no use pretending...

yeah,
neighbors,
i guess it's just what 's up now.
i'm a baker and a maker and a hard-lookin' cook,
but i'm barely even pretending to be an artist.
y'know?
i'm sayin'....
i go to work, i do tattoos,
and then i leave and promptly forget all about it.
no,
i don't take pictures of what i do anymore.
why not?
because,
if you've seen one cross on a dude,
or sideboob words on a girl,
or an infinity symbol with words, birds, anchors, and despair....
well,
then we're pretty much all caught up on that angle.
sure,
i draw when i'm there and all that sh!t,
but really?
i'm just filling blanks in with a hard-styled grind....
-
whatever happened to that guy who used to do the stuff?
ugh.
i think he traded in his non-latex gloves for oven mitts.
real talk.
but,
don't misunderstand me, kids-
i may hate the day-in/day-out doo-doo butter of working
in an uninformed, unspohisticated, loosely-populated,
petty and impoverished place.
but i hate it less than i despise the idea of packing up and leaving
the idyllic dopeness of the woodsly goodsly hottness
of my personal monument to expertism,
the  Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
word!
and besides,
the remainder of my time is my own to do with as i please.
which mostly consists of feeding the fires in the woodstove.
when the furnace kicks on whilst the flames are a-ragin',
you KNOW it's too damned cold.
and when the indoor thermometer in my kitchen
reads forty eight degrees farenheit?
ugh.
it's just so sh!tty.
it's not easy, at all, and i suspect that it never will be.
for all the foibles of being a barbarian in the north;
and all the pitfalls and pratfalls of warrior poetry in motion;
and all the difficulties of being dissimilar to everyone else around here-
home is where the house is;
and the house has a hold on my hardened heart.
the stone foundations and the cold stone in my chest are connected.
this is where it all really happens,
the subtle shifts in focus have become a serious redirection.
i may have finally found my true due north.
*********** 
and also,
i'm still pretty flippin' excited about my mouthface/bellyhole connection.
that's no joke.
mexican miercoles, my friends.
that's burrito time,
for all y'all amigos who don't know what's good.
check the teleport:

mmmhmmmmm.
salsa fresca?
yeah!
homefried corn tortilla chips?
hell yeah!
pineapple and lime for extra squeezy juicy goodness,
and two types of other sauce on top of a broiled tomato-basil
lavash-type burrito wrap?
F*ing right, kids,
we get busy over here.
the dirty diaperload of brown bombs is better than most things,
despite looking pretty rough on the inside.
you gotta lay down the daiya(rrhea) chee' down first,
and then a healthy layer of spinach and arugala.
it coats the top in a burst-proof shell on the inside.
smart.
roman beans with triple peppers are in full effect over here.
so is ground and seasoned tempeh crumble blops,
with fire roasted chiles and salsa and nootch and cilantro......
did you just ask what's up with rice?
oh MAN!
i got the expert super-deluxe rice,
with weird black ones, and red ones, and brown ones,
and basmati, and all that sort of fancy action-
and i upgraded it with scallions and spices,
like turmeric and smoked paprika and chipotle ho' sauce,
because i know about the really real goodness of overdoing it.
ultimo-mexico shark gluttony is how i cope with terrible temperatures
and failing spirits.
i fill holes, friends.
one way or another;
never quiet, never soft.....