cloud coverage.

every flippin' cloud, duders.
threatening rain,
blocking the british thermal unit generating solar ultraviolets,
and helping cast an omnidirectional shadow on the day.
hard styles, and hard weather.
add in a non-stop caravan of trucks and tractors,
and you've got today in a nutshell.
hauling wood and gettin' sweaty,
stopping and getting frozen.
thaw, refreeze, et cetera.
but, ninjas, it can't be ALL weak sauce, can it?
c'mon.
there's got to be a beautiful plot twist in there somewhere, right?
sure.
every cloud has a silver lining, they say.
ummm....
so what happens when you wait around for silver linings?
uh-huh.
you make discoveries;
like, maybe that's not rain,
it secret universal urine,
and instead of silver,
it's golden showers.
gold?
maybe what looks like some big changes,
is really the whole sky defrosting some whizz on your head.
it's a heavy burden, and the sky is falling.
that's the only alchemy, neighbors-
molten lead may become rivers of gold,
but a doppleganger for that grey river is more often the culprit.
silver lining?
more like quicksilver lining, duders.
and you know what you get with quicksilver?
oh, yes indeed:
mercury poisoning.
awwwwwwwww, man.
optimism is for suckers.
real-life documentarianism.
one whole day's worth of worthy warriors,
worthless work,
and poetry in motion.
more like limericks an' that.
'there once was a man from nantucket--type jauns.
this whole dang day was so long he could suck it, son;
never quiet, never soft.....

internet-only sales.

wake up call, y'all.
IT'S CYBER-MONDAY!
i'd really love to be more excited about that,
but that is a terrible name for a sales event.
so bad, in fact, that it seems unlikely that
i'll buy any compu-tard items at all today.
that's how it is, duders.
i protest terrible nomenclature.
that's what's up.
black friday?
that sounds dope.
BLACK.
like, sabbath and plague and flag,
putting a little black to it makes it better.
(that's what she said)
but cyber?
c'mon.
isn't that what dial-up chat people used to call
rubbing and typing at the same time back in the old days?
that's not so cool, after all, now is it?
of course not.
cyber-monday.
one big electronic mouse-click market.
closer to gerbiling, if you get me.
tippy-typey-tap-tap-tapping away at the keyboard
is as close to this magical monday's
big capitalist consumption as i'm likely to get;
no loot means no loot.
wordimus prime, ninjas-
i'd be psyched for coal this year,
because i'd burn them jauns to stay warm, neighbor.
for real.
another snow-capped, frost-covered back-to-workday.
these days are like molasses, ninjas.
no, not sweet and syrupy.
it's freezing up here.
molasses moves slow in the best of conditions,
but these days,
it's at a frozen standstill, son.
stopped-up an' that.
time is marching on,
but crawling by these mounatinous manors.
stealthy-like, it's passing, before i notice,
while it seems to take forever.
cyber.
so gay.
***********
i'm feeling wiser.
god knows i'm older.
and not for nothin', y'all,
but i'd hope to be keeping it worthy an' that,
in the face of the bleak weak-sauce ice-capade charade
of winter's discontent.
what i mean is:
i'm still here.
it's still happening.
and if there is only these moments,
then i'm all about makin' 'em count...
...for SOMEthin'.
even in the strength-sapping b!tch-sap sludge
of a blizzardly blitzkrieg,
i'm still making my moves,
and decoding the heavyweight hottness
of the secret universal plan.
odin plucked out an eye and hung upside down from a tree,
and all he got was knowledge of the runes.
i'm plucking skins off of garlic cloves,
and hangin' out at the fortress,
but i'm hoping for a little more clarity
than just a bunch of stick figures and stones,
and broken bones.
however,
names,
when as doo-doo buttery as cyber-monday,
can always hurt me;
never quiet, never soft.....

nappies.

dirty flippin' diaperloads, duders.
nappy nappies.
poop-boat burritos.
that's the doo-doo doing.
capitulated crapulation.
a hot batch of screaming, steaming yule logs.
sh!t, son.
that's what the holiday season is like, sometimes.
now don't get me wrong, duders-
i'm still all about avarice, 
and greedy greenback grabbing,
and garrulous gift-giving and gabbing,
and idle idolatry in regards to jingling bills
(worthwhile money, not 20's and 10's).
heck,
in years past, you ninjas have known me to be
a brutally overbearing buyer of gifts, goods, and sundries.
not to mention my continuously crisp-cornered,
tidily-taped wrapping job.
i'm no scrooged-up grinch-licker or anything,
it's just that the magical mysteries
of goodwill towards other mutha-'uckas,
and all that cinnamon-and-pine scented, sappy, saturated sentiment
haven't reached the woodsly goodness yet.
i thought that kind of thing flowed downhill,
like,
from the north pole, an' that?
there's a pole, alright,
and i think it's getting shoved sideways where the sun don't shine,
and i don't mean the arctic circle for the next 30 days of night...
i'm tellin' you, neighbors,
there's a dearth of holiday cheer,
in spreadable form,
however communicable and contagious it's always rumored to be.
my concern is actually for all of you.
i'm serious.
because when the damned dam gives way,
there's sure to be a flood of fa-la-la-la-las
freefalling freshly, loud, and with hellhammer hot fiery hardness
directly at your mutha-lickin' faces.
real talk.
something about a saturation point,
and some kind of soy nog,
and maybe another 'nother inch or 11 of snow,
and it's sure to be another all-the-way-to XI-mas, for sure.
it keeps getting darker around me,
i keep feeling brighter, (than most of these duders around me)
and somewhere in between,
the prognosis for big fun keeps getting dimmer.
a long november,
an oven full of embers,
and one thing to always remember:
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

terminal velocity.

hurtling at breakneck pace toward failure.
that's a real thing.
sometimes,
real on-the-real duders find themselves
on a real-life ozzy-type crazy train.
a runaway train, even.
a dastardly villain-rigged, twirling moustachioed,
top-hat-and-cape kind of juggernaut of improbability.
a comet of conundrum disintegrating as it enters the atmosphere.
a meteoric mass of monumental middling mayhem.
a titanic titanic, complete with snow and icebergs.
i'm sayin',
sh!t falls apart.
is it a tryptophan-induced lapse in reason?
a laced-leftovers food poison vision quest?
a holiday season gulag work camp fatigue suicide?
i don't know for sure,
but i want to get off of whatever it is, ninjas.
berserker sh!t is cool,
but kamikaze isn't as fresh.
i want butt-naked unshielded axe warrior fury,
not plummeting poop-boat tardin'.
word up.
keep an eye out for my stop, kids,
i'm gonna be white-knuckled and squint-eyed until then.
holding on for dear life.
for real life.
for Folk Life.
that's no joke.
up since 4 a.m.,
helping put the turd in saturday.
uh-huh.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

giving. thanking. eating.

today's the blackest one this side of february.
but first, let's recap some of the tan:

that's a lot of beige foods, huh?
you bet it is.
what'd we have?
wild rice
(w/ dried cranberries, butternut squash, and red onions.)
homemade cranberry sauce.
soysage-cornbread stuffing.
garlic mashed potatoes.
cider-braised garlic brussels sprouts (from jim)
roasted root vegetables,
the obligatory tofurky roast of seitanic tofu magic,
mushroom gravy,
rock blocks,
and jim's junior blocks w/ pie spices.
that plate was just one of several that the
hungry hungry honcho at the head of the table
tuned-up with a minimum of chewing,
and a maximum of circular breathing.
just like a shark.
just like a glutton.
just like you'd expect froma ravenous werewolfen warrior poet.
big bites of super awesome.
that's what i'm always on the lookout for, anyway.
jim brought treats and hung out,
like he is often wont to do,
and so did a non-vegan participant-
our new friend nate came over,
saw the hottness,
and devoured for hours.
i love it when i'm introducing the dietary delights to other 'nother heads.
i mean,
especially after i labored in front of the stove all morning,
and most of the afternoon.
the results were off the chains, neighbors.
a whole night of abundance and plenty.
a well-reaped harvest of hot fire and gravy.
there were a whole bunch of notable absences,
and some hard-hearted hard feelings surround that kind of thing,
but that mandatory attitude of gratitude prevailed,
and the goodness won out in the woodsly goodness, overall.
soooo,
how did we top the fatness of a full-fledged fall feast?

with a big batch of banana muffins for breakfast!
uh-huh.
raw sugar-crusted sparkle-sweet 'nana bombs, duders.
just what a perfect power-packed parcel of potassium
to prepare us for a dollop of straight up sh!t.
wait, what?
without the bitter the sweet's just not as sweet, remember.
just make sure you do the bitter first, if possible.
otherwise, sometimes,
hard styles show up afterwards and F* up your whole scene...
*
oh, yeah,
it's snowing on black friday.
that means molto car crashes,
and testy b!tchbags battling over super-cheap deals
on super-cheap crap.
black and white and grey all over.
grey areas, grey skies, & grey moods, dudes.
and big suckie changes go into effect in this valley,
and in the studio,
and in my bellyhole.
repercussions causing concussions,
and in no way open to discussions.
no jokes.
i ate a holy heck-ton of treats,
and now i'm back to eating sh!t.
figuratively.
there're leftovers to last for a while.
so at least my mouth will only have a bad taste
between meals.
the solution?
don't stop eating.
the XI-mas season is upon us.
do your worst,
i'll do my best,
and sure-fire mediocre time is sure to be had by all.
word up, friday-
stay black;
never quiet, never soft.....

blocks.

Folk Life & Liberty.
get a little bit of this kraft-paper printed block of hottness:

...and to think i did it all backwards, on purpose.
that's what's up.
this jammie-jam looks like some bavarian-type
turn-of-last century pretzel-munching village action.
which could just be because of the macaroni in his hat, maybe.
i'm tellin' y'all-
trying to make art look coarse is my sh!t.
on the ones,
F* fine art and all it entails,
i like my jauns coarse.
really real, in real life, for real mutha-uckas.
i have got no time for finessed fancyboy waterbaby nuances.
i want feelings and flavors and homemade dings and dents.
coarse, of course.
all i know for sure is:
cork blocks trump linoleum blocks every time.
yeah.
cork blocks.
softer, and browner,
and easier,
and really,
that's all i ever want, neighbors.
going softly to stay loud and hard.
contradictions?
or warrior poetry at it's most explicit?
i make it smooth,
i stay rough.
and vice-versa.
you know what ELSE does that?
teleport:

rock blocks, duders.
almond coconut chocolate chip oatmeal.
with extra almonds and twice the coconut.
i've got a coffee/spice grinder that is SO my homeboy, kids.
you already know i don't use that white easter grass coconut.
the wet and stringy cat-butt-tinsel-turd-type stuff.
but the medium flake, unsweetened,
takes on a whole new depth and breadth of deliciousness
under my direct supervision and intervention-
floury consistency, coconut flavor!
no cookie-cutter shapes,
no doo-doo buttery butter-rolls,
no flippin' sprinkles.
just blocks of rock.
even when i grind 'em down,
the homemade blops of burly goodness stay coarse.
nooks and crannies an' that.
plus,
when the oats get got by my grinder,
and are grated until they're all smooth,
instead of knobbly,
the sparkle magic of a block of albie rock's
famous recipe ultimate dessert genius is felt
on each and every mutha-b!tching papillae.
those are taste buds, ninjas.
recognize.
i'm just sayin',
coarse ground almonds,
in nearly-butter format,
AND the pure extract,
AND whole home-toasted jauns, too?
c'mon.
over-the-top dopeness.
for your face.
dozens and dozens and dozens.
too many cookies,
not enough friends.
looks like it's time to start munchin' up all by my lonesome.
until i get fat enough to be divided by two.
i'll keep my own company,
and keep eating my own cookies.
sharking my treats, folks;
never quiet, never soft.....

wishbones.

turkey day.
a whole day dedicated to dead birds.
talk about sexy.
nothing says:
'dear life,
thanks a whole bunch.',
like stuffing stale bread and celery up the
daddy's house of a deformed, chest heavy,
ballbag-faced avian sacrifice.
thanks, life.
of course,
we'll be skipping the carcass,
but the gravy will certainly be in full effect.
somebody mentioned that sports get played super-hard today, too.
i haven't had t.v. in so long, i always miss out,
if you can call it missing out;
i mean,
my lack of interest in sweaty college jocks has
ALWAYS been pretty flippin' low,
so i'm probably not missing much.
word.
there's a parade today, too,
that mutha-lickin' fat americans love to gawk at
before the fat feast begins.
duders,
i HATE parades.
people walking,
holding stuff.
people on giant flat road-barges,
waving.
balloons, small, large, and 'tardedly huge,
blowin' in the wind.
it's just no fun, kids.
i mostly hope the firetrucks show up quick,
so i'll know it's over.
and traffic can get back to normal,
so i can get where i need to be.
it turns out that today,
i'm already where im supposed to be,
so the XI-mas tree lightning,
and greasy dead bird doo-doo butter,
can elapse without me.
here is where it's all really happening.
c'mon.
you like it.
***********
the day of thanksgiving,
in really real life, is all about gratitude.
or at least,
it's sure supposed to be.
as in: how lucky a ninja is just to be here.
it's an honor to be nominated, i hear,
but truly it's a privilege to participate at all.
actively an' that,
in the unfolding skaldic saga of your very own life.
real talk, neighbors.
spanning time,
here,
in a roasty-toasty-warm, great big, sexy old house,
with my favoritest, most bestest one.
(mrs. rock, ninjas)
plenty of good food.
good times,
good people,
all that good sh!t.
not to mention the grateful greatness
of being the proud papa-bear to two
beautiful, talented, temeritous little girls.
yeah.
abounding excellence, in abundance.
that's doubly good.
there aren't even cars on the roads in the woods, duders.
that's the woodsly goodness'
holiday workweek break.
and what's even better?
work to do when we get back.
it's all really happening,
that's the whole point.
this is what IS, son.
life provides itself,
and we make it, and take it, and shape it, and bake it.
i am grateful for this time i have been given.
and so i'm giving thanks.
folk life, and liberty-
without taking away anyone else's;
never quiet, never soft.....

power; -full, -less.

the power's been out most of today.
why?
well, because the languorous, laising,
lackadaisical day i intended to have
was completely co-opted by brutal buffeting
arctic mutant winds and preposterously
powerful gusts and gales.
someone had other plans for me, it would seem.
so firewood was carried along in the belligerent bite
of a below-freezing force of nature,
and the stove kept me thawed in between barrelfuls.
not exactly the benchmark of turbo productivity.
however,
there are cookies and cornbread baked up and ready
for tomorrow's mythic, magic, vegan glutton explosion.
and that's something.
***********
i finished carving another block print.
it's true.
there will be a picture of it tomorrow, right here.
the ink's still tacky,
and hell, the image may be tacky too.
i sure hope not though.
it's 12" x 12", which is about 30 centimeters each way.
so it's not exactly small,
and it's pretty busy,
even if i wasn't today.
i did make my dog spray a little hot vomit, too.
that's no joke.
poor little dummy-head olive does NOT like
car rides and cigar smoke it would seem.
my truck doesn't really like bright puce puke splats, either.
but it all really happened.
then,
when my super-awesome wife finally got home,
the power came on.
i had been reading by candlelight,
and that is a strobed-out epileptic flicker-fest
at the best of times,
and listening to the werewolfen howls of the wind,
which, incidentally, did not limit itself to the willows.
the point is,
13 mutha-b!tchin' long months later,
my wifely hottness is officially,
as in, on documents,
legally,
mrs. rock.
name change, son!!!
sorry, self-aware, cherished-identity name keepers,
but we run it old testament man-style over here.
...eventually.
that's right.
better late than never,
the real deal gift of gnarly nomenclature has been bestowed.
recognize.
and F* that hyphen sh!t, too.
either you're on the team, or you're not.
no flippy-floppin', no fence-sitting, just rock.
hard. loud. fresh.
believe it.
Folk Life & Liberty under a sovereign banner,
united,
and all that hard-style flavor.
word.
***********
plus,
it's our buddy holly's big berfday today.
happy day, old lady.
but,
it's not as happy as it could've been:
unlike every single other year since we've known her,
she didn't come up here for the birthly/thankful feastliness.
which means she gets older,
and we lose out.
i have feelings, neighbors,
and she hurt 'em....
booooooooooooooooo!!!
that's heckling, ninjas.
we still doo-doo that,
even when we miss a b!tch.
so we're all alone, now.
nobody wants to be a part of the folksy hottness,
i guess.
it's okay, though, because that means
more mutha-uckin, finger-lickin', gravy-basted
bangin' shark-swallow excellence for ME.
and the mrs.
just sayin',
it takes a whole lot of rocks to build a fortress;
never quiet, never soft.....

heavy metal, morning wood.

c'mon.
what's better than the post-fullness-moon meddling,
and circadian rythmic derailing?
almost anything, really.
but what's even worse than a no-sleep late night?
how about a big batch of yellow A*lords beeping, banging,
clanging, and digging a long mutha-b!tchin' trench,
first thing at the buttcrack of dawn's earlies an' that?
directly outside the breakfast window??
what the mutha-uckin' heck, duders?!

look at these D*-blasters,
and remember what rude awakening means.
7 a.m. and it's diesel stink and undereducated shovel-bums
all up in my backyard.
progress is encroaching on the mountainous woodsly goodness.
from acres of isolation,
to swaths and swatches of desolation,
with no consolation in sight.
notice, too,
the doo-doo buttery density of foggy-bottomed obscurement.
where're the mountains?
out there behind all the clouds.
it's like a breathtaking view in exact reverse.
more like breath-holding, because it stinks.
***********
now, all y'all out there know i like words.
in fact, i'm not just loquacious, but verbose.
my prose is perpetually purple,
like an emperor of composition,
even at the worst of times-
but neighbors,
i've got to blow a little bit of my own horn,
a little tiny bit louder and harder than usual.
mushroom cacciatore, mutha-'uckas!
check the teleport:

holy sh!t-balls, kids.
words fail me...almost.
double-browned portobellos?
carmelized onions,
and sweet peppers,
and too much garlic,
and stewed tomatoes,
and a burly grabhand of herbs and spices,
and pretend chickeny seitan slabs.
you missed out, ninjas.
now,
if you'd shown up,
you might've gotten a bowlful.
i'm just sayin'.
however,
it would've been a battle-royal for the last scoople,
because the whole mutha-lickin' pot got gobbled.
not even a soppable dollop for the crusty bread to absorb.
skinny vegans know how to EAT, son.
fatness on the inside is how shark-gluttons get busy.
we take our victories where we can find 'em.
that's a fact.
these the horible heinie-hole-heads chewing up my backyard
can't stay forever,
and even more ephermal is the delicate deliciousness of dinner,
but the brights sides and flip sides are always there.
wins and losses,
gives and takes,
bellyholes and sewer holes,
same time and place,
each and every time;
never quiet, never soft.....

1011

ice on everything,
fog around everything,
and water in between all of that.
new england novembers, ninjas.
we get busy with some burly, soggy surroundings,
and with the need for sweaters seven months out of the year.
still,
november is the one that brings the most misery.
winter hits early,
the skies dump doo-doo butter at every chance,
and the deep darkness sets in before most of us get out of work.
hard styles,
hard times,
long nights,
and cold days.
there's always somehow more of that to go around.
of course, talking about the weather changes little about it.
but the winds are blowing in some changes
from all over the place.
for instance,
there's art getting made in this house.
for real.
arthur-making blocks of hottness are being pumped out.
gun-nut craziness is in full swing, too.
the studio may get another 'nother other artist,
so HE can sit around and not work with the rest of us.
changes, ninjas.
some good, some bad.
sometimes.
***********
it's the time of year for being grateful, too.
and i sure am.
the house is warmer than last year,
although i'm a heap of loot poorer for it.
my eccentric and eclectic hobbies are panning out
into fresh and flavorful doings and goings-on.
and it's wet and cold and foggy, still.
dark early, and not a star to be seen.
the werewolf warlord ways and means
are obscured by clouds,
and i'm grateful for THAT too.
i've got sketches that need inking,
and linoleum that needs carving.
tonight's the night,
just like every night;
never quiet, never soft.....

gun stuff.

c'mon.
that's a scabbard.
like for a sword,
only,
even more awesome.
how could it be MORE awesome?
because it's not made for stormy knights' errands of errantry.
here,
look what happens when you add a little boom-stick to the scene:

a shotgun sleeve!
there is only super-freshness surrounding me at this moment.
duders,
i am popping the hardest one ever.
real talk.
some folks can't hang out with firearm culture,
and that's cool...
...those kids can go nancy-pants around with all the other
delicate fancy-boys and mumblebabies somewhere else.
over here,
it's always awesome o'clock,
all dang day long.
that's like high noon and quittin' time,
at the same time.
gun stuff rocks my socks, neighbors-
what goes better with werewolf weirdie sh!t
than shotshells and burly ball bearings barreling along
at breakneck velocity?
nothin'.
and don't you fret your little bitty worry warts over a dang thing.
i got two of 'em.
because too much is the right amount.
and it's got those little molle straps,
so it snaps onto a bullet-proof vest, or plate carrier,
or backpack, or whatver.
(all of which i have)
or it's got the strap for stand-alone carrying.
and ,
it's in multicam.
which really just means that the
bad mama-jama goes to eleven.
which you should've guessed when i told you
i needed two of 'em.
over-the-top shotgun sorcery.
woodsly goodness,
uno,
out;
never quiet, never soft.....

hairy.

i swear, y'all,
this 'ucking full moon is one of the worst ones yet.
the crazies are crawling out of the woodwork,
and the weak-sauce is flowing like a tsunami.
if my skin doesn't pop open
and reveal a furry fenris of fury within,
the lanky skankiness without had better do some
severe neck checking,
or i can only imagine the tinitis-alarming
ear-ringing high-pitched squeal of lunar lunacy
that's fixin' to make a ninja's head explode.
loco lobo looney-bin freakout waves, kids.
i'm just sayin';
some folks aren't sensitive to those radiated rays,
and therefore escape the urge to bone-up
and bark out loud at the big blue pieplate in the sky.
lucky them.
what's worse than berserker barbarian battle-beasts?
gaytarded puppy-faced poop-boat mongrels.
huh?
eleven is the magic number.
if you can't commit to epic, heroic, off-the-chain,
unhinged full moon fever...
well,
then you may just be a little b!tchbaby mutt bastard.
ohhhhhhhhhhh!
that's werewolf snobbery,
from a truly untied, tide-and-tried, true-blue
warrior of woodsly goodness.
can you hang out with this?
if i overreact,
then i expect equal but opposite knee-jerks
from all my other 'nother duders.
raging stormswept barbarian fury.
accept no substitutions,
make no exceptions.
there're only four ingredients,
and not a one of them is reason or sense-
berserker.
barbarian.
battle.
beast.
the next couple of days will see the manic mayhem
of sleepless freak'um harum scarum hottness.
crazy raving rant and rampage?
you're welcome;
never quiet, never soft.....

job.

seriously,
i don't know who ordered the snow,
but they can pretty much F* right off today.
it's not so much the amount as the principle.
a light dusting of pretzel salt style granules
is still a frosty harbinger of hard styles and cold nights
and all that other 'nother rough wintry business.
weather can chug it, duders.
just sayin'...
ice in the birdbath,
snow on the ground,
crunchy snapping leaves underfoot,
and icy windshields.
without the cold without,
the hottness within wouldn't seem as heated, i'm sure;
and it's pretty flippin' hot in here, at least.
in fact,
we had company, and them ninjas were all like:
'damn, it's like a picture out of a catalog in here'.
and not budget-A* ikea, either.
country living, maybe,
or martha mutha-b!tchin' stewart perhaps.
fancy-grade decorative hottness.
no snow is gonna put the kibosh on THAT, homeboy.
word.
***********
going. going. gone.
it's the weakest link in workweek waterbabyhood.
the week right before thanksgiving,
and nobody wants tattoos.
lucky for us worthy warrior busy-bodies,
we've got big action to bust some moves on.
block prints and line art,
and a whole mess of assorted manliness, to boot.
maul-split logs an' that kind of thing.
it'll probably happen.
i mean, it all always is;
never quiet, never soft.....

delicious. now with added gravy.

whaaaaaaaaat?!!
real ninjas do real things, neighbor.
and when they're done,
they represent some shark-gluttonous hunger-type jauns.
i know it.
and i remedy it.
recognize the teleport:

garlic'd-up and sauteed collard greens!
no vinegary southern greens up in this italian household.
no way, jose. (umm, giuseppe?)
it's straight-up with 11 cloves of garlic.
we doo-doo that breath-stinkin' allium alliance sh!t.
when it's rainy out,
i get busy in my kitchen, kids-
i spent the day boiling up a big, burly batch
of wheaty meaty brown blops.
that's exactly right, ninjas:
seitan!
gluten steaks in full mutha-b!tching effect.
and you'd better believe that.
hours and hours of boiled brothy business,
until the optimum consistency of spongy/chewy thickness
and gastronomic palatability are acquired.
and once i strained the carrots, onions, and celery
out of the cauldron of smoky salty broth,
i boiled up a batch of potatoes, too.
waste not, want not.
those're broth-saturated molto mashed jauns up there.
oh, man.
off-the-chain, neighbors.
hottness unleashed an' that.
-and yes,
those are carmelized onions and browned baby bellas
smothered in butterish on top of the seitan slabs.
 and while we're on the subject,
that IS souped-up brown gravy over everything too.
c'mon.
what am i?
a bad chef A*-hole.
not on your life mutha-lickas.
hmm?
oh, yes,
as a matter of fact,
i DID make some dessert too.

seasonally appropriate rock blocks.
yeah.
rock blocks.
albie rock blocks of big fun.
building blocks for big bootied b!tches, even.
and not booties for large baby feet, either....
whatev', folks;
cookies by the dozens get baked when it's wet out.
what are these, specifically?
cinnamon-nutmeg oatmeal chocolate chip.
if you can't hang out with that complete treat suite,
then we're not friends anymore.
wait,
you never call,
you never visit,
maybe we're already not friends anymore.
awwwwww, man.
well,
on the brighter side,
that means more mutha-forkin' leftovers for ME.
bam-a-lama, ninja.
somebody just turned a frown upside down.
deal with that, son.
i've got an extra dozen, just for work today.
fat bellyholes make for tame reactions.
stay calm, stay fat, stay alive.
that's today's goal set.
thor's day.
no thunder, but plenty of wind.
outside, and inside,
in so many ways,
especially after last night's feast.
ka-splode;
never quiet, never soft.....

down came the rain.

washout.
down. F*ing. pour.
deluge.
cloudburst.
damn it all.
another drenched and drizzled
fizzled-out flop of a day.
***********
days off during non-permissive weather
make for difficulties and hard styles,
not to mention a fat loss of productivity.
so when it's sad and rainy,
what do warrior word-eaters get busy doing?
reading about dungeons, and dragons, of course.
that's not all, though.
there're other other necessary actions that beg attention.
example:
during a lull in the lambasting liquid sky-peeing,
i took a break from the epic nerd endeavors i'm into,
and sneaked out for a little pole-saw power-pruning,
that's a thing.
i de-limbed a whole bunch of old and busted trees.
now,
they're the new hottness again.
and my arms had a workout they don't usually get.
so they feel old and busted now-
they've got the icy-hot 'ness to help with all that.
***********
there are only so many days, duders.
at least one fresh thing should happen on each of 'em.
i'm just sayin'.
let's make that sh!t happen.
one item of freshness,
one instance of active participation,
one thing to kick up the worthiness and the realness,
to eleven.
i almost forgot about all the stuff i know.
on the ones, duders.
because up here, isolated in the mountains,
i don't really need to know much.
but a little cardio for my brain
has amped up the thirstiness for all that stuff,
and i'm studying up for the big action.
firearms,
history,
mythology,
gardening,
cooking.
past, present, future, and all that good stuff.
at the same time.
has, is, and will happen.
y'know, like piebald says:
you're part of it.
so,
what're we doing?
never quiet, never soft.....

shotguns.

duders,
we need to arrange a shotgun derby.
that's when you nancypants fruitblasters
remove your pleated waterbaby diapers,
and come up to the woods and bring the unholy thunder.
12gauge ragnarok.
c'mon.
that's such a kick-A* barbarian thing to do.
double-barrels,
over-and-under,
brutal pump-action rigs,
and single shot break-barrels.
now,
i know some of you have a healthy dose of
weak-sauce connecticut-style do-goodery in you.
and i know that implies a lot of liberal gun aversion.
it's cool.
i won't report you to the awesome police.
it can be our little secret.
c'mon. c'mon. C'MON.
i've got pumpkins,
and gourds,
and targets that NEED exploding.
plus,
there's at least 5 shottie-boom-ba'lotties in the
war room that could use a little action.
let's amke it happen.
you bring a carton of shells,
i'll bring the cannons,
and we'll get a little stress-relieving in
while getting the lead out.
i watched a little sumthin' sumthin',
and now i'm all fired-up to fire off some buckshot barbarism.
here,
check it out.on the link below:
(berserker hard-style hottness)
if that doesn't give you a raging one,
you're suspect.
i'm just sayin'.
shotgun derby.
no skeet, all pounding;
never quiet, never soft.....

temperance.

self-restraint, moderation, and control.
awwwwwwww, man.
that doesn't sound dope.....at ALL.
but fortuitously and coincidentally,
temperance is also the term used
to indicate complete abstinence from alcohol.
i got THAT going on at least.
a temperant temperment an' that.
i'm just sayin',
for us feral and furious berserker barbarians,
not drinking is much much easier
than following an ambiguous middle path
that focuses fully on not-flipping the F* out.
where's the hottness in that, after all?
i'm on that stone-sober, no-excuses, bearded, battle-beastly
lightning-striking viking mania, homeboy-
axe. chop. head.
those're the only 3 things in the lesson plan, y'heard?
anything else maxes out at less than eleven.
...and that's unacceptable.
still, neighbors,
there's a little tiny bit of something to be said,
for taking it easy in the face of infuriating F*tardation.
i mean,
it gets tiring always over-reacting to every
spot of bebotherance and trouble.
actually,
that just means i get a good night's sleep.
nevermind, duders.
doo-dooing it hard, and loud, and fast
may actually be better for my constitution.
whew, that's a relief.
***********
a full day of foul weather again.
i split and carried wood,
hauled lumber,
made breakfast,
and now it's time to go and zipzap on a 1/2 sleeve.
full minutes.
full hours.
full days.
under cloudcover,
covered under tarps,
covering chunks of skin.
i've got time accounted for,
and counting down,
i've got it covered, too.
dang;
never quiet, never soft.....

breakfast sandwiches.

oh. Oh. OHHH.
whaaaaaat-what?! my ninjas.
breakfast 'guinis...
...you know it.
i fried up a batch of 'em by request;
so all credit is due my wifey,
for her insightful culinary mien,
and her perpetual shark-gluttonous hunger.
(keep moving, keep eating, stay alive.)
it's a non-denominational secular-sunday way to kick off this day.
wafer-thin seasoned tofu slices,
crispy on the outside, soft as silk in the center-
seared and spiced-up with g'pop,
(that's garlic powder and onion powder)
and molto coarse-ground black peppercorns,
with vegan gravy,
faux bacon strippers,
and a toasted soy-buttery hard-style roll.
word the F* up, hungry hippos,
these jauns are like magic treats.
...and are those mapled-up soysages?
you betcha, b!tchbags.
a powerful blend of semi-healthy,
truly delicious, fattie-boombattie greasy diner comfort,
fresh from the Fortress galley.
we doo-doo that guilty-pleasure sh!t, duders.
believe it.
***********
do y'all like the phrase 'weather permitting'?
i do.
because it's like invoking the wrath of ma nature,
and all her firmamental fury.
the vault of the heavens will open and call forth
a divine host of hail, snow, rain, sleet,
and whatever directional winds most likely to befoul
the best of intentions.
it's been 60 degrees for days, neighbors.
and i've been 'working' instead of home improving.
there's wood what needs stacking,
and sheds what need building,
and the weather seems like it's perfectly suited
to that situation.
but i've got to wait until i'm not languishing
in the tattoo studio to get busy with my business.
which means:
on my days OFF,
weather permitting-
two days of early-dark doo-doo
in which i've got to hustle and bustle my way to the finish line.
you know where this is going, right?
mmm-hmmm.
it's not even supposed to be kinda nice out this week.
the forecast is more like a smegma-sleeved foreskin, ninjas.
c'mon.
from sunny and warm whilst i'm
whiling away the viable daylight hours right now,
to a hard-style harshness more fitting for
a cataclysmic calamity of cold and clammy crapola.
somebody somewhere is obviously kidding me.
clouds, darkness, weather, i abjure thee.
good luck with all that.
***********
it's a sunday.
and it's a sunny day.
how trite.
i'll be sure to soak up a ray or so,
and synthesize the good moody vitamins
and seasonal affective destroyers,
before another dirgeful doldrum roosts over these hills.
man, it's a bright (bright) bright (bright) sunshiny day.
all flash and barb.
like a lure, kids.
strike if you must, while the sky is light,
but be prepared for those pesky consequences;
never quiet, never soft.....

cool beans.

pinto,
black,
dark red kidney,
& white kidney cannellini.
beans, mutha-uckas.
a hill of beans, even.
or maybe just a colander full,
but still,
that's four sonuvagunnin' pounds of the magical fruit;
good for your heart, an' that.
little powerhouses of protein.
i can feel my sinews and sh!t synthesizing them jauns.
hobo chili in my bellyhole,
and a trimmed and neatened beard?
i can feel the ley lines converging,
and the planetary alignments locking into place.
saturn's day, duders,
and it's a fully-formed,
full-force flint-and-steel foray into
fresh, hard, loudness all the way to eleven.
oh, man.
is it ever going to be a day of epic hot fire and lightning.
all that energy,
all that well-groomed face.....
dirty b!tches are gonna be losing their funking minds.
theyll be all like:
'daaaaamn,
is that a depression-era carnival roustabout?
for real?
hey, ninja, you hittin' my SPOT!'
or something along those lines.
and it'll be like that right up until the hot peppers
activate the turbo-chargers,
and the blast furnaces start blasting and smelting.
and after it's smelt,
i'll be responsible for what's dealt, i'm sure.
***********
there are certain specifics of woodsly goodness
that make all the grind dates seem less abrasive,
and all the long nights and hard times a
little tiny bit easier to weather.
like the big-action focal point in our great hall.
(living room?)
within the very vast, expansive excellence of the
Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
girl,
you know it's true:

c'mon.
warmth and comfort.

that's what's up.

700 degrees farenheit of furioso ferocidad del fuego.

that's purely red oak combustion,

and the smoke is even reignited in the catalytic converter.

waste not want not.

that's extra explosions of oxygen molecules

for extra hottness.

certain specifics, neighbors.

simple pleasures, even.

my hairs are cut,

and when shortened,

the silver sides of my scalp are rrrreally accentuated.

two two inch tall swaths of gorillaback grays.

distinguished,

even as my youthfulness is extinguished.

thank goodness i've got the woodsly goodness.

even elderly-haired,

real barbarians never say never,

unless they're saying

never quiet, never soft.....

moving along.

that's right, b!tches...
i'm like arabian nights and sh!t.
1001.
and counting.
***********
four bean,
three pepper (+ black pepper),
two alarm,
one and only chili, my duders.
it's on the stove and it's stewing in it's cumin-cured juices.
first and foremost,
a tasty batch of gastronomical hottness is what we all need.
there's enough for you, too.
i just don't think you'll make it here before it's all gone.
and you probably won't want to brew your own black lungs
in the post-dinner aftermath, either.
sorry about all of that.
***********
new haircuts and new shirts are pretty flippin' great.
and i've got both.
that's doubly good stuff,
and two headlights of bright in an otherwise
drudged-out dreary workweek.
grinding, ninjas.
that's the mark of responsible adult obligations,
and the very necessary insoluble unsolvable series
of mostly unfortunate events.
doing work.
that's what i'm talking about.
i'm not tryin' to WORK, mutha-lickas,
i'm trying to LIVE.
and i just don't live to work.
i do both, for sure.
hard, even.
but i'm not roundin' on that daily breadwinning-type style.
i'm daily grinding.
grist and grit and ground-away good-humor.
that's a hard way to separate wheat from chaff.
so,
maybe some of you should stop by
and sweeten the pot?
i think so.
after all,
like the little red hen,
if you don't help,
you don't get to have any.
word up;
never quiet, never soft.....

eleven eleven.

one thousand.
1000.
1k.
M.
today is the day,
one thousand entries into, onto, and all about
the really-realness, hard times, hard styles
and the worthy warrior poetry
of real life documentarianism.
it never stops happening.
oh man.
today.
what a fitting date to hit the spot with.
11-11.
eleven twice?
c'mon.
indeed it is.
right now.
live and direct from the
Folk Life & Liberty Fortress,
deep in the heart of the woodsly goodness.
from the flawless victory of red spikes,
throughout the years of mountain-man magic,
and up to the heres and the nows of the continuing
sagas and sojourns of a berserker barbarian battle-beast.
one thousand and counting.
how am i celebrating?
easy.
i'm blocking some prints and kicking it up another level
on the thermometer:

flying acorns?
crossbones?
fire, lightning, and double 11's.
have y'all been over to the other other sh!t?
we've got treats for your monkey-A*s over there.
check it out, kids:
NEVERQUIETNEVERSOFT
that's what's up.
***********
two years, eight months, almost to the day.
it's all right here.
as it just so happens,
it happens just so.
truth tellers can never stop,
and speaking of never-nevers-
it's eleven eleven all dang day long.
it certainly calls for some cerebral celebrating,
some serious stylizing,
and some sumptuous snacks.
we'll see.
thanks for spanning time with me;
never quiet, never soft.....

manliness in abundance.

dial 999 for emergency.

that'll make more sense tomorrow, maybe;
but right now, here's what's poppin'-
look at the packed, picked, and delivered
nasty-fresh hottness i came home and found in my driveway:

W-O-O-D.
that's what an unassembled shed's-worth of lumber looks like.
and it's been treated to some pressure, too.
we know all about seasoning the spruce with serious sauce, yeah?
pressure treated to leach poison into the earth, son.
that's vegan-rebuttal americana embodied.
replacing some carbon in my patriotic carbon-footprint enlargement,
just so my prints match my shoes.
(they're BIG booty b!tches, after all)
molto boards, molto planks, molto pillars-
they're ready, and set to be set upon,
poked, and plied with some large and in-charge lag screws, ninjas.
that's how we're bolt-strappin' this b!tch-bag building together.
big, honkin' hunks of connectivity.
galvanized an' that.
huh?
that's a good question.
NO, actually,
they aren't all ready to be put together like a hobby kit.
some of those girthy pylons need sizing.
what?
another 'nother good question-
what AM i gonna slice and dice all those burly posts with?
hmmmm.
how about a big mutha-uckin' saw, ninjas.
what?!!
teleport?
check.

12" of frenzied ferocious circular devastation.

i've got that, kids.
(however, not what she said.)
power tools and angle iron and tie downs.
screws and joists and braces.
one well appointed pole shed is about to get got.
***********
it was a shopping day here in the veiled vale
of the pointed peaks of the whitest mountains on the east coast.
that's new shirts and a right angled carpenter's-level.
my angles are righteous, now.
i'm aware that's hardly groundbreaking
super-shiny tatblast braggadoccio,
but that's just because the comings
and goings are slower and smaller here.
it's pure, uncut barbarian bouillon.
awesomeness, concentrated.
sheds, smells, tools.
that's what worthy ones are wantin'.
real life.
and it's constituents.
for the time that's given,
the good life gets lived.
this is how it goes;
never quiet, never soft.....

aromas.

dang it all,

i think i spent yesterday as the smelly kid.
no, for really real though-
everything that went IN
left an indelible mark on my aura.
.....or so to speak, anyway.
and that was before it ever came back out.
surface to surface warfare-type hard hard styles.
there was a definite unearthly halo around me.
coffee, a black-as-night cigar,
flat-tire-repair slime on my overalls,
soy hot chocolate;
duders,
there's not enough gum on the planet to
decrapinate a doo-doo buttery tongue
so severely saturated in residue-doo.
and if the musky pressure-treated scum on my shirt,
and the husky stench of super-strong foods in my moustache
weren't enough of an odious, odorous onus,
with an O, neighbors,
although the one with an A
was also in F*ing full effect
i kicked it up to eleven,
coming AND going,
with this:

that's a garlic and garlic oil sauteed asparagus flatbread.
i may be using my skills for the creation of pure evil, ninjas.
it tasted molto molto good,
but there are consequences for a day of decadent devouring.
dire consequences, y'all.
dire.
earth, air, fire, and water.
the major elements were all there.
...and they all smelled of pure destruction.
the vents were open, the flues were on full-blast,
and a desolation worthy of smaug was in attendance.
but for all of the power and the glory
of a furious foulness full of food and fuel,
i didn't, and still don't, even come remotely close
to rivalling this smelly chum-bucket of turds and whey:

olive.

yep.
breath like a dumpster heaped high with week-old oysters,
butthole like an oil-soaked mountain of catfish,
and inner bellows that belch forth a smog
scented of wilted, rotten lettuce, and corpses.
lucky me.
my sense of smell has been knocked senseless,
and i'm breathless,
not from exertion,
but from a lightheadedness borne on
reeking clouds of noxious fumes.
*
that was yesterday.
today is a refreshing breeze,
a crisp november (rainless) day.
the only vapors emanating from within the Fortress
are the medicine-whiffs of woodstain.
home improvements and empty sinuses.
today is a good day;
never quiet, never soft.....

shed.

every day i'm making moves.
sometimes they're major,
other times miniscule,
but i'm making 'em no matter what.

today's big dilemma?
am i baking some good or not?
and if i AM gettin' busy behind an apron,
and preheatin' my oven to a convectionary 375 degrees,
then what exactly am i making:
oatmeal chocolate chip rock blocks?
peanut butter oatmeal chocolate chip rock blocks?
real life just isn't easy, son.
it's the critical decisions that make or break a day.
is peanut butter necessary?
in everyday application? yes.
in crucially delicious cookies? i don't know.
the wrong call,
and i'm four dozen doses of dopeness
that my temeritous tastebuds just don't want to experience.
i'm on the fence.
***********
wood gets shed,
but not like dead branches.
more like caveman talk.
wood gets shed.
as in, the building.
no sloughing or exfoliating at all.
just the big, burly business of lag bolts
and joists and sh!t like that...
except,
the lumber isn't getting delivered until thursday.
the very day i get back to the grind at the tatzap studio.
awwwww, man.
so much for building some herculean manliness
during my days off.
i haven't seen the sun in forever, it seems,
and even when it isn't raining,
the clouds are hanging out in my front yard,
right before my face, ninjas.
gorilla-like, in the mist, in amidst my asters.
long arms, long days, pronounced canines on a vegetarian,
gorilla-like.
silver is back, and everywhere at once.
you like it.
king, donkey, or dog toys,
it's magilla like a grape ape over here;
never quiet, never soft.....

back to basics.

avuncular corpuscles.
it sounds much worse than it is.
there's nothing wet or arterial or infectious implied.
it's more of a spirit and memory kind of a thing.
not big words just for the sake of themselves, either.
i'm talking about deja vu and cultivated coincidences.
y'know,
ghost circles and smoke rings-type sh!t.
discrete influences from proactive particles that bring
up recollections of some really real old times an' that.
reminiscing about folks i can't talk to anymore,
y'know,
some really upbeat gray-day rainy november-appropriate thoughts.
just the present,
presented in a post-mortem, phantasmal package from the past.
fantastic.
weird dreams make short nights longer,
and vice-versa.
***********
it's almost our weekend here in the soggy serenity of the mountains.
and dang it for it's dampness,
it's raining again, and that's a batch of b!tchbaggery,
but it's not snowing,
unlike some waterbaby plots of weak-saucery.
(i'm looking at YOU connecticut)
just one more day of zippity-doo-doo,
and zappity-blasting,
and then i've got wood to work,
holes to drill,
plenty of nailing,
and poles to erect.
that's exactly what SHE said;
never quiet, never soft.....

double-destroyer.

it isn't raining.

and it's an hour earlier than i'm used to getting out of bed.
-like the natural order of things has been turned inside out.
there's daylight, but not quite sunlight,
and the only dew-dew buttery moisture on the ground
is the half-inch thick layer of frost on everything.
dew-dew.
c'mon.
still, despite the deep freeze dawn's earliest,
the semi-actual early rising for unsexy still-live bird/worm scenarios
has got me up and at them like a champ.
or maybe it was the positive reiki vibes......?
***********
soooo,
a pair of my best and most favoritest clients
came up for the whole day in the woodsly goodness.
i tattooed my buddy gina for her birthday,
and afterwards i got a present.
a digit-repairing, palm-calming, wrist-soothing hand massage.
for those of you who know about the stand-up steadfast
standoffishness that i hold to so dearly,
the less-than-arm's-length physical contact
may seem slightly out of character.
but, after six straight hours of grinding,
my gorilla paws were severely strained.
eentsy-meentsy little details, y'all.
you'd think i'd stop doing that to myself....
but i choose the wrench, ninjas.
every time.
here's just a little taste:

see that little bit of sweet boob action?

yep.
you just get a little bit of the treats.
i zapped it up all flippin' day.
...and it's a cover-up.
...and i kept adding little uber-tight 3 liner bits of action to it, too.
that whole head is only like 2 inches wide.
(that's what she said?)
that means your screenshot is probably bigger than actual size.
and that's why i let my mitt get massaged and (wo)man-handled.
truth is,
it doesn't feel as bowstring-taut and ouchy as usual this morning.
we'll count that as a victory.
***********
it's 11-7.
or 7-11, for all y'all from everywhere but here.
either way,
it's craps.
there's a hot and sweaty batch of
belligerently un-tastic on the menu for my A* today.
oh, craps.
a total bust-out, even.
but,
i do what i do regardless.
the only forseeable outcome?
G.S.M.
Gimme S'Money.
you know this, duders.
tighten it up with the wrench,
turn it clockwise,
to eleven,
and bring the sunday, bloody sunday-type styles.
hard. loud. and fresh.
for your sunuvab!tchin' miki-lickin' face;
never quiet, never soft.....

saturn.

this is it, my ninjas.
the last day of saved-up daylight time.
tomorrow morning,
sunshine and moonlight tell all your mutha-b!tchin' clocks
that they need to fall the F* back, son.
we gain an hour of night,
but still keep the day at 24 of 'em overall.
mostly,
a little more restful relaxation is on the docket.
about 60 minutes worth, by my math.
that means slightly brighter grays in the a.m.,
and deeper darknesses for the mid-afternoon.
not that it would make much difference up here lately.
it's been sunless and pale-lit
and paltry in the bright, bright, bright department.
in fact,
it's prime conditions for vitamin D deficiency,
and seasonal affective light deprivation disorders.
but only if you're a wingey mink-pantsed diaper baby.
vikings don't get all sad and mincey about the shadowy suckiness,
and it stays brutally dark out up in the northern reaches
for six whole flippin' months.
they never even heard of saving daylight.
they made up for it with axe-chop beheadings,
and plunder,
and pillaging,
and stealing some tasty ladies from their native lands...
y'heard?
you just have to embrace the dungeony darkness within.
that's word.
and then,
all of a sudden, you realize some things:
that real ninjas do real sh!t under cover of night;
that stars look invisible during the day;
that fires seem cozier when they cast a golden glow;
that tea and toast taste better in the dawn's early action an' that.
word.
right now, however, in these sunless lands,
it feels like 9ish because it IS 9ish.
that's comforting.
i can't hold a tune very well,
but i can keep the rythym circadian like a mutha-ucka.
my biological clock is attached to dynamite,
and it's ticking towards a TNT tomorrow.
time gets taken.
and there's no making up for lost amounts.
substitutions will not be tolerated.
it's not like baking, y'know?
applesauce = eggs in a cake recipe,
but now try scrambling applesauce.
awwwwww, man.
it loses a whole mess of something in translation.
take your time, duders;
never quiet, never soft.....

remember, remember....

gunpowder!
guy fawke's day.
bonfires.
treasony plots that should never be forgot...
but what do WE have to show for it?
a deep, dark, dolorous day.
awwwwww, man.
where's the sun, duders?
it isn't hanging out here, that's for sure.
and it's molto difficult to just grab a tinder and flint
for spaking up an anti-parliamentarian funeral pyre
under the crushing cloudcover,
the wet woodsly saturated and sopping sh!t-salad
of drenched and quenched combustibles in a drizzle.
fact.
so,
instead,
it looks like a dearth of dopeness
and the dread of another 'nother sunless set of hours.
the sun still rises and sets behind all this grim grayness.
i know that.
and yet it's dusk until dusk, from dawn.
lighter gray is the only indicator of time's passage.
that's a sure-enough long night.
so far it's been about 36 hours.
lugubrious is my realm this day, neighbors.
that's word.
***********
guy fawkes may have been a murderous extremist,
but he didn't deserve to get tattlebabied on.
i mean,
that's just not cool.
and nobody likes a snitch.
especially not mr. fawkes.
he kinda got F*'d up after the
anonymous letter sold his A* out.
i mean, he stage-dived face first off the scaffold,
and broke his OWN neck....
but got drawn and quartrered anyway.
that's such a hard style.
but of course now there's a bonfire and fireworks
celebrating his capture, torture, and death,
so almost everybody wins.
...except catholics in 1605.
hey-O!
really,
it's just another case of keeping it real
by playing it close.
don't talk about it, be about it.
don't dream it, be it.
and don't tell mutha-b!tches what time it is,
because snitchy tattletale babyholes just can't resist
blabbity-blabbing all the hottness away.
of course,
if it clears up in these fog-kisssed peaks,
i'm still gonna burn the ever-lovin' living sh!t
outta some barbarian beacon brushpiles.
a fire is a fire, after all.
sorry guy;
never quiet, never soft.....

if i could chuck.

how much wood would i chuck?
a lot.
check out the pile of positively warm winter-readiness:

uh-huh.

18" logs,
and not just because of yesterday's panniecakes.
the thing is,
these hefty hunks of home-heating solution
are going to have to concentrate their british thermal unit potential
whilst hanging out in the driveway for a little minute.
uh-huh.
because my yard is a whole lot like an airedale...
brown & black, no shed.
oh, c'mon.
***********
the shovel.
yeah, that's right.
the shovel is the greatest social equalizer.
everybody gets a shovel,
and everybody does the same thing.
everybody shovels.
that's put folks on an even playing field.
it might even favor big dummies.
in fact,
the pampered and the privileged
would get a quick wake-up into the world of work.
and most surely be at a blistered, broken-backed disadvantage.
but for the hearty and the hale,
common ground gets found,
and broken, so to speak.
give me a shovel and i'm as good as the next guy,
but give me a pencil,
and i'm worth eleven.
ooooooooooooh, sh!t.
that's smart kid smack talk right there.
just sayin'.
you can get busy on a whole lot more with a pencil.
or a pen.
whatever.
mightier than swords, an' that.
and shovels.
but probably not wrenches.
just think about it a little.
*
oh,
and it's sleeting outside, now.
on my low-moisture super-seasoned wood.
that's what you get for speaking too soon, i suppose.
...which means my wood's gettin' wet.
now normally,
that's not a bad thing at all,
but today,
i can't really hang out.
tarps and tie-downs and temeritous traipsing
all to keep the damp doo-doo butter
off of my beautiful red oak logs.
hatches are gettin' battened,
skies are being cursed.
mountainous mounds of crucial combustibles,
and sleeting, sloshing suckiness from the other mountains.
really;
never quiet, never soft.....

oh! my goodness.

pumpkins and crunchy leaves.
clear nights and glowing embers.
the very best parts about november.
it smells so flippin' good.
what it looks like,
how it feels,
there's nowhere else like here.
and that's good.
because then it wouldn't be as special.

a burning ring of fire.
the very best method of enjoying the long nights.
nature sounds, and pipe smoke,
and the whole thing falls in place.
the big picture, in miniature.
right here in my own yard.

birch bark burns hotter than anything.
and the smoke is black and greasy.
but,
it lights fast and burns faster,
and starts the blazes in an instant.
there's an old busted doo-doo deadwood birch
rotting out it's remaining days as one-fourth
of the retaining wall for the compost pile.
he was a big 'un before his fall;
but THIS fall, his skin is my kindling for the fire pit.
waste not, an' that.

look at that rural philosopher.
what?
c'mon.
it's alright, duders.
you don't have to shield your eyes.
it's not medusa, after all-
it's a self-portrait of the artist as himself.
sorta sweaty, smoky, and sorta sucky as a serene sojourner,
but keeping it molto real in the woodsly goodness.
all pumpkin-colored in the firelight,
like a jaundiced journeyman of autumny exploration.

speaking of pumpkiny hottness.

those are exactly what you think they are:
pumpkin spice rock blocks.
yeah.
because everything else is just a lame cookie.
are they soft?
yeah.
moist?
sure.
chewy?
heck yes.
delicious?
c'mon,.
what am i?
an A*hole?
you already know they embody the spirit
and the memory,
of every kind of good vibe, positive thought,
and excellent feeling associated with this season.
rock blocks and pumpkins?
all the way to eleven;
never quiet, never soft.....

everything goes better with pancakes.

that's a fact.

a stout stack of syruped-up sweet treats,
and all of a sudden a frosty, freezy-freaky day
becomes a full-bellied bellows of blistering brightness.
throw in some soysages, too?
c'mon.
that's a buttload of bangin' business.
don't believe me?
okay.
then how do you explain THIS?:

ka-pow!

one fast...broken, fast.
that's one elite morning feast.
...for your face.
delivered deftly from the gas-flame griddle
to the breakfasty nooks and crannies
of the woodsly goodness.
that makes the post-election indigestion
of stormy, rabid politicos and their respective parties
much easier to weather.
i'm not saying i don't care about it at all.
i'm saying that i care almost not at all.
i'm busy living.
real life.
the independent declarer
and sole soul-sovereign of Folk Life & Liberty
for any and all worthy warrior poets,
berserker barbarian battle-beasts,
active participants,
lightning-striking vikings,
and the righteous rural real-life livers
of the woodsly good life.
the steadfast, stalwart suzerain of
gratitude and generosity.
no ayes or nays necessary, ninjas,
it's all really happening, like it or not.
***********
a powerful pile of panniecakes,
and 4 calamitous cords of hardwood.
that's molto lumberjack like a mutha-'ucka.
my beard is thickening as we speak, even.
and duders,
without seeming too satisfied,
let me brag a bit about blown insulation:
snug.
that's the word.
like a bug, in a rug.
it's still below freezing outside,
but the roasty toastiness is what's poppin' in here.
snug and comfortable and perfect.
that's that Folk Life sh!t.
i'm warm,
i'm full,
i'm doing what needs doing.
the balance of power has shifted
in the house of representatives,
but not in our house.
we're still representing.
and still perfectly poised in partnership,
and stockpiled with plenty of treats.
that's representative of the mountain realm.
hard styles, hard times, hard wood;
never quiet, never soft.....

election day.

so every little kid in the united states
gets today off from school...
that's somethin'.
just so 30% of their parents
can spend seven seconds pulling a lever,
to elevate their favorite talking-headache to
a paper-pushing father-knows-better-than-best job.
uh-huh.
that's efficiency.
it's no small wonder every candidate is such a turd;
water finds it's own level, it's been said.
whatever, duders.
vote, or don't,
either decision, or either team,even,
is just not relevant
to the big fun and bigger action of real life.
and real life has more to do with what's happening than
any political promises could ever be.
for instance:
guess who has got cords of wood coming his way?
yeah.
it's me.
that was an obvious one.
but still,
i've got the split-up trunks from a forestful of
inflammable freshness getting dropped off at the fortress.
wood, kids.
hard wood.
that's a real thing.
in so many ways, it's better than soft wood.
(yes, that IS what she said)
there's my vote, y'all.
to not freeze to death.
my party's platform?
a bundle of wood in every stove,
and two tofurkys in every pot.
Folk Life Libertarianism.
live free or die-type sh!t.
ballots cast (away) make great kindling.
word up.
***********
anyway,
i'm all up in the dark half of the year.
and for a year and a day,
i've been all up in the wifely hottness, too.
that's a bright spot for sure.
things happen, duders.
wood gets chopped,
wood gets burned,
wood grows on trees.
that's the truth.
happenings, and things;
never quiet, never soft.....

one year's worth.

happy anniversary.
that's what you're supposed to say to someone,
when the annual measured mile-marker of matrimony
rolls back around again on the calendar.
well, friends,
today's the day.
it's my anniversary.
more specifically,
it's our anniversary.
jessica and i.
today.
it's the first anniversary of our wedding.
...so,
start sayin' that sh!t.
one year's worth of oft-harmonious,
sometimes hegemonious,
but never parsimonious post-nuptial partnership.
one year's worth of hugs and kisses from my mrs.
one year's worth of time,
and energy,
and active participation.
one whole year's worth of home improvements,
self improvements,
and improved domestic blissfulness.
a whole year already.
already, already.
enough, already?
sorry duders.
today's the day.
and enough is never enough.
one day sums up one year sums up one relationship.
what i mean is:
it's a good day.
get it?
yeah.
***********
happy anniversary.
it's both of those things.
and that's the telltale sign of
a double-dose of dopeness.
twice as much awesome as the national average.
it's not just the big day,
it's a mutha-b!tching happy one, too.
i am grateful for the time i have been given.
i am grateful for the one who spans it with me.
and i am super-grateful that my time-lapsing
life-traipsing better-half is also a turbo-hot,
super-talented, remarkable, sparkle-magical
co-conspiratorial collaborator.
this whole month goes all the way to eleven.
starting today.
and that's a pretty fitting pretty picture.
sitting pretty,
to eleven.
together, even.
i presume your congratulations.
i'm kind of like that;
never quiet, never soft.....

rabbit, rabbit.

happy november, neighbors!

*
you already know i said the magic abracadabras:
'rabbit, rabbit.'
...like out of a hat an' that.
good luckiness,
and lucky goodness,
for a whole other 'nother month.
and that's not even nearly all the freshness
that's getting dispensed all loud and hard up here
it's the spookiest day of the dead
this side of yesterday.
ALL Saint's Day.
secret spirits,
and hyperglycemic candy overload.
or maybe, it would've been,
but the woods has it's hard-styles too.
like NO trickery treaters marching into the haunted woods
for a little bag of goodies.
which really just means more sweetness for me.
and that's all well and good, ninjas-
but if you weren't here for the Samhain hottness yesterday,
then your bellyhole wasn't privvy
to this harvesty, hollowed, hallow's evening hard-skinned gourd,
nor the beginnings of the darker seasons up here
in the epic excellence of the woodsly goodness.
however,
if there's a teleport nearby, you should definitely check this:
boo-ya!
and that boo is for ghosts an' sh!t, ya?
you know what that is?
baked stuffed acorn squash!
yes indeed.
that's wild rice shallot stuffing with sunflower seeds,
drizzled with a crucial compote
of crushed, cooked cranberry sauce.
and seven-spud mashed potatoes.
that's seven lucky kinds of local lumpers,
skins-on homeboy-style masher-uppers,
aaaaaand maple-sweetened cornbread.
all from scratch, friends.
i'd give you the recipe,
but i don't use 'em.
ooooh, sh!t!!
real talk,
F* your A* if you don't think that looks good.
...because you're wrong.
good food is essential to a dinner party.
otherwise,
especially in the absence of booze,
it's just a bunch of hungry people staring at each other.
word up.
and we can't have that kind of weak sauce, can we?
of course not,
what are we?
A*-holes?
c'mon.
cyle and casey came by,
to gnosh up on some celebratory squash and sauce,
and stayed for dessert too.
(apple crisp, with double-oat streusel topping, of course)
and so did our buddy jim.
but that wasn't it, either.
i told you mutha-flippers,
it was a samhain barbarian blaze.
which means that hot fire was compulsory...

flame on, kids.
that's some perfect evening business right there.
and on a crystal-clear night.
stars, smoke, light, dark, woods, leaves...
pretty much everything awesome in one place.

jim even made a mask.
that's hallowe'en spirit, y'all.
you're never too old for THAT.
...and the embers died down,

and the woodstove got hotter,
and the coziness of the fortress got even cozier.
a small cadre of elite enjoyers.
active participants in the really realness.
that's Folk Life;
there hasn't ever been a whole lot of folks who can hang out.
but the ones who can?
yeah.
worthy warrior poetry.
so good.
all treats, all the time.
no tricks.
happy november, my ninjas;
never quiet, never soft.....