full and empty.

one hundred.
and four.
...luscious degrees?
not quite, my ninjas.
how about a week of rain?

two weeks of rain?

...go away.

come again some other day.

or better yet,

next month.
were i an itsy-bitsy spider,
my water spout topping trials would be
brutally depressing right about now.
plus,
no matter how itsy, or bitsy,
F* those spiders anyway.
wooooord up, kids.
-

y'know what i've got,

but that ma nature is presently not?

check the ghost whispers on the teleport:

shhhh.
you see it right?
the art shot camerawork doesn't ruin it, does it?
subtle, nearly invisible,
but a glance askance tells you all you need:

yuuuuup.

expert.

that's me.
oh, c'mon.
you like it.
it's actually a baby diarrhea green card,
but my light sources had their own hue to imbue.
anyway, i have to give credit to shawn hebrank.
he makes treats happen.
like, design magic, from the future-
for my face.
and yours.
this rainy gayness, though?
i can't hang out.
and i can't sleep a wink.
i'm a sloppy, sopping, shivering mess.

for real.

it's cold and dark and stormy.

still.

it's like we replaced the normally capricious

new england weather forecast with one
far more predictably unpleasant-

like, from the pacific northwest, perhaps,

or the hard-style hebrides of scotland,

or some other other wet busted spot on the map.

it sucks balls, y'all,

and it's having an effect on the overall feelings of

well-being and fulfillment that normally blossom

in the bountiful beauty of june's sunny side.

awwwwwwwwwwwwwww, man.

when it rains,

it pours.

i could be talking about cryin' eyes 

to match these cryin' skies.

i could even be talking about hearts,

pouring out those sad songs and true stories. 

or could it be i'm referring to minds?

the convoluted concentration turned outside in

by staying inside....

and maybe i am.

then again, maybe i'm not.

***********

real life unfolds in an ever-expanding series 

of pleats and creases. 

it's not smooth, neighbors.

it's a wrinkled mass of angles and bends.

the shortest distance may be a straight line,

but that's only on a map.

y'know?

i'm just sayin' duders-

if there's a blueprint,

it's a top-secret need-to-know encoded and encrypted

indecipherable series of less-than easy events,

and it is not accompanied by a map key.

one inch equals a million square miles?

who knows?

one hurt feeling equals one red circle with a line around it?

sure, why not?

i don't pretend to know, yo.

i'm just documenting it as it unfurls into this bleary, 

blotted, and besotted stretch of watery weeks and weeks.

i'm spanning time, not with a wrench or a bridge,

but with a sh!t-creek-seasoned paddle.

believe it.

*

flood light?

is that what we're calling the moon these days?

it's not quite that bright,

but it sure is trying.

once in a while,

it breaks through the floating sea of stormclouds

and shines down like a follow-spot during a prison break.

that's usually when the witching hour werewolf wake-up call

comes in live and direct from the spirits and memories

of what's happening.

it's an illuminated manuscript written on the trees and the grass,

a true story of hard styles and all that kind of thing.
interwoven, overlapping shadows making circles to match
and attach themselves to the big blue-light yellow eye in the air.
that's real.
i'm staying up so late, it's actually still yesterday,
at least as far as my rhythm and rhyme are concerned.
there's some kind of skald's stanzas in what's happening.
a paean of power and progress,
a werewolfen weregild treasure trove of words and deeds.
indeed.
somehow, in this perpetual darkness,
this expansive evening-type failing and fading illumination,
that only ever gives way to darker places and longer absences,
a better fate than death still awaits us everywhere.
truth and consequences, friends.
that's optimism, based entirely on pragmatism.
the worst day above ground is better than the best one below.
it's all really happening.
i am grateful for the hardest styles, and the trying times;
never quiet, never soft.....

easier.

it gets easier.
that's true.
sunday morning?
yeah.
that too.
it's mutha-'ucking freezing up here, y'all.
like,
put on a sweater cold.
the sun's rays have been blue-blocked
and ultra-violently ultra-violet violated
by the solid grey gayness up in the air.
we're being smothered by cloudcover.
the warmth and light are taking the weekend off,
but the hottness remains intact.
something about the furnaces in my flesh,
and the hot fire spit exhaust system i carry with me
everywhere i go.
huh?
i'm sayin'-
there's a bass-boosted barbarian bellows blowing
gale-force gusts of the winds of war and change and answers
directly into the lava-lined combustion chamber
inside of my chest.
that stokes that sh!t, yo.
into an infernal conflagration of activation.
check it-
my heart is a raging, stormswept, savage,
gypsy siege engine, powered by perpetual motion,
or active participation, or really-realness,
or sometimes, even competent communication.
that's right, neighbors.
it's a flex-fuel fission machine,
far greener than the grass on the other side, even.
clean-burning truth and consequences and tasty vegan food.
it's a lot like biodiesel.
well, sort of, anyway...
my own greasy guido recycling plant,
self-referencing and self-propelled-
pumping, thumping, and bumping all the thunderclapping
beats of spirit and memory inside of me.
what are we laying siege to?
what aren't we storming like ramparts and battlements?
if you aren't making moves to rush, and rush, and attack
each and every single day,
i'm pretty sure you might be F*ing up.
everything gets easier when we remember that, y'know?
even hard styles and hard pounding,
even long nights and rough times,
even long stretches and low spots,
nadirs and dry spells and difficulties of all sorts.
surround 'em and wreak wreck on their fortifications.
right?
lay waste, an' that.
it's the true and proper way to make sure a sunless sunday
gets a bit brighter.
*
what's that about a silver lining?
cloud cover conceals the blindingly bright bulb
of battle-beastliness that begets that polymorphic shape-shift sh!t.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
we're creepin' on a sleepless situation
wherein those who, what, when, and why jauns are
matters of less import than the big question-
where?
right here,
in the woodsly goodness,
there's a werewolfen warrior poet staying up,
eating words by the paperbackful,
and tempering his teeth and nails
with tamper-proof total immersion in What Is.
y'heard?
that's a thing.
facts. reasons. logical chains of events.
it's all really happening.
it doesn't change with waxing or waning,
with warring or warning or whatever else.
-
there's hot fire,
there's lightning,
there's a full flippin' moon.
a perfect overlapping set of concentric ghost circles,
making ripples, making waves, making moves.
it gets easier with practice.
being like this, i mean.
perfect practice makes perfection,
imperfect practices not really so much.
so we've got to make sure that we're on refined finery.
no, for real.
that fashion-savvy sensitivity to looking the part
of a poised and predatory prowler who
provides a preponderance of proof to support
his disproportionate powers of portable purporting.
practice makes perfect.
it gets easier with practice.
repeat it.
it gets easier;
never quiet, never soft.....

theatrics.

hey, duders.
peony bomb?

yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
that's nature winning.
i mean,
who decides to start poppin' off,
in the rain, overnight, while nobody is watchin'?
ninjas.
that's who.
i've got ninja peony plants doo-dooing what they do.
this wavering weather,
this back-and-forth b!tchbaggery,
this stereotypically unpredictable new englandy
outdoor up-and-down fluctuation,
well, kids,
it's making the garden get busy whilst the getting is good.
i've got blooms.
i've got buds.
i've got berries in assorted colors and flavors.
but am i enjoying any of it?
c'mon.
what are you?
an A-hole?
of course not-
it's raining.
like,
deep, dark, dense clouds of water vapor
are blotting out the sky and keeping the risen sun
out of sight and behind a barrier of burly, blurry,
diffuse dinginess so far this morning.
nice.
i can think of no reason that regular folks shouldn't have
to span their days off of work under a shower of
stormy weather and altered plans.
i mean,
the burden of disappointment feels lighter
when other people are also in the swampy darkness with you.
right?
i know I sure feel better with an audience of active participants.
just sayin', neighbors-
it's not just misery that loves company,
but it's not only happiness either.
that's a real thing.
so,
the sky is dripping it's tears down in whimpers and sobs.
the woodsly goodness is being hydrated in a big way.
like, muddy and swollen and supersaturated past the point of
any effective rate of absorption.
that's a lot of wet.
maybe it's just a big shower to wash away all the sh!t.
a clean rinse.
i could probably hang out with that.
especially since i live up on a big hill.
yeah.
i'm like that.
***********
i watched that play, y'all.
little shop of horrors.
my friend did an expert job of voicing the
extra-terrestrial carnivorous monster plant.
it was good.
i like to associate with talented folks.
now don't get me wrong-
i don't have anything specifically against the untalented.
i just exercise my right not to hang out with 'em.
i mean,
just be dope, y'know?
the individual determines their own worthiness an' that.
it's what you do that creates value and virtue.
those lightning-striking qualities of move-making,
and by-force time-taking are what i want,
what i need,
and what i've got to have.
lucky,
there are some fresh mutha-lickers who get it gettin' at it
nearby enough for me and mine
to have a company of companions keep us company.
a troupe of theatrical castmembers here to help us out.
sometimes, literally, even.
i'm pretty psyched to know the ninjas i know,
and to get to get proactive in my participation
in the worthy, well-meaning deeds and feats they feature in.
it's happening.
misery, happiness, love, and company;
never quiet, never soft.....

rabbit...rabbit...

a whispered incantation for charm and poise;
a semi-silent sotto voce conjuration of good fortune;
a barely audible polysyllabic spell cast towards
securing and shoring up those secret universal plans-
the best laid of which are designed to kill us all,
according to the blueprint,
and according to the infinite nature of nature-
...and that always wins.
it's an intercessory in-the-meantime intervention.
a well-meaning magic trick to keep time on my side.
what?
oh, c'mon-
you know it, and you like it:
RABBIT. RABBIT.
what else could it be?
i mean,
it's the first of the mutha-flippin' month, neighbors.
and so, as usual,
i said it out of my mouthpiece in the darkest night;
i hushed it out, and rushed it out,
and let it fill the empty spaces of 3:00 am.
huh?
yuuuuuuuuup.
that's right i did, and that's when i did it, too.
the witching hour.
like an internal alarming clock set to 'haunted',
i was up and at 'em at an ungodly and godless hour.
luckily,
i pronounced my prime piece of protective phantasmagoria,
first and foremost amongst my litany of lamentation,
and designed to keep the creepy creaking of my house at bay.
oh, yeah, kids.
it was more than a little freaky-diki
in the lightless limits of pre-dawn over here.
even olive the dog got spooked.
...hard.
did i go looking in closets and down basements?
no way.
i'm not getting served up to any hostile spirits and memories,
be they zeit-, polter-, walden-, or whatevergeists,
on a silver-lined cloud of self-imposed trouble-seeking.
curiosity kills cats, so i'm into it, of course,
but not if it kills me too.
i'm just sayin' ninja,
if not for my mantra of echo-activated abjuration,
it could've been a heck of a hard-style.
chilled and stilled by specters?
it would make a good story,
however,
i think i'd prefer a battle-beastly barbarian blaze of glory
to a silent night of frozen-in-fear failings for my last minute
on the earthly realm in my mortal coil...
but, that's a tale for another day.
because i spit it out, quick and quiet,
and ensured that this time, this month,
the hottness will incite and excite and aright all the big action.
uh-huh.
what now?
umm, i'm pretty sure that's a thing.
anyway,
it's documented.
i said it, i meant it.
it's happening.
june, duders.
any day in june.
***********
friday night plans?
i'm going to see a play.
really.
little shop of horrors,
featuring my buddy eric as 'audrey 2'.
y'know,
the man-eating plant.
spanning time,
theater-going,
getting all dramatic.
what else could i be doing?
what happens in a meadow at dusk?
everything.
nothing;
never quiet, never soft.....

never solo, always so low.

hey duders,
this is what's happening:

one dumb dog.
keeping it real,
keeping me company,
keeping up with the time-spanning
and wrench-choosing,
and bad-breathing,
and belligerence of her main man.
that's it.
two brutal berserker barbarian battle beasts,
at the same time.
we've got an understanding, she and i-
she pretends to understand what i say,
i give her gross jerky blops in exchange.
huh?
bribery?
more like barter, b!tches.
we're on that even-trade coexistence activation jauns.
a pair of pugilistic predators,
a duo of dangerously low serotonin levels,
a tandem tag-team of terrier and terror.
besides,
she'd hang out anyway, even without the bits
of beaten beef and cadavered cattle i toss her.
just because all sorts of orts are in order
when we hang out doesn't mean she doesn't like me.
it's the humans who don't get fresh on the fresh treats.
awwwwwwwwwwww, man.
we've got big plans tonight, y'all.
hot fire.
stumps of stoic stinkiness.
wet logs, and dropped logs, and links of all sorts.
soysages to sh!t,
it's all really happening.
if it weren't for the hardest styles,
i'd have none at all.
i am grateful for what i've got going on, guys.
that's real.
man's best friend she isn't,
still and all,
she's doing pretty good by me these days;
never quiet, never soft.....

stumps...

breath stankin'?
i got that.
duders,
it's a fumigation activation sensation
all up in this fortified castle of
woodsly goodsly Folk Life & Liberty.
check the teleport:

ugh.
so many rolled up leaves,
waiting patiently for hot fire and the cyclindrical
cyclone of huffing and puffing to power
the glowing head of ash and heat and light.
too much is the right amount.
for the record,
the photo doesn't do justice to the cache's
stashed-up capacity of south american expertism.
they're double-stacked, my ninjas.
that's correct.
twice as many hecho-a-mano manifestos
of combustion and exhaustion.
word up.
smoke rings, neighbors.
ephemeral circles,
ghost circles, even;
temporal twists of spirit and memory.
it's a thing.
and, of course,
as always,
there's even more of it:

yuuuuuuuuuuup.
i never met a bad decision i didn't think could be
improved by double or tripling it's quantity.
you know i doo-doo that freaky sh!t.
i'm on that three bears,
small, medium, and large jauns.
hard styles and smoke stacks.
it's all really happening.
***********
may i?
no you may not.
the month is done.
another page turned,
another rabbit waiting to be pulled,
not from a hat,
but from my lips.
two coneys are due to get spat out of my mouth
first flippin' thing,
at first flippin' light tomorrow morning.
until then,
today's still the day.
the last one.
a triple-digit disappointment;
never quiet, never soft.....100

posting cards...

hey guys,
the clouds are stretched across the whole sky,
and across the whole woodsly goodness.
it's a foggy morning of dewy droplets
obscuring almost everything beyond a hand's span
away from my face an' that.
yuuuuup.
the edges are blurry,
the resolution is low,
and that's pretty much the way it is, was, and continues to be.
duders,
the rain was coming down in one solid uninterrupted
steady stream, a torrent, even,
and it washed away a whole stretch of my street.
of course,
that happens a few times a year-
i guess it's an innate form of job security,
courtesy of ma nature,
for the truckery road hogs of the town public workings.
i guess i can expect the trucks and F*ers to be guesstimating
gradients and gaveling gravel into the ground to shore up
the ersatz seashore that used to be the country roadway.
that's a thing.
repair work for unintended battle-damage, i mean.
i'm into it.
i finished a few postcards yesterday morning.
it's true.
so, neighbors,
be on the lookout in the next week,
your literal, physical mailbox is gonna receive some treats.
check the third series, volume one, via teleport:

you like 'em, dontcha?
yeah.
me too.
*
it's been so long,
i've only been able to half remember what the F*
i was trying so hard to achieve at the onset of this year.
for serious, kids.
i suppose it was some over-complicated and self-serving
search-and-destroy mission for eliminating doubts,
eradicating weak sauce waterbabyishness,
and activating participation in an intimate environment;
(not that electronic monologues aren't romantic, right?)
the focus has shifted,
almost on target, except,
it seems instead like every day is today,
instead of THE day, y'heard?
the fog surrounding the Fortress isn't likely to burn off
with a sunshiny blaze of heat and light.
awwwwwww, man.
i expect that's inevitable.
isn't that the whole point of contingencies and plan B?
(not the morning after pill, c'mon)
the road washes away sometimes, kids.
the clouds become the air surrounding us,
the original mission gets compromised,
and we've got to get busy adjusting, adapting, evolving,
and making those mutha-uckin' moves,
magics,
and movie checks.
it's ALL really happening.
***********
oh, and by the way, kids:

yuuuuuuuuuup.
returning home from a super-sexy new haircut,
and what do you know, yo?
uh-huh.
the grader and instigator were in effect,
repairing the washout and erosion.
it's like those doozers, duders.
if you don't know,
you'd probably better ask somebody;
never quiet, never soft.....

electrical interference.

duders,
it's a full-blown deluge.
a flash-flood down-pouring
of raging stormswept savage gypsy weather,
drowning out the sounds inside with the
din, clatter, and clamor from without.
lightning?
you betcha, neighbors.
in between power surges,
the outages aren't shy about blacking eyes
and skies with deepest darkening darkness.
in fact,
i think it's time to unplug all sensitive sensors,
and batten down each and every last hatch.
the wind is blowing,
the sky is falling,
the lightning is strikingly electrifying,
and it's all really happening.
nothing good can come of this, for us bipeds an' that-
but for the flowers?
it's a drunken orgy of elemental bliss;
never quiet, never soft.....7x14 

memorable.

may flowers?
yeah.
two different kinds of irises are going off right now.
check the teleport:

big, fat, yellow, buttery bombs of
dutch bearded weirdie blooming like a balloon?
uh-huh.
i'm into it, neighbors.
i like flowers.
so?
check the purple sh!t:

c'mon.
japanesey like monday morning, y'all.
get all up in there and look at those veiny petals,
and scope out that bottle-green waspy duder
who seems to be a blurry blop in the middle-

c'mon.
it's not all ugly, all the time,
just mostly and most often.
awwwww.
yes, kids,
it's true...
***********
another 'nother day.
a holiday, even.
a whole entire day dedicated to memories.
you ninjas know we get fresh on that big action.
i've been going over, in my head,
what seems like everything;
y'know?
remembering commitments that nowadays just don't blend.
...anybody?
oooh, good call, buddy,
those are AVAIL lyrics.
nice.
that's the soundtrack to todays spirit and memory, y'heard?
word up.
and i remember everything, too.
it's all happening,
paths are chosen,
plans are made,
actions are taken,
the whole world is unfolding in front of us, folks.
we get to choose where we're going.
that's some serious sh!t.
for realsies.
*
Folk Life & Liberty.
that's the prime directive.
the tall order that needs filling today.
but, duders,
if not today, then when?
right?
today is the day.
just like every day.
again and again.
over and over.
there's a granite quarry in my heart,
and i'm cutting away the stone,
and leaving a hole in it's place....
umm.
that's depressing.
but it's only temporary;
never quiet, never soft.....

easy.

star anise?
sharpie markers?
scissors aptitude participation?
choosing the wrench?
all this,
and more (obviously),
await the warriors of crafty captivation,
articulate activation,
and poignant yet puerile participation.
teleportation:

little bits of progression,
long stretches of regression,
intermittent digression,
insistent intercession,
and eloquent expression.
we doo-doo that ionized suffix sh!t, son.
*
uh-huh.
it's another sunday morning here
in the bright-eyed and bristling
barbarian badlands of the woodsly goodness.
there are still plenty of hungry, irritable,
dreadful and demanding duders visiting the
idyllic majesty and whatnot of the mountains.
plenty of traffic jammie-jams,
and ridiculous traffic collisions in parking lots.
let us not forget to mention the incredibly long
waiting periods at restaurants full of poorly behaved children.
and i'm especially fond of no-shows at the tattbomb studio.
huh?
yuuuuuuuuup.
that's how i spanned my yesterday, neighbors-
a busy, crowded, cover-up-consultation-heavy saturday
piling mounds of movie checks every-and-anywhere
except all up in my mutha-flippin' pockets?
yes.
that's right.
it was the exact opposite of being expert.
gaysplosive lame-arrhea, for sure.
butthole doo-doo butter disappointment explosions
for my face.
will today be any better?
umm,
i'm pretty sure i've got flaming tribal tatzap crap to slap.
so, maybe, but probably not.
awwwww, man.
hard styles and long weekends are what's going down.
...the tubes is where it's going down, kids, y'heard?
butt-nasty occupational hazards and beautiful weather
i'm not enjoying as a result.
maybe i'll mow the lawn and really ruin the day up right.
word.
***********
friends,
i watched some ayn rand interviews last night.
dang.
talk about a brutally not-hot genius lady.
big brains and big brows and big teeth.
it was pretty inspiring, really.
the most busted ones sorta produce that new hottness, y'know?
good looks are only useful during scavenger hunts...
get it?
oh, c'mon.
anyway,
it gives me some hope, such as it is.
less time looking in the mirror,
and more time looking for that inner truth.
like there's somehow balance in the force, or something.
y'know?
if you're ugly, you'd better be molto fresh,
or else you're wasting everybody's time.
gross and stupid is too hard a style to endure.
on the real,
attractive folks needn't necessarily bother with
what matters below the surface...
skin deep is deep enough most of the time.
huh?
that's shallow?
no kidding.
i'm just sayin',
if i had the face, physique, and pheromones for it,
i wouldn't think about nothin'.....
what?
well, for starters,
i'd probably be waaaay too busy hard-style pounding
my way through every single day in the company
of other other vacuous, vain, vampiric imbeciles
to ever give half of a sh!t about anything else.
luckily, for all of us,
i'm reppin' this sexy chernobyl sasquatch flavor,
and as such,
have plenty of all-alonely time to write
these little memos of real life and times.
i feel like i should have a frame around me.
no, for real-
like i'm the portrait of dorian gray,
and there's a smug mutha-b!tch out there
inflicting each and every soul-searing sin of his on my skin.
we  know what's really happening though, don't we?
all of it.
all the time.
and that's the secret, i guess.
we're looking at What Is,
and making moves based on reality, logic, and reason.
where're my ugly ducks, ducklings, geese and sh!t at?
that's right.
i've got some sage, savory, and seasoned advice
for all the vicious viscous-visaged vikings out there:
stay ugly. stay dope.
believe it;
never quiet, never soft..... 

arthur.

duders,
i got up early and started working.
the A*-crack a.m. attack is how i
combat insomnia and lonesome lamentation.
that's that morning mourning dove
push-and-shove from up-above...
teleport on the in-the-works work:

yeah.
oh, don't worry, neighbors-
that IS an eleven-point rack.
uh-huh.
and y'all already know how much more complicated
that illustration has to get before i can consider it ready.
ready for what?
good question.
ready for anything, i guess...
i'm on that rising sunshine saturday morning sh!t.
i didn't get very much done, yet;
but i'm heating up all my irons
in a whole holy butt-holey buttload of different
hard style hot fire furnaces and forges,
so any progress is pretty good.
i mean,
you've got to strike whilst the iron is hot,
but those jauns takes forever to heat up.
lightning is in the forecast,
but not in the sky, guys....
my hot iron is sanctified and fortified and electrified,
a superconducting lodestone of animal magnetism
and activated participation.
the thing is, that takes time.
and taking time is like taking it easy.
and that's not invited to the house party...
so,
while i'm watching and waiting and seeing,
i'm spreading myself thinner-
the same volume of volume is in effect,
but it's being basted and buttered and blasted
across a far greater area.
attenuated attentions an' that.
everybody gets a little,
nobody gets enough.
awwwwwwww.
***********
the roads are crowded,
the restaurants are full,
there's no room at the inn,
however,
there's nothing but space over here.
a big dumb void where there's empty everything,
except the satchel of sauce, y'heard?
long nights,
hard styles,
and jam-packed places that only serve to
accentuate the underaccessibilty of being
a worthy woodsly goodfellow meting out
doses of just-be-dopeness amongst the mountains.
it's never easy,
it's always happening;
never quiet, never soft.....