practicing

...oh, i know, neighbors.

don't you worry about that.

huh?

ah.

right.

ok, here's what i'm thinking about-

not doing something for a bit can sometimes make you 

so more interested when you try it again.

like,

making art.

sure, i do that, sort of, at work every dang day,

but not really, though.

y'feel me?

it's so dissimilar to making the pictures that i'm interested in 

as to be an entirely different entity unto itself.

that's just my specific instance and circumstance.

i picked my weird insular isolated life,

and i'm okay with tattooing not being my defining path.

however,

sometimes,

i like to make drawings just because.

not often,

and not too fancy, either.

when there's nothing going on at work, but i'm there anyway,

and it's a frozen wasteland of below-freezing buttholery outside?

mmhmm.

sometimes a marker or two, and an alright idea are all you need.

sketching makes lines make more sense, refined and redefined and all that.

but, 

that off-the-cuff on the fly one-shot sh!t, 

blown out with blunted and bleeding felt tips can be just as instructive.

y'gotta plan it out in your head first,

so it doesn't overlap and crap itself up.

yeah.

check the one-take/do-it-live-type teleport:

a coelacanth.

my favorite.

why are they so dope?

because they've got an overabundance of fins.

they know that too much is the right amount.

and also,

that the old ways are the best ways.

that's expert.

the drawing?

that's just a little quick bit of fun for my face.

i had a sharpened pencil, with an eraser, too.

i did.

and i used both ends of it for some astrologically accurate 

mythologically manufactured worst zodiac creature creation.

that's a thing.

teleport:

half goat, half fish, all crap all the time.

that's no joke.

january makes me want to sleep,

but active participation and an overactive brainful of thoughts won't let me.

instead,

there's recipes written,

goats and fish in pen and ink in varying proportions,

treats and words and blood, and sweat,

but no tears, because there's no use crying over spilled fluids.

that's just wasteful,

and we aren't gonna hang out with that, are we?

nope.

i'm scrawling and i'm scratching,

i'm typing and i'm tipping,

and it's all really happening, today.

that's the way this wednesday unfolds;

never quiet, never soft..... 

write wrong.,

i always was under the impression that the more you do something,
the better you get at it.
y'know?
like,
there's an established number of hours invested
before mastery can be considered achieved;
or,
that practice makes perfect;
or,
that repetition instills automatic memory of motion and so on......
but,
i write a LOT,
and i'm still sort of sure that i write wrong.
am i right?
usually, yes, i am.
mmhmm.
and all that i've written, thus far,
inasmuch as you've read of these missile-drop-kick dismissive missives,
for all of the real-life documentation of first-personal perspicacity,
composed entirely in confessionally coconspiratorial contentious
stream-of-unconscionable-non-conscientousness?
it has never righted a wrong,
in fact,
what is more often illustrated and illuminated is the essential incorrectness
of grammatically egregious run-on-and-on-and-on sentence structure,
and the confusing alliterative labyrinth that makes the storyline elusive.
and let's not forget the use of indulgent convolutions,
and the irascible admissions and admonitions that add such depth and breadth
to the true tales told truly, which serve superlatively to endow the
words designed and aligned and arranged to tell the saga of warrior poetry,
sitting unprettily, and pretty sh!ttily in the woodsly goodness,
with an urban edwardian double-negative infinitive infinity that is
laboriously obvious and hidden at once,
and absolutely inaccessible to others.
-----------
translation:
i use all the words,
and they don't ever say anything that couldn't be expressed with less.
the above is an instructive example of the art.
however,
too much is the right amount,
and for those of us who love looove LOVE words,
there are never enough.
that's what i'm doing when i doo-doo that overwrought wordplay.
it's an exercise in vocabulary
and an abstraction of competent communication.
also,
i like that way it all sounds when i read it back into my brain.
wordimus prime.
-----------
so,
i write wrong.
y'feel me?
ha.
y'all stopped reading so long ago i could type anything,
and you'd miss it for all the skimming to the picture you're doing.
ha.
that's cool.
my point was, i don't know that i am any better at writing than when i started this,
but i DO know for certain i'm better than i was at everything else.
that's real.
anyway,
here's some base and vulgar real talk for your hungry bellies-
when you're home alone,
and your butt doesn't care about farting,
the best dinners are on the menu.
neighbors,
go ahead and check the teleport:

mmmmhmmmmm.
brussels sprouts and broccoli, g.p.o.p.'d and locked,
with a blast of brick-colored bacon-flavored bean-based briquettes,
and all the broiled black peppery tofu cubes i could cut up at the time!
yep.
one whole package of tofu, right into my mouth,
and those green brassica bastards, bright green but still browned at the edges?
yep.
i'm filling up on vitamins and stuff,
and i'm filling out in my midsection, too.
i'm on my way to grotesquerie, kids-
one bite, and then another, and then another 'nother,
in a row, all the time, in my face.
i'm getting better at getting grossed out by everything i do,
but i'm still the same purple prosaic dark-and-stormy-nightingale,
singing my song off-time and out-of-tune.
that's just my style?
EW!
that's the go-to mea culpa for those who cannot adapt and overcome.
instead, let's all agree that my way is a hard-style,
and an acquired taste.
a luxury, if you will,
and in that sense: desirable.
...
...
...
hahahahaha.
C'MON!!!
what are you?
an A*-hole??!!
don't be dumb,
but thanks for reading;
never quiet, never soft..... 

thai tea.

yep.
thai food.
and tea.
for two.
go ahead,
check the teleport:

neighbors,
that was the hot wet highlight of a long day.
but,
like, i really mean it, though.
that's a thing.
*
so,
it's monday,
it's cold,
and it's snowy....
just not enough to incite and excite a snow day.
awwww, man.
long nights,
long days,
too many blankets,
thick socks,
and all the introspection and circumspection
that a bitter old man can muster up on a bitterly cold day...
i'm looking back and i'm moving forward,
i'm making moves and i'm going nowhere-
it's all really happening,
but when you're busy busy busy working extra hard,
not much time is left over for other stuff.
i guess that's a good thing?
i suppose it has to be;
never quiet, never soft..... 

the scone zone.

mmmhmmmm.
freeze-dried strawberries are great for baking.
that's the truth.
they don't get all oooky and yucky,
they aren't all wet and slimy,
and they absorb the other flavors, instead of dissolving into mush.
that's expert.
walnuts are good for your brain, i've heard;
and not just because they LOOK like brains.
i dunno.
i like healthy brains in my head, so i'll add a walnut or two to my treats
and upgrade my upbraided wet, grey calculator.
yeah.
and neighbors, i know you know it,
but i'll say it again-
chocolate is good for you,
so chocolate-style droplets have got to get inside my dough, yo.
that's no joke.
so on a, easy subzero sunday morning,
with a little lemon extract and lot of flippin' and floppin'
turnin' and tossin', and slicin' and dicin'-
i'll divide, conquer,
and then divide a few more times, for extra conquest.
and then i'll do what i always do.....
...i'll take it to eleven.
duh.
check the breakfast-triangle-wedges-type teleport:

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
scones make mornings better.
for real.
and when the layers are legion,
and the flavors are legendary?
yeah!
we're in the mutha-'ucking scone zone,
and honestly, on a day like today,
there's no place i'd rather be.
plus,
the oven is cranking away at 400 delicious degrees fahrenheit,
and that's auxiliary heat for my spindly digits,
in addition to the necessary hotness
to produce some a.m. edible hottness.
that's smart thinking.
***********
treats make me feel better.
i'd prefer to be making some epic artwork,
for display and sale an' that,
but i try to be more realistic these days.
instead,
it's cake and cookies and pie,
and eventually, i'm sure that an avalanche of art-making activation
will flow like lava from the furious feral furnace in my heart.
awwwww.
that's a lovely thought.
the rancorous resin, oozing out of my infinite naure,
a wellspring hot-spring of superheated magma magic?
i doo-doo that freak sh!t,
and with any luck, and a lot of work,
i'll be all up in and on that jauns before too long.
yeah.
i still want to be the makiest baker,
but i also want to be the craftiest craftsman.
mmmhmmm.
the object is MORE.
if you can't hang out,
then you need to get out.
wordimus prime, friends.
get busy,
and if you're already busy?
get busier;
never quiet, never soft.....

the end of the day

when does alright mexican food become good mexican food?
when the company you keep at the table is expert,
and the check is taken care of.
uh-huh.
whenever there are sports happening on televison,
and those sports are site-specifically new england team-based-
since that's where i am, and where the superfans are superpsyched-
ALL the jock-holes and drunktards go to the big-screen sports bars,
and yell at the images as if they are capable of affecting the outcome
solely based on inebriation and exclamation via inverse broadcasting.
i dunno.
it seems incredibly F*ing dumb to me,
but, that makes it reaaallllly easy to avoid all of that.
just don't go to those places, right?
i wouldn't anyway, even if there wasn't a game on.
obviously.
but,
then again,
thinking i would be safe in a south-of-the-border-style establishment
was just wishful thinking and that's never a good thing to count on.
yeah, that's the truth.
mmhmm.
there was still one lonely weirdie at the mexico spot doing his damnedest
to play an important role in barside restaurant culture.
yep.
go team, rah rah rah.
huh?
sure.
just imagine my pom-poms a-rustlin' right along with you, neighbors.
EW.
anyway,
i took down a sizzling plateful of fajitas,
(with extra tortillas, because i know people, y'feel me?)
and that helped soothe the subarctic A*-holery of a sh!t-salad saturday
in the frostbitingly b!tch-slapping heat-sapping tattzapping white mountains.
check the teleport:

mmmmhmmmmm.
a little poblano in my bellyhole,
and i'm a smirky jerk for an hour or two.
i don't plan on there being much radness throughout the course of a day,
but i do plan on being rad throughout the courses of a meal.
i mean,
i'll eat all the vegetables,
and i'll drink all the seltzer,
and i'll do it so fast, and so hard.
i have a style, y'all, and a system.
twice as much in half the time,
twice as dope, and four times as ugly.
i needed a little warmth, spicy and otherwise, after another 'nother day
of weak-sauce last-minute cancellations on my schedule.
that sucks so hard,
even when the appointments themselves also suck so hard.
movie checks don't come for free, kids,
and earning 'em is hard when there's no doo-doo butter to spread.
this is the way it is around here right now.
hot food notwithstanding,
it's tough and it's trying and it's all really happening.
that's the whole point;
never quiet, never soft.....

i thought capricorn was a tropic?

no way.
like,
no way, jose.
i mean it.
no way is this as bad as it gets.
y'feel me?
that's the truth.
this winter is supposedly going to be the coldest one.
that's what the alarmists and the farmers'-type almanac adherents
are all calling out, based on marginal meteorological information,
and the perverse relish that new englanders possess
for bad weather and general misfortune.
at every cornerstore and coffeeshop in conway.
there's a jerk in a jumpsuit, red cheeked and chapped-lipped,
talking noise about all the awfulness that is wintertime in this area.
c'mon, now, neighbors.
it's winter every year, isn't it?
i think so.
it's just that since the temperature has been a real A*-hole for a few weeks,
everyone with a mouth is spouting the doom and gloom of a bitter,
biting, brutal, frigid, furious, fearsome stretch of soul-crushing wintertime.
yeah.
it IS pretty cold- which is consistent with the season.
but that's just a thing that happens.
where's all the endurance at, kids?
for serious,
there hasn't been enough awful to warrant such a visceral response
from a people who've dwelt up here for more than just this january.
toughen up, maybe?
i hate the cold when it's below about twenty five degrees fahrenheit.
i'm skinny.
so i mostly just shiver and clench and complain,
but there're moves to make,
and tempers to tame,
and there's always too much sh!t to do, too-
so all of my publicly pronounced amateur-weatherman forecasts,
full of calamity and consternation
and site-specific seasonally-appropriate probability,
are just gonna have to wait...
but,
while i'm handling my actual non-atmosphere-related business,
i've got my fleece lined jauns on under my fleecy nighttime
pajama-jammie-jams, and my thick wool stocking feet
tucked snugly into my sherpa-packed corduroy slippsies:

.....aaaaand that's indoors, duders.
i mean, c'mon, now-
it's only been winter for like three weeks.
there's no point in 'the-end-is-near'-ing those arctic apocalypse antics,
when it isn't even february yet.
that's no joke.
it is going to get so much worse,
and it is is going to last so much longer.
there's very little satisfaction in early-stage winter panic attacking.
y'know?
it's all really happening.
it's cold in january in new hampshire...
that's just a thing,
pretty much since forever.
put a sweater on,
and get back to work;
never quiet, never soft.....

stripes and dots.

peanut butter and brown sugar,
all caked out in battery buttery best-case barbarian bars?
neighbors,
i'm not trying to allow anything less than taking it to eleven
to happen inside my preheated ovenly arena for this entire flippin' year.
yeah!!
check the teleport:

c'mon!
the peanutty butter made the cakes just a little teeny tiny bit crumbly,
but a smattering of two sizes of chocolate-style chips held 'em together
like the burly bricks of better-than-you-deserve that they clearly are.
that's a good start, guys,
but the object is always MORE.
so,
i whipped up some creamy peanut buttery creamchee'-cut cocoa-laced
smooth-as-you-please superthick and turbo-elite frosting filling for 'em, too.
and then i drizzled a dark chocolate ganache like tiger stripes of warpaint.
actually, it made them look like rectangular bee butts,
but that's pretty flippin' cute, isn't it.
awwwww.
yes, it is.
anyway,
that wasn't enough, either.
so there's even more frosty freshness goobieblopped on top of each one,
and then,
just because i know the rules-
there's shaved german chocolate sprankles, for extra added awesome.
expert is the name of the game up in here, y'all.
and that's the only way to keep it really real, and Folk Life luscious,
while the temperature is terrible,
and the wind is trying to kill us!
i'm not going to die of tundra destruction,
because my guts are heated with these rectangles of absolute hottness.
that's no joke.
the furnace is fired up, in my basement,
and also in my heart.
my blood is boiling and my fingertips are icicles,
but there's cake enough for everyone,
and that's good news for people who like that sort of thing.
i bake, i break, i give, and i take.
it's all really happening, friends,
and that's the whole point;
never quiet, never soft.....

celebrate.

i sang the song,
we sang the song,
the song was sung.
y'know?
happy biiiiiiiiiiirthday, dear albie......
yeah.
that one.
and then i made wish,
and blew out my candle:

and i spared another 'nother wishful thought,
when i sliced a slab off of the main circle.
that's what you're s'posed to do,
when you're doing the whole cakey thing, kids.
mmmhmmm.
and overall,
i had a good day, too.
i mean,
no jokes,
i saw a majestic and enormous bald F*ing eagle fly overhead,
watching out for me on my special day,
clearly protecting my butthole from the rapey parts of maine.
however,
maybe he was jealous of MY bald majesty,
because he should've protected me from the weird lettuce at the lunch spot.
but alas, that wasn't part of his job description apparently.....
uh huh.
i had myself a little bit of a bellyache,
and a whole lot of very fast pooping,
as a special present from mr. eagle and/or the secret universal plan.
that's always a good time.
how much fun is travel without lots of exxxtra bathroom time?
y'know?
i wasn't about to let that ruin my big action activation,
and i wasn't gonna let a little stomach pain prevent me from fighting back.
i'm a goddamned hamden warrior poet, for goodness' sake,
and a little sh!t-salad blitzkrieg isn't gonna break my back, brother.
sure,
we took it a little bit easy on the outdoor walking,
but we also ate too much,
we drove a whole heck of a lot,
and we stayed as warm as we could.
then
because too much is the right amount,
and you don't stop choosing the wrench just because it's a birthdate,
we ate some more. and a little bit more after that, too...
and then we had dessert.
the laughs and the looks and the times, neighbors,
were all as rewarding as i could've ever even hoped for...
...and i surprised myself with a pure and simple day off.
getting older and older and more busted and broke and broken
has taught me a whole lot about the relative worth of MY berfday
versus the overdosing of appreciation i expend on others.
i know what's up.
i don't need a big deal made,
i just need to span time in an expressive and affectionate way.
that's what i needed, and that's what i got,
and i am grateful for the time i was given.
huh?
oh,
yeah.
i was with amber,
and she treated me to all the treats from breakfast until second dinner.
and for that,
she has my thanks!
it was a good day, like i said.
*
now,
it's -22 degrees on the fahrenheit scale,
and that's just plain mean spirited.
ma nature is incapable of allowing a good time to persist,
and i'm more than aware of it in this gelid Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
the woodsly goodness is frozen solid,
and nobody is outside,
unless they're OBVIOUSLY an A*-hole.
i've got on all the layers,
and it's hard to move.
this morning is an arctic blast of b!tchbaggery,
and it's clearly the aftermath exchange for not hating
my ethiopian christmas holiday happy times.
it all costs something,
and the bill is due, payable in ice and frostbite.
nature wins-
you knew it wouldn't be otherwise;
never quiet, never soft.....

cakeynuttyhead.

berfdays was the worst days-
.....until i started baking myself some turbo-hottness.
yeah!!!!
this time,
i took my double decker dopeness to eleven so hard,
well before the sun started shining.
mmhmm.
i get up early,
and i get crackin' on that activation as soon as i'm up and at 'em.
it's cooooooold outside,
but it's warm as F* in here,
with ovens and mixers and toasters and stoves all blazing away,
and imbuing ambient excellence into the interior.
uh-huh.
for my berfday,
i baked myself a fresh-to-death old man cake.
check the 39-years-of-this-sh!t-type teleport:

ka-BOOM!!
two coconutty circles of thick, rich, righteously moist cakey goodness,
glued together, and welded shut with a heavy coat of vegan marshmallowy
chocolate cocoa coconut creme frosting,
whipped into a frenzy, and full to bursting with all those flavors in full effect.
yep.
and that wasn't nearly enough,
because too much is the right amount,
especially on a berfday-
so there's vanilla accents in betterthanevercreme bloppity bordering,
and toasted fancy non-poor-person-style coconut sprankles.
that's the way i like it,
so that's the way i made it.
executive control,
and full creative focus,
fresh ingredients,
fully formed battleplans,
and a big ol' blast of sweeter than sweetness?
what else would there be?
i'm reppin' all the things that make the Folk Life & Liberty Test Kitchen
such a damned expert place to create treats.
this one's for me, and i'm gonna terrorize it with enthusiasm...
but,
if i see you, tomorrow,
maybe you can share a slice with me.
you have to sing happy berfday, though.
rules is rules.
thirty nine years,
in a row,
of being the worst one,
and being the best at it.
a jolly good fellow i'm not,
but a woodsly goodfella i just might be;
never quiet, never soft.....

older and more busted.

i'll bet you guys didn't know i was born to be big baby jesus, did you?
well,
it's true.
at least, i think it's as likely as not to be my destiny.
i'll bet you wu-TANG fans all thought that was ol' dirty bastard's domain.
you're not wrong, exactly.
only, it isn't just the ol' dirt dog who reps that b.b. j. jauns,
dirt mcgirt wasn't born on the right day to align the stars an' that.
i'm not an astrologer,
so i can't be one hundred percent sure on the specific times and locales..
but on the ones,
i DO know that this is a thing:

yep.
today is the day.
harder, and louder, and waaay flippin' colder, and fresher,
and worthier, and more expert than ever.
that's real.
it's my mutha-F*ing ever-lovin' berfday.
and it turns out that my berfday IS christmas,
if you know where to look for it.
so lemme get a soul-clap,
and some bouncy tambourine shakes, an' that,
and let me just ask you one time, while it's fresh in your mind-
who's the baby jesus?
ummmm,
mmmhmmmm.
i think it's me.
awwwwww.
i'm thirty nine years old today, neighbors.
the crappiest chappy capricorn billygoat gruff,
and i'm not going quietly into this next year.
no way.
mathematically,
it's three thirteens that make up this magic number,
but i'm crossing my fingers and clenching my teeth that
i'm not going to activate the square of bad luck for the year.
i s'pose it could be a good thing, too?
i don't know how, but i'm willing to keep an eye out towards the positive.
hahaha.
c'mon,.
that's not a thing.
however,
being old and busted,
and not letting that stop me in my tracks on this negative degree day,
is just the first step in starting this final pre-forty year of my life off right.
you know the rules:

stay ugly, stay dope.
the former remains assuredly certain,
the latter often shows up late,
which is occasionally better than never.
awwwwwwwwww.
i've got a day planned,
with travel and food and people and places and other nouns.
it's all really happening,
right now.
ethiopian christmas means the broken flowers soundtrack
is what we're listening to today.
big black baby jesus likes his east african jazz, after all.
***********
did i eat berfday bagels brought over for breakfast?
yeah!
and i've well-wishes which have been rollin' in since yesterday.
and that's nice-
knowing some folks care about that sort of sh!t.
this is it.
today.
my big action barbarian ball-out berserker berfday,
and i plan on making the absolute most of it.
i am definitely not getting any handsomer,
but i might be making myself more interesting.
that's the formula for fomenting wild eyed,
graying (and disappearing) haired, wizardly wordly, weary, worldly,
white-mountaintop warrior poetry,
from the scalding skalds to the battle-beastly bards.
that's what i am, that's what i do,
that's What Is.
today, all day, the unfurling folds of this origami'd secret plan,
all animal angles,
and infinite nature,
are letting all y'all know that it's another 'nother christmas,
and that my undignified and doubtlessly dubious divinity is worth celebrating.
i hope i have more fun than you do, duders;
never young, never better..... 

turning the wrench, flipping the 'cake.

panniecakes,
panniecakes,
baker man!
that's me, and that's what i'm about.
i mean it.
this past week,
but perhaps more importantly,
these last two days,
my favorite bakery spot has been closed for new year restocking or something.
that meant no fancy bread for toasting in the mornings.
it also meant getting busy with my skills on a skillet for breakfast.
i'm not gonna sit around not having breakfast.
i mean, c'mon.
that'd be so lame.
besides,
panniecakes are good for you,
and my methods make 'em extra expert.
check the teleport:

mmmmmmmmmmmmm.
a well-lit morning, full of panwellness for my whole face-
with all the buttery hottness,
and real maple syrup.
that's the way i want to eat everyday.
the thing about that is-
unless i became a real-life lumberjack,
i'd just be a thousand pounds of blarpity loser
for all my early morning mealtime satisfaction.
and that's not cool, neighbors.
the other thing of it?
i did do it two days in a row:

yuuup!
this time,
i'm up and at it before the breakabreak o'dawn,
and the darkness is moderated only by the coffee (instead of tea) in my mug.
i mean,
i'm getting older, and wiser,
but not much better....
i figure that maybe a few days of gluttonous morning masochism,
and overactive self-inflicted overindulgence might be the appropriate
sort of sharkbitin' flapjackin' send-off for my thirty-eighth year on earth.
no?
maybe.
it's too late to turn back now,
they're sittin' pretty sh!ttily in their coconutty belly-tomb.
yeah!
digested down to doo-doo buttery base elements by my own salacious,
sagacious sarlaac pit of a paunchy pouchy stomach.
ew!
oh, stop it.
i'm diving into the deep-end of double-butter pancakey business,
and i'm letting 'em flip out, as i flip 'em off,
it might seem like no big deal to have a few pancakes a few days in a row,
but i'm gonna tell you something, kids-
i feel gross.
what?
no.
not because i'm a F*ing pig at the trough,
gorging unchecked through the mornings....
that's not it.
i feel gross because i'm a filthy wild animal even when i'm at my best.
and that's a hard style.
too much breakfast,
too many words,
overthinking,
overacting,
overreacting.
yeah.
what can i tell you?
my infinite nature is uncivilized, unruly, and unrelenting.
and it pours out of my pores,
and rolls and roils off of me like smoke,
forming ring after ring, conjoined and overlapping,
interconnected events that put together bigger pieces of
more complicated and convoluted questions,
and all of THAT is holding me fast with ephemeral, ethereal bonds
of spirit and memory to the berserker barbarian battle-beastly side
of warrior poetry.
circles connected by smaller circles, inside of bigger circles,
forever and ever and ever,
and all of them, invisible, undetectable, weightless...
and all interwoven, like chainmail,
and just as heavy for all the insubstantiality,
yet so much less protective despite the density of the burden.
who gets weakened by armoring themselves?
all of us who diminish our flexibiltiy in favor of fortification,
that figures.
and that's gross.
and that's how thirty-eight passes into history;
never quiet, never soft.....