thor and his thunder.

lightning-striking vikings.
they show up flippin' the mutha-F* right out,
they hit hard on your stuffs and take all your treats,
they axe-chop and torch-burn and weiner-pork everything,
and then they disappear.
that's what i'm talkin' about, duders...
it's all the thursday around me.
thor's day.
the hammer, y'all.
part blacksmith brawn and part warrior poetry-
droppin' it down,
and ringing out the doo-doo din
and calamitous, cacophonous mutha-b!tchin' thunder.
that means yellin'. and yellin'. and yellin'.
and some ferocious battle-beastly tatzappin',
and whatever other 'nother other modes of expression
cross my path and make themselves readily at hand.
and then,
a hasty departure.
a smoke-ring-on-the-wind-type dissipation.
as in: into thin air, neighbors, y'heard?
...right around closing time.
shallow drafts, neighbors.
that's always been the key.
to navigate otherwise impassable waterways.
i've got drafts and drafts and drafts, too.
rough drafts, leaky windows, root beers.
drafts.
and as for shallowness.
c'mon.
the depths of my surface values are unplumbable.
add in these cloudy skies, these cool breezes,
and the fiery forge of fury in my chest,
and that's colliding opposite pressure fronts.
mm-hmm.
here comes the lightning.
and not just from the static electricity of my
massive brass clankers clack-a-lackin' together.
from ALL the friction.
because you know what happens when you're confronted
with abrasiveness for long enough, don't you?
everything else gets smoother.
that's word.
i'm paving the way with brazen brass balls and bugles blaring.
staying rough all this time has it's advantages.
eventually,
everytthing'll all get polished...
polished up and shiny,
or polished off and over.
one way or another,
it's all bound and determined to keep really happening.
listen closely.
there're hammers hitting and sparks flying,
bellows blowing and furnaces raging,
horns blasting and trumpets heralding.
that's thunder.
two short steps behind me.
by the time you hear it, i'll be gone.
lightning-striking viking, ninjas,
hitting hard and getting the F* out;
never quiet, never soft.....

lumbering jackers.

ohhhhhhh sh!t, mutha-b!tches!
you know what this right here means?

yeah.
for starters,
it means that my shark-like gluttony couldn't wait
for a photo opportunity to arrive
before a big bite into the best panniecakes yet.
and just why were panniecakes on the munch-up list this morning?
because lumberjacks always eat a hearty meal of pan-style cakes
before engaging in epic, heroic, masculine deforestation.
obviously.
if long beards denote wisdom (or alcoholism),
then thick beards indicate manliness.
and let me tell all y'all,
wayne's beard is the thickest.
and by virtue of free-association,
his manliness knows no rivals.
you guys know about wayne?

you should.
he pierces bodies,
he eats pancakes,
he saws wood.
he's a man, duders.
a real one, i mean.
after trying to fix my chainsaw, with tools,
and a lighter (it's true),  to no avail...

he whipped out a spare,
(i assume woodsly tree-fellin' fellas always have one handy)
and did a whole bunch of this:

are you checking your teleport?

like i said before;
ohhhhhh sh!t!!
for the record,
i mostly just scoopled up the brush and branches.
(my beard is very well groomed, but not nearly as dense)
duders,
we puffed on some stumps (of rolled-up leafy stench)
and carved up some other 'nother stumps (of sappy spruce),
and ate lunch,
and moved huuuuuuge rocks,
and pretty much increased the atmospheric testosterone quotient
by at least 111%.
word the F* up.
that's a lot of action for a rainyish wednesday.
i'm tellin' you guys.
now that the treeline is leaner,
the living roof woodshed is only
a little tiny bulldozer away from happening.
and it's ALL really happening, neighbors.
***********
it's a new moon tonight.
the blackest night, even.
darker darkness,
brighter stars.
or at least,
they would be brighter if the clouds weren't peeing on us.
there just had to be rain, huh?
so,
instead of sitting on my newly erected stone bench,
i'm indoors,
beside a candle or three,
basking in the miniature glow of a slightly less hot fire.
it smells like pumpkins, though, and white pines.
so it could be a lot worse.
plus,
tomorrow night is only 24 short hours away,
and the sliver of moony whiteness won't be much
in the way of muting the orange blaze that's sure to happen.
days off?
over and done with.
days on?
yeah, they sure are;
never quiet, never soft.....

big fun.

...art supplies.
that's the big news.
i got a whole new set of pens, ninjas.
microns an' that.
and even some semi-elusive,
not-included-in-the-four-pack number ones.
for those of you who don't know:
#1's are the number one fat-lined markery marky-markin'
flavorblastin' liners out there.
why?
because they are even thicker than .08's.
that's pen talk, kids.
believe it.
one whole millimeter of fluid density.
and i've got a whole assortment of new ones, too.
plus a super-fresh, graph-lined ruler.
just being IN the art store
makes me want to get down on some get busy arthur-making hottness.
throw in a truly disgusting quantity of vegan deliciousness,
and you've got yourselves a worthy day away from the workplace.
although, to be fair,
i was at the studio for a little minute,
scooplin' up on some new fonts,
some photocopies,
and some firm plans for tree removal and rock hunting.
days off, duders.
a rare and really excellent commodity in the woodsly goodness.
going south, by southeast,
to portland, maine,
for green elephant asia-type eats?
that's worth the drive from anywhere.
AND new mutha-flippin' pens?
c'mon.
a new nib on a factory-fresh fully-inky stick
is pretty much the best thing there is.
and what's more, i've been using 'em.
so hard.
for really real,
there are at least four new illustrations on the 'almost-done' list.
it's almost the eleventh after all,
and worthy warriors of berserker barbarism don't sleep, son.
that's no joke.
i'm just sayin', mutha-lickers,
a full belly, a new art cache, and a day well spanned.
tuesdays are rarely this rad;
never quiet, never soft.....

labored.

work. work. work.
all work, and no play,
and just a little bit of cake,
makes for a long day indeed in the crisp and comfortable environs
of the perfectly picturesque septemberiness of the woodsly goodness.
here we are.
and although the rest of the realm around us is off today,
enjoying the idea of a just reward
for laboring all through the summer an' that,
we wanton and world-weary warriors of poetic (and prosaic) pugilism
are headed out into the work world for one more day.
it's the last of 'zaps before our weekend,
which is actually scheduled to only be one day,
and as such much more of a short one than a long one.
truncated.
abbreviated.
less-than satisfactory.
which of course just means we've got to pack as much awesome
into 24 hours as we conceivably can manage.
yeah.
like yard work.
or house work.
or gardening.
awwwwwwwwwww, man...c'mon.
chores?
really??
hard styles know no boundaries.
we're on the borders of the berserker barbarian badlands
with that kind of responsible adult activity.
i suspect a revolt against our orderly obligations by tomorrow.
if the labor of today doesn't ignite a hot fire of rebuttal and reprisal
against the rigors of work-week weak-sauce.
anything could happen,
although it usually doesn't.
we'll all have to wait, see, and be surprised together.
***********
the smell is in the air.
whiff it.
and not just the old cabbagey hot dumpster reekings
of our dog's festy butthole, either.
breathe deeply, and without worry,
because in addition to that malodorous aroma,
the pervasive purely-pleasing, refreshing, and rewarding wafts of
almost-autumn are snappy fresh and dawn's early lightening
in our collective woodsly nostrils this morning.
crisp, ninjas.
like extra blankets and undershirts.
nice.
it's labor day, for sure,
but i don't imagine i'll be working too much.
at least, not any harder,
and definitely no smarter than usual.
a pig-headed, bum's-rush, bull-in-the-china-shop,
stubborn-mule animal attack on all things obligatory.
excessive is the order of the day.
gratuitous, if you'd like.
i'm grateful for this time i have been given,
and i'll be using it to bring all the odinous thunder down
on all the doo-doo butery duders
who don't know well enough to stay home today.
labor,
like giving birth.
to a new era of woodsly goodness...
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

slices.

homemade goodness.

whipped-up squackers,
crumby (but not crummy) layers,
and all kinds of moist, sweet, deliciousness...

duders,
after i baked a double-deck of my cakey hottness,
i embarked on the obvious next step;
frosting.
i went to prepare the twin circles of wheaten wonder
for the slathering of slap-happy sugared-up second-skin,
and then discovered half of the ingredients to be missing.
now, neighbors, i should tell you-
my pantry is a closely guarded lair of preparedness.
a fortified vault of vitamins and minerals.
an armory of culinary ammunition, even.
i'm sayin',
i back up all my back up plans.
and my sugars,
and my cocoas.
that's right, y'all.
molto. molto. molto, still.
so having only one of anything? ...no way, jose.
i've got stacks and rows and piles.
there's not supposed to be any such thing as NONE of anything.
so just imagine my surprise,
and frustration,
upon discovering the absence of my frosty necessaries.
that's such a hard style.
somebody has been sneaking on my jauns.
and i only know one goldilocks around these parts.
so the icing had to wait a whole 'nother day.
all's well that ends with sugary, faux-buttery air-whipped brown blops.
and now that a quick shopping trip has been accomplished,
it's time to celebrate.

cake, mutha-b!tches.
in my mouth.
it's a Labor Day cake.
y'know,
for all the hard work i get to doo-doo today.
glycemic 'gariousness, ninjas.
i'm set to slice this baby-b!tch in to sections,
and devour, on the hour, every hour,
a shark-gluttonous sundial of dark and lovely lusciousness,
until i'm a shaky-lining tatty-o'blasterizer
all the way until closing time tonight.
it would've been easier, i think,
to take the day off.
but that's not how barbarian bankrollers get busy.
gimme s'money.
gimme some cake.
loud,
hard,
fresh.
all day;
never quiet, never soft.....

thick blankets...

make sleeping so good.
it's here,
post waterstorm,
on this september sunday.
cold nights and sunny days and perfect sleeping weather.
the conditions are all aligned.
and the extra magic of a super fluffy blanket is right on top.
i'm sayin',
i just woke up.
that's extra hours of sleepy-time.
and it feels good.
Tea 'N' Toast is gettin' brewed and baked in a hurry, though.
y'know,
so that the remainder of our restfully easy sunday morning
can proceed without any undue haste.
nice.
i know you ninjas all like that magical blanketry.
because it's the perfect top-coat for a tasty night of turbo invigoration.
every side of the bed is the wrong side,
without the right covers, yeah?
yeah.
everything blanket.
***********
i've still got a big ol' pile of dirt in my front yard, y'all.
a heap of brown earth.
a mound of melted mountain, even.
i kept some in reserve, neighbors.
i mean,
there's all kinds of yardsly landscaping still to get done,
and happily,
i've got the extra soil to spare.
filling in the bl_nks, an' that.
and raising up the flowers and the berries and the bushes, too.
of course,
it looks like a blop of lawn-blight in the meantime.
but that's cool.
i'd rather have my back-up look busted and come in handy,
than have my everything else look dope and not have enough.
that's Folk economics, ninjas.
besides,
my garden may already be a perfect ten,
but i've got enough raw gardening material to take it
well beyond eleven.
recognize.
too much is the right amount;
never quiet, never soft.....

cake.

i'm making it and baking it.
i won't be in the weak waterbaby worstitude
of connecticut's suburban streets
to celebrate the big candle-blowin' berday business
of my sister anna's thirtieth being-alive anniversay.
so,
as a show of solidarity with my sibling,
i'm making myself a consolation prize cake.
yep.
flaunting a supreme disregard,
for flood and drought alike,
in the face of the worldwide wheat famine,
hunger-scare food-cost-spike frenzy,
i'm adding applesauce and sugar,
and gettin' all marie antoinette on my tastebuds.
let 'em eat it, y'all.
i'm sure gonna.
plus,
there's always the promise of frosting.
or icing, if you'd prefer.
heck,
you can call it thick chocloate goobieblops for all i care;
it's getting spread on my cakes regardless.
that's correct.
september cakes.
just what the weekend ordered.
hefty slices of amazing.
it's no indigenous andes, alpaca-haired, quinoa cake,
but it is surely destined to be more delicioso,
and probably mucho mas vegan.
i'm on it.
*
but more importantly (barely) than the cake in the oven,
my little sister is thirty.
my littlest sister.
thirty.
dang.
that makes me even older.
i feel it, too.
and man, do i look it.
labor day weekend,
and i'm headed to work,
after staying up too long for the last late showing of 'machete'.
my sad bones and sleepy skin can't handle this kind of thing.
brownsploitation and rest deprivation?
and more tattoos?
mutha-b!tches had better be bringing big heavy-weighted
molto movie checks with 'em today.
holler.(i'm ready to make dollars)
...and cake.
by the stack and by the slice.
both types.
***********
so,
the hurricane of biblical retribution and fury
failed to smite massachussets off the face of the earth.
that means it's still full of 'holes,
which in turn means a mass exodus
from the realms of b!tchbagging sucktardation,
to the idyllic woodsly goodness.
good for them,
bad for us.
what could've been a peaceful,
albeit soggy,
saturated span of sweet, sweet silent solitude,
is sure to be a sh!t-salad traffic jam jamboree doo-doo circle instead.
hard-styles don't get vacations, i guess.
more of this,
and more's the pity.
hot fire spit only condenses and concentrates
the baby b!tch-sap, neighbors.
it looks like the end o' the week will see the fruits of such interaction.
which is to say:
b!tch-syrup.
obviously.
thick, bitter, and unwanted.
that's what SHE said;
never quiet, never soft.....

deep into it.

september.
i'm still on about it.
y'know there's ripened pumpkins around already?
man,
that's some late summer seriousness.
no jokes.
i need some.
now, let me tell y'all about our metal roof.
and more importantly,
about the explosions of divine heaven-hurled fury i've been hearing.
it's scary, a little teentsy tiny bit, my ninjas.
when, in the stillness of late night woodsly quietude,
a harsh, hard-style crash'em-up 'sploding sound gets a-poppin'.
like the villagers are catapulting boulders at my fortress.
i'm sayin'.
for all the loudness and the hardness of the big bangs we're wakening to,
it's all a lot of noise for just a little bit of danger...
it's acorns.
yeah.
little nature grenades.
the big sexy oak tree is shedding her little babies on our house.
so hard.
like, it sounds like dinosaurs crashing through the woods
when heard from the opposite side of the house.
acorns.
miniature oak trees.
little truths.
so dope.
***********
today's my brother-in-law's berfday.
he's thirty.
that's pretty cool.
my youngest sister's big one is tomorrow.
she'll be thirty as well.
mostly,
what i'm thinking about is not the magic milestone
of triple decade decadence.
but moreso that neither of them represents
the roman numerals associated therewith.
you know:
XXX.
like straight-edge. (most assuredly not)
or pornography. (probably not)
but maybe, however,
if we're talking about the old alcohol branding...
like moonshine jugs and pirate casks,
then,
just maybe,
my fully grown-up siblings by blood and matrimony
very well might be rockin' the trip'-X most truly.
drinkies, kids.
i can't hang out.
but i do love birthday cake.
that's word.
i hope there's more of the latter and less of the former,
with plenty of good cheer and all of that happy crapola.
***********
this weekend is the labor day daze and craze.
which means i'll be laboring.
all day.
every day.
after all,
what the F* is a holiday weekend?
duders,
when we talk about long weekends,
it's because we work extra hard for extra long.
and then it seems even longer.
(that's what she said)
so today is the lull,
before the storm;
and quite honestly,
before the actual storm.
hurricane earl's remnants and roustabouts
should be kicking the coastline's A* off sometime super-soon.
which means the elevated up-here-ness may actually
even get a little double drizzle to quench the unholy sizzle
of these record temperatures and fire-hazard tinderbox forests.
sorry, coastline,
but the mountains are what's up.
literally.
northern new england, mutha-b!tches.
that's where it's at.
today and every day.
just like always,
with the help of a hundred acorns;
never quiet, never soft.....

hot fire.

no smoke without it.

and just look at those bellowing, billowing plumes.
the inky, oily clouds of atmospheric monoxide, my ninjas.
...so manly.
the blazing bright barbarian beacon of burly september welcoming.
i'm just sayin',
we know how to inflict the hottest dopeness on your A*s.
and we never hesitate.
birch bark, b!tches.
the fastest combustion,
the fastest consumption,
the smokiest stuff.
that's how it goes up here.
the temperature drops a couple degrees,
we bring it right back up again.
super.

the circle of stones,
the stone seats,
the woodsly goodness,
the well-watered garden.
here is where the heat is.
and the heart;
never quiet, never soft.....

cacciatore.

that's the hunter's feast, my ninjas.
cacciatore.
one big bowlful of excellent.

in keeping with the rockin' really loud and hard of the rabbit-rabbit-ness.
which is traditionally what's IN the hunter's feast.
i didn't really do much hunting.
i didn't even wear any camouflage.
in fact,
outside of going to the grocery store,
i mostly just roamed around outside.
plucking herbs, y'all.
yeah.
herb plucking, y'know,
like out of the gardens.
rosemary and basil from the upstairs deck garden.
greek oregano, sweet marjoram, and sage
straight off the stalks at the front of the house rock spot,
and italian oregano and lemon balm from the big garden.
it's not exactly hunting.
i mean,
i planted 'em,
so i knew where they were.
but i also know that they're mutha-flippin' delicious.
dang.
and with bow-tie pasta?
c'mon, neighbors.
farfalle is their grown up name.
it means butterflies.
but i like to think of it more like moths.
because those're waaay more sexy.
in unrelated observation,
i also find it amusing that chevrolet uses the 'bow tie' logo,
since mostly rednecktardbots drive 'em up here.
you get it?
yeah, you do.
they'd never wear a real bow tie,
or probably even eat farfalle if they knew what it meant.
i'm sayin'.
anyway,
cacciatore is good for your face.
and my face needed a couple of shark-gluttonous bowlfuls.
to fill the empty spot left by failure.
awwwww, man.
i attempted a major woodsly rock heist.
but,
even with two duders, levers, backbreaking lifty-squats,
and assorted grunts and grumbles,
the rocks were too big and unwieldy.
dang.
dirty, sweaty, hundred-degree defeat.
and with some showcase rocks right there on the roadside,
taunting the gardeny hottness of the fortress and it's warriors.
dang.
by dinnertime,
it was hard even lifting my fork, kids,
with the jellied spindle-noodle arms i was left with afterwards.
with my mouth full of awesome,
i reflected on the half-full news.
we didn't leave empty-handed,
or empty truck-bedded, either.
we got another 'nother lined-up and eroded,
super-sz'huan striated behemoth though.
check the teleport:

c'mon.
with real bits of bossy moss?
yeah.
that's what's good.
rocks,
and so much dinner, duders.
i doo-doo that hot meal waitin' type hard style sh!t.
i mean it.
the wifey was working,
so you just know i had to show some gratitude.
that's viking feast funtimes,
via italian recipes,
alongside vegan sensibilites,
with fresh woodsly ingredients.
real life,
all around us,
in our bellyholes,
and in our hearts.
it's all always going on and on and on;
never quiet, never soft.....

rabbit, rabbit!!!!!

repeat after me:
rabbit.
rabbit.
it's the first of the month, y'all.
landlords and welfare cats are happy.
so am i.
i said the magic words.
the lucky good time repetition petition for swell monthly doings.
rabbit, rabbit, my ninjas.
it's september.
for thirty whole days.
in a row.
and september, neighbors,
is one of the best months.
crisp, fresh apples.
that autumny filtered, failing yellow sunlight no other time can match.
back to school times for the little ones,
so no sh!tty little kids F*ing up my dinners in restaurants.
polarity-infused seasonal quarter transformation equinox time.
like i said,
it's good.
really good.
and today's the jump off.
lucky us.
nowhere but here.
that's where i'd like to be right now.
looks like the rabbity babbity blahbity-blah is working.
i mean, i'm here.
and that's something.
i've even got a few plants to drop into the ground today.
for real.
a couple of buckets of razzledazzleberries,
two different kinds of big dark sweet juicy blackberries,
and some bugleweed, too.
it's september.
so i'm late.
but i'm looking towards next year, ninjas.
these little leafy buddies need to set their roots.
and i'm here to help.
***********
i've got some drawings to finish up,
and the overpriced screenprinting lady to bargain with.
i want what i want,
and what i want is pretty fresh.
...and i need it now.
or at least,
within the next ten days.
or else it doesn't go to eleven, y'heard?
word the F* up.
super-dopeness?
yep.
secret sexiness?
yep-yep.
loud fresh hardness?
oh yeah...for your face.
due diligence for my favorite season,
my favorite project,
and my favoritest most bestest folks.
(that's all of y'all.)
it's happening.
moves are being made.
now.
really;
never quiet, never soft.....