word problems masquerading as logic traps
harder and harder styles must just set in and set out
to see me through some sort of unlearned lessons about
life and love and lust and blood.
damn, duders.
that's some serious sh!t.
i mean, c'mon,
it's called real-life documentarianism
because it's all really happening....
there're no idealized idle idylls here,
it's warrior poetry, after all.
all savage, furious, fraught with perils and pitfalls.
and it's always stormswept,
all raging winds and high tides and full moons,
gypsy camps and minor keys,
false lights, false doors, and false dawns,
there's a lot of not-quites,
a few more almosts,
and scores of tied-up knots and not-even-closes.
the battle is joined,
the frey is frayed and the fringes are all loose-ended
and up for grabs.
that means nothing is F*ed,
and everything is.
i'm fighting for something,
and i'm maneuvering into position at all times.
i've got 'em all surrounded,
and i, in turn, am surrounded.
concentric circles keep echoing outwards.
that's a thing;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, November 8

because i'm a man?

eightish hours of pouting my way through a tattoo?
that's some old-time flashback-type sh!t, neighbors.
for sure.
real talk?
i haaaaate getting tattooed,
a lot,
and i hate it SO hard, too.
how was i gonna pass up a chance to monopolize a whole day
of my very good friend, and former apprentice,
mr. shawn hebrank's valuable and much sought after time?
i wasn't gonna, obviously.
superfancy and unnecessary are exactly what i need.
and too much tattooing at once?
it's exactly the right amount.
don't be dumb.
should i have been better prepared?
what do you mean?
what are you?
an A*-hole?
without much more preamble,
check the new hottness-type teleport:
that's a victorian lady, in mourning, in her little black dress,
which were a whole lot bigger back then,
and a feathery hat fit for a dowager dame.
oh, certainly,
that's a bear skull she's sporting for a head.
bears are dope,
and bears are ugly,
and rules is rules.
yes, friends.
that's a ghost bunny breathing fog.
it's london fog, probably,
and it has tudor roses in it.
^^^go geek out over his style.

sometimes it has to be like that,
or else it's just not going to eleven fast enough.
i've had nothing to do with my buddy's career for an age,
and he's really become something of a big deal.
truth is,
i am grateful for the tattoo,
and the time,
and the exchange,
and the friendship,
and the changes we've experienced over all this time together.
there's a path we're on, us warrior poets and blitzkrieg bards-
and it leads us vaguely forward, into the future an' that...
but damn if it doesn't wander around a whole lot,
with switchbacks and meanders and other circuitous and fortuitous
routes through time and space and spirit and memory.
i'm not getting maudlin, y'all.
i'm just taking time to reflect on the day.
it's all really happening the whole time, though.
back and forth and forever and ever.
that's the whole point;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, November 7

passing the torch means lighting a fire.

every once in a great while,
i still get a little bit busy.
just a little,
and only where nobody will see me doing it.
tattooing in a new shop,
without even attempting to see if it's okay?
turns out,
i'm kind of a jerk.
i'm a jerk enabled by the privileges afforded by befriending
other OTHER elitist privileged jerks.
those are my people, it turns, out.
expert recognize expert,
what can i say?
i tattooed on a day that twilight tattoo was closed,
on shawn's inner thigh,
for five hours straight.
because we like each other,
and we are both finally in a place where i'm playing catch-up,
and he's showing off his skills.
it happens.
han solo spent some time in carbonite,
i spent some time in north conway,
and when we woke up,
the jedi were back in action.
that's a thing.
shawn needed a tattoo of the most potato-like of enormous
angry territorial vegetarian battle-beasts.
they are, in fact, difficult to make look dynamic.
i drew a dinosaur with ears, basically,
and added a few pounds for good measure,
just to try and activate some sort of worthy tribute
to the eight-tusked riverhorse.
check the teleport:
they sweat red like blood!
they eat grass like cows!
they kill ALL the things that stop in their area!
they eat them up to make them disappear,
like rome erasing hannibal,
like egypt erasing akhenaten,
(site specific references, you're welcome)
and poop them out everywhere,
in furious gouts of explosive diarrhea!!!
and somehow, that helps the ecosysytem or somethin'.
nature wins, so hard.
check the teleport:
that's it.
took me three tries to get a drawing that didn't look like a starchy root.
no jokes.
adding a little vegetation an' that,
and some centipede-ribbon waves, too,
both helped conceal the blarpity mess
that the low-end of a hippo has to offer.
big is beautiful, sometimes...
and other times,
it's a savage stormswept bristle-bearded fattie
boombattie underwater thunderclap of crusty toes and brutal teeth.
we do grown-up stuff now, i guess.
trading things,
mutually respecting each other,
being prone to discourse on the nature of divergent world views.....
we doo-doo that adult-type intellectual sh!t.
not that it matters in groups of four or more,
then it's balls-out connecticut-type loud fresh hardness for all y'all faces.
that's real.
you can get older,
and more mellow and/or tolerant,
but in tandem,
two worthy warrior poets will always take
being brutal, blunt, and combative back from the
brink of extinction by the core of civilized society,
and reengage with even more abrasive abusive and effusive
sh!t-talking from the future.
to eleven or more, and beyond.
real life times,
with real life people?
we're mostly grown up,
but we're still doing a lot of the same sh!t.
das it;
never quiet, never soft.....


taking a bath?
it's not just for girls anymore.
you know that right?
you do now.
it's good for you.
shawn and meryl.
erstwhile proprieters,
current temporary residents,
and all around great hosts at the louderhorn inn,
made sure my bed was made and ready,
they made sure i had food for my road-dusted,
world-weary war-torn sh!tty F*ing face as soon as i landed,
they made sure there were expert treats
muffins and cupcakes and cookies, an' that,
from the face-tattooed crusty jugglers at hard times cafe,
and those on on more than one occasion, even.
bloarpity diapersquares of vegan pizza in multiple forms,
and in gargantuan amounts, from two different places?
i love pizza.
and there was thai food,
and homemade veggie bouillabaisse,
and popcorn with nootch,
or as they were clearly incorrectly calling it-
nut. yeast.
i love the new lexicon of active participation,
but i don't care if you're abbreviating the word nutritional or not...
nut. yeast??!
that just can't go on my treats.
they made sure there was real coffee and decaf tea,
and scones for days and days and days...
shawn and meryl,
and minneapolis,
for the last good time together in that place, ever.
word up.
all the gorging and swallowing and ingesting aside,
they also let me use their great big giant sexy bathtub.
check the the grainy low-light-type soupbowl teleport:

it's just so big.
extra wide, even.
big enough for two, in fact.
and i sat and i sat and i pruned up and waterlogged
and i let all the stress and despair and defeat and disquiet
leak into the water,
which somehow,
instead of turning blue-black and bloody,
stayed crystal clear.
weird, huh?
how that much anxious angst and anger can ooze out of you,
and there's nothing to show for what's transpired but wrinkly bits?
whatever, friends-
that bath was the super hottness.
baptized again in a porcelain oval,
a warrior witch's cauldron,
boiling me alive, or cooking off the weak sauce.
universal solvents,
and waterborne solutions?
i take full advantage of the amenities.
value-added luxury indulgence,
closing out the louderhorn as likely the last houseguest
before the big finale in january.
they're leaving,
and i'm never coming back, either.
i'll see those two again,
but i'll sure miss that massive bathtub forever.
life hurts,
a whole lot,
but bath time made it all better,
even if only for a little itty bitty baby minute.
i am still grateful for the time i have been given;
never quiet, never soft.....