agent orange julius?

circumventing happenstance with unhappy circumstance?
is that real?
wait.
what?
duders,
say goodbye to yet another 'nother month.
thirty-one more days of satisfactory disappointment.
y'heard?
if underwhelming unfulfilled expectations is your thing,
then you probably had a pretty mutha-b!tchin' good time.
but that's over and out as of midnight, kids-
so say adios to julio and sh!t, suckas.
july peaces-out into pieces of falling-apart today.
yep.
dismantled and disinitegrated,
disinterested and disastrous.
neighbors,
i'm spending time like a miser,
but i'm spanning it like a counterclockwise turn
of a sunovab!tchin' wrench.
that's that loosening-type jauns, friends.
...for realsies.
my spidery spindlestick arms and legs however,
are reppin' multiple new bulges and bumps.
i choose the wrench in both directions, ninjas.
right action,
rebuilt, from the inside out,
for tighter tolerances and harder styles.
i'm strengthening the tendons and the sinews, son.
i'm focusing the lenses of my perseveration,
and my perseverance on What Is.
you know what that kind of intensive activation engenders?
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
a whip-smart stalwart of worthy warrior poetry!
i doo-doo that.
that's how it works.
building up and breaking down.
decomposing prose and dissecting dialogue,
lifting weight, and waiting for anything uplifting.
awwwww, man.
*
today is the day.
the last one, again.
an empty collection of hours, days, and weeks,
segueing into a furiously fevered full-style moon.
black and blue, yellow and silver,
it's a disappearing bruise,
not yet gone to greener hues
and bleaker pastures;
a fading ache,
still sore, like the memory of prior victories
in the face of perpetual defeat;
a lingering blemish,
the soft, pale scar left by a prom-night pimple.
the last, least exhale- a serpentine death rattle and hum,
a remiss hiss of expelled geas and gasses,
and the ghost takes shape.
the circle in the sky looks down,
and follow-spots a soliloquy by the geist of
woodsly goodness.
limned in gold, and shrouded in quicksilver.
cue exeunt, drop curtain, see you tomorrow.
jeez, guys-
it's all really happening.
and as usual,
that's the whole point.
even when it sucks balls,
and especially when the styles are hard,
there is always more to be had.
*
i'll leave you on a high note, though.
folks,
check the teleport:

wordimus prime!
that's a full-coverage wall-to-wall ball
of sprankles.
it's all i've got,
it's all you get;
never quiet, never soft.....7x23 

every day is like sorbet.

sprankles?
yeah.
sprankles.
that's what's up.
teleport this cup of treats
to the future, ninjas:

yum.
the only good part of yesterday's
rainy, grey, swampy, armpitiful mien?
dessert before dinner.
just what i needed.
it always is, after all.
*
exasperating aspirations?
i got that sh!t on lock.
there are infinite natures,
and there are natural affinities.
i've got a severely hard style when it comes to both.
it seems we're creeping up on another 'nother
fully formed orbital ghost circle in the sky.
you know it, ninjas.
a werewolfen skylight of nighttime nutrients
designed to activate the transformative powers
of brutal berserker battle-beastly savagery.
c'mon.
full moons make for long nights,
and long nights make for hard times,
and both of those lead to little sleep,
less rest,
and the rudest of awakenings.
that's a thing.
today's the day,
and tonight's the night.
there will be more treats,
but that's a story for another time;
never quiet, never soft.....

moths.

we do what we do.
you know how it goes, neighbors:

just be dope,
or F* right off;
never quiet, never soft.....

evaporation.

wouldn't it be great to dissipate
into an ethereal form?
y'know,
get ghost.
a fantastic phantasm,
spectrally spectating behind and in between the scenes?
so a-spooky;
a lucid translucent transparent apparition,
participating without palpable palpitations.
that's a thing.
heck,
ghost or not,
i've got that haunted look going on anyway.
deep dark sleepless circles,
and the tossingest and turniest night after night
after nighty nighttimes,
chock full of curious incidents
and boring dreams.
going bump and banging my head like a
knockin' noggin' of heavy metals and hard styles.
that's heavy metals like lead and mercury-
yep.
those're the lethal ones, y'all.
spirit and memory, non-magnetic,
non-conductive, intangible.
and yet, quantifiable.
just sayin',
what's a ghost, really, anyway?
a recollection that refuses to be relegated to the deepest
darkest reaches of fade away.
i'm just guessing that being an ephemeral being
means you get to feel the very best thing of all-
...nothing.
no obstructions to your passage between rooms,
worlds,
or wherever else you want to go.
not numb so much as untouchable.
not insensate so much as sense-less,
visible only by extrasensory perception,
but not a sixth sense, really.
that kind of extra isn't invited.
more like a lack of the other five.
could be extraneous sensory projection, then?
ghost circles of evaporated essences an' that.
concentric waves of outwardly energetic activation,
dissolving on contact with real life into smoke.
a traveler with no road,
a visitor with no destination,
an emotionless notion of nagging doubts
and unfinished sentences.
that's equal parts poor communication and
communicated life in prison-type jauns.
c'mon.
awwwwwwww, man.
this one has gotten pretty high-concept.
that just means daddy has to have it,
but that just means i've got it coming to me.
*
it's on, neighbors.
it's on like that ellis wyatt sh!t, mutha-'uckers.
recognize.
i am leaving it as i found it.
take over.
it's yours;
never quiet, never soft.....

Schlampe.

the path from bud,
to leaf,
to flower,
to fruit,
is a long and winding road indeed, duders.
that's that stay gold type jauns, y'heard?
however,
the way back home to rot and ruin
is a sh!t-sure shorter hop and skip to the compost pile,
and it's downhill the whole way there.
ripening.
becoming better by being bitter until the sugar kicks in
with sunshine's saving grace.
that's that sweet spot in the middle.
ripeness.
the fulcrum of fruition, quite literally,
is a delicately balanced apogee of real life
and actualized potential.
(look it up)
that's a hard style, neighbors.
the highest point is the farthest away.
i'm watching events unfold,
and developments resolve.
teleport to the garden of original sins, son:

blueber's.
abbrev'd, mutha-b!tches.
i doo-doo that!
you ninjas may see the burgeoning bounty implied
by the first blush of maturity on these darkening orbs of delight.
i am however not delighted.
i am de-lit.
y'know?
the bright bright bright spots have been removed.
awwwwwww, man.
you'd hate that if it wasn't so clever, huh?
i know.
never mind sour grapes and fruits of knowledge of good and evil,
i'm on that anti-oxidant rust-proof ironclad activation!
nutrients in the form of blue balls?
if so,
i'm the healthiest man alive, mutha-lickers.
*
it takes less time to wither than it does to flourish.
that fleet fleet of treats migrates far south of heavenly rays
to hotter-than-heckfiery filth in a matter of days.
the fact that the myriad facets of fertilization factor in
on both ends isn't lost on me.
F*ing is the same as sh!tting is the same as rotting.
they all nourish life, after a fashion...
fertilized by fertilizer?
eventually, the circles come back around again.
infinite potential as a seed, enveloped in mouldering remains
fed by decomposing dead bodies and doo-doo butter.....
pieces of sh!t born of pieces of sh!t borne by pieces of sh!t.
we're in a dark place today, huh?
de-lit.
i told you so;
never quiet, never soft.....

you were worried?

spraaaaaaaanks!
i know you ninjas missed the massive quantities
of hundreds and thousands of rainbow magic
doodie twankles of colored candy cylinders
of extruded prismatic spectrum sparkles.
right?
neighbors,
it took me a few days to get re-activated,
y'know,
to power down cake,
and pie,
and get into the mighty mindset of a marvelous master
of my own stormswept savage destiny...
but i'm back on track,
and back on the attack.
and thus,
the extra fresh nutrients are back in full effect.
check the righteous sugar-powered fruitberry gaysplosions
from the mutha-ucking future, b!tches.
teleport!:

like i said-
spraaaaaaaaanks!
that's short for sprankles.
don't be dumb.
you dig those lavender pastel spranky nutrients.
don't even try to lie.
i figured you were prob'ly having withdrawals.
shivery shakes an' that,
so i've affixed a fix to this featured flavor sh!t.
you're welcome.
the sprank squad, kids.
we run it;
never quiet, never soft.....

good times.

peers.
no,
not like 'looks at intensely intently'.
more like competent capable comrades
of equal value, virtue, and ability.
y'know-
peers.
i like that.
i don't have many.
so the ones i've got,
i enjoy immeasurably.
sorta like this guy right here:

yuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
shawn hebrank.
what's that?
yeah.
actually, as a matter of fact,
he IS the sole summer visitor so far.
huh?
yeah.
i guess that means he wins, kids.
1-0.
now, before you cry foul,
let's be really real-
you've got a chance to tie,
but,
it requires more than just attendance.
sure, showing up is half the battle,
however,
the remainder rests entirely on the squared shoulders
of active participation.
if you can't peer inside yourself,
rise up, over, and above the call of doo-duty,
and sit at the round table with the rest of the
worthy warrior poets....
you should most probably just stay home.
now,
if you've actually got that powerful sauce,
and that pure-being bag of brass balls,
and the will and know-how and follow through
to hang out?
well, c'mon with it, then.
bring the thunder, the noise, and your travelin' A*,
let's get busy, getting busy and getting down to business.
it's all really happening, neighbors.
you're the minky little mincers who're missing it.
Folk Life & Liberty, at present, is accounted as
the sole proprietorship of the fortress of freestanding
freshness right smack dab in the epicenter of
the woodsly mutha-flippin' goodness.
until that changes,
and it certainly seems like it will, eventually-
this spot, this moment, this time,
right here is where the party is.
if you got that sauce,
you're invited;
never quiet, never soft.....

king arthur?

at home,
drawing pictures....
hey neighbors!
it's been a few days of tattbombing and pie eating
and dinner-timing,
and movie going,
and art makey high-concept engineering
from the past via the future.
yuuup.
shawn hebrank and i have had one heck of a time
appreciating the elite expert experience
of working together again,
on yet another 'nother new and exciting project
that propels us into new places, via the teleport:
it may not seem like anything to y'all.
but i assure you,
it's happening, and it's good.
so good, even.
that's a thing.
you only get the sneakiest peek.
the ramblin' road warrior poet took most of it with him
when he headed to points south on his sojourn
to everywhere else.
yep.
most of the goodness left the woods with him.
what can i tell y'all?
he's organized and sh!t,
so it goes wherever he goes,
when he goes wherever he goes,
because that's how it goes.
mini-baby teleport:

uh-huh.
sloppy messes?
it happens.
here's a little bitty bit more,
just for you guys:

men of action, mutha-'uckas.
you know it!!
true stories told truly.
today is the day;
never quiet, never soft.....

chocolate in my peanut butter.

every ingredient,
until it's empty.
uh-huh.
that was the set list of assembly for this one duders.
for real, that's a thing-
what are measured ingredients?
they're for babies and water-drinking seahorses.
worthy warriors of dessert and destruction just
keep throwing everything they've got
onto the fire and into everything they want.
how much of this and that is correct?
well, how about-
whatever's left of the soymilk,
whatever's left of the chocolate chips in those bags,
whatever's not used up yet on that margarine stick,
however many drippy drops are left in the vanilla bottle,
a whole unopened bag of cookies,
a whole entire jar of peanut butter,
a whole holy helluva lot of activation.
too much is the precisely right amount;
and until it's all in there,
and it's all done happening,
shawn stirs it up,
and albie rock keeps adding more sh!t,
and eventually there's no more room for anything
but some expertism, some nutrients,
and some giant sprankles or mini chocolate chips
(interchangeable nomenclature, neighbors. recognize)
that's F*ing teamwork, ninjas.
eleven?
you tell me.
it's like a candy bar with a chocolate cookie underneath it!
teleportational checking account?
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup:

peanut buttery chocolate density.
it's heavy, honey-baby.
like,
pounds and pounds of hard style pounding,
for my face,
and your face,
and even my homeboy todd butler's face.
who?
i just told you- my homeboy.
when a duder comes over for the first time,
i insist on making a positively impressive impression, son.
fancyboy mouth magic for his bellyhole?
yeah.
plus,
we put that soy whippety-whippy-cream-style jauns on top,
AND the microplaned german chocolate shavey-dust, too.
the object is always more, right?
i mean, after all,
we're not complete A*holes-
we're gluttons for woodsly goodness,
and for peanut butts and punishment,
in the form of headaches and cavities.
uh-huh.
we doo-doo that freaky sh!t like a whole squadron
of ferocious raging savage stormswept starving gypsy
refugees from the sh!tty cities and twin cities and everywhere else.
good people,
good food,
good times.
i'm grateful, as always,
for the time i have been given;
never quiet, never soft.....7x22+1!

i've got it like that.

oh, MAN!
i'm so glad that i had a witness.
huh?
shawn hebrank will attest-
i've got that powerful sauce.
duders,
i guess when you gluttonously devour down as much
of the sweet sh!t, every single flippin' evening,
as your favorite worthy warrior poet does-
folks take notice.
the woodlsy goodness is aware of my predilection towards
overdoo-dooing a routine into absurdity,
and it likes that sh!t, son!!
after tuning up some hippie pizza last night,
after a whole entire afternoon of interactive hippie puppets,
just to effectively overdose on patchouli and pit-stains,
and to close out our full-blown hippie sunday like a
ghost circle ouroboros of ingestion and indigestion,
we decided to take it to eleven,
and get ourselves some tie-dyed b&j sorbet.
you know it, you like it, you are not shocked to hear it.
guess what, though, neighbors?
uh-huh.
i had a little surprise waiting for my anticipated arrival.
for really real, neighbors,
those ninjas know how to display their customer appreciation
like an expert virtuous viking panel of dessertly delights.
for serious.
my main man in the scoop shop pulled me aside,
and mentioned he'd had a little somethin' somethin' extra
underway, made especially for the hardest-style hero
of routine and righteously indignant activation.
...and they said being grossly inappropriate would
never ever get me anything or anywhere!
hope you're still reading,
because you wouldn't want to miss this hottness, kids.
check the sensational teleport:

ummm, what's that?
let me shed a little light on it, my ninjas-

WU-TANG!!!
that's a sorbet cake, mutha-F*ers.
with sunovab!tchin' sprankles instead of frosting!!!!
that's gratitude and generosity in full effect,
that's real-time expertism from the future,
that's what the F* i'm talking about!!!
i am super grateful that my predisposition towards

gluttony is fully acknowledged and gratuitously appreciated.
sometimes,
you get one whole entire good day.
...and a free flippin' cake.
but then again,
there's also always today.
awwwwwwwwwww.
nobody leaves with the title, kids;
never quiet, never soft.....

busted bus business.

unshaven sweaty bits,
terrible haircuts,
barefeet,
tassels and tambourines,
all these things sure do help the image out,
but,
hippies just aren't hippies without a fleet of
semi-mobile, slow-moving, brightly painted
parade and protest marching bandwagons.
that's SO a thing.
and those vermonters know it.
an entire school system has less of those steel tubes
of transportational vehicles,
and the plain ol' orangey-yellow ones are waaay
less expert, y'heard?
i got distracted by all the elite action around me,
but i started taking snappy shots of the shuttles.....
alas,
i didn't come close to documenting even half of the
hottness that constitutes the travel/residence/storeroom/
art-shop/stage situation.
it's all about buses.
it's all really happening.
teleport:

in the woods,

in the dirt,

behind a fence,

next to a barn.
two more make up the staging ground for the circus,
another 'nother one is 'the cheap art store'.
just sayin'-
sh!t's dope.
duders,
so many buses.
so many hippies.
so much dopeness.
loud, fresh, hard, tan, smelly and ready to ride.
hippie bus activation?
just one more ridiculously rad thing about
bread & puppet theater.
if you haven't yet been,
now's the time;
never quiet, never soft..... 

alright, get off the bus.

BREAD & PUPPET THEATER.
it gets expert,
it actively participates,
it just be's dope.
neighbors,
i met shawn hebrank in glover, vermont,
and we got rad with the hairiest armpits
and sweatiest dirty ones.
yuuuuuuuup.
watching hard-style hippies take it to eleven
in productivity, politics, performance, protestation,
and stilts, y'all.
don't hate on the stilts.
teleport to the sixties via the future:

you wish you were this dope when you're a million years old.
if you don't like sh!t that's awesome,
you'd hate it in the puppet museum, ninjas.

it's got more stuff in it than a whole day could reveal.
fact.

skeletons in every closet,

skulls on every post and beam.
and that's not even kinda all there is to see, friends.
the possibilitarian circus was off the hinges!

those freebooting free-love duders haaaaaate modern windmills.
that's real.

heads will roll, son!
individual worlds of infinite possibility.
they get it going like that up in the farmy freshness
of the pageant fields.
check out that sky!!!
everything converged at the epicenter of excellence
and we were fortunate enough to enjoy a perfect summer day.
yeah.
it's so good.
...and then,
when it's all been said,
and the last puppets roll off stage right?
there's more, right?
you bet!
you get dragon's-breath nutrient activation
in the form of crusty sourdough rye bread
and garlic aioli with the hottest fire and rawest cloves.

you'd better believe noses aren't helpful in this place.

(sniff-sniff)
kids,
they don't play when it comes to brutality of aroma.
stinky hippies,
garlic bombs,
outhouses,
animal turds,
dirty flippin' diapers,
pits of various arms and legs and torsos.
it's a cacophony of aromas, for sure.
it stinks,
but it sure doesn't suck.
get it?
c'mon.
*
sloppy bottoms?
yuuuuuuuuuup.
hippies hate exercise almost as much as showers and bras.
uh-oh.
that's a surefire sloppy flopper situation.
ah well.
it's all part of the experience.
so inspiring,
so motivating,
so invigorating.
direction y'all.
they've got it, on every level.
and they're headed towards tomorrow
dragging yesterday along for the ride;
never quiet, never soft.....

blew it!

1662.
awwww, man!
that dirty dinner update from earlier was
supposed to be the palindromic paean to
numberwang superiority,
but i just got too excited about my
brutal bellyachin' creation to make mention
of the mighty compositional milestone,
and instead lauded my own gastric distress for your
continued amusement and simultaneous disgust.
so stupid.
but you're welcome.
anyway,
y'know what's actually smart?
yuuuuuuuuuuuup.
sprankles.
my duder fabrizio hooked it up.
teleport:

two scoops of fruity whipped magic,
with ALLthe flippin' rainbow-type jauns underneath,
and candy mouse poops on top.
for real, though, he dumped all the rainbows in the cup,
pre-scoople nutrient overlay an' that,
and further took it to eleven with those rodent dootzles
all over the surface of that strawberry sorbetto jauns...
activated?
you know it, ninja.
not sure i vibe the sad paddle they provide for
gullet-shoveling efficiency.
i'm more of a cone-head in that regard.
wait...
those duders consume mass quantities!
sh!!!!!t.
the evidence supports coneheadery, y'all.
and i've got a pointed dromedary dome underneath
what's left of my hair.
it's all getting clearer, kids.
alien science, from the future.
i GOT they!
*
i'll bet you wish i was showing you some sh!t-hot
superfire sexy tattoos,
instead of sorbet every damn day.
and, well, yeah, for what it's worth-
so do i.
but i'm documenting real life, neighbors.
and on the really real ones and twos?
there's no such thing as that thing.
i do work.
and i reap those objective rewards.
and then i spend those rewards on sweet nothin'.
brightly colored goobieblop drops on cold sugar water.
that's it.
i do tattoos.
true story.
any adjectives you'd prefer i interject will have
to wait by the wayside for awhile.
when i get a shot of some new hottness,
i'll share.
in the meantime,
i'm Galt's Gulch-ing it with this:

boo-YA!
skanky spranks on some real-fruity drank?
yuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
we all want the same thing,
but i'll be damned if i'm negotiating with A*holes.
no way.
not once, not never.
instead,
you get spranks.
slowly but surely removing myself from the story.
a slow fade down a slippery slope into a deep dark hole.
one color-coded candy dot at a time.
it's all really happening,
each and every disappointing minute of it.
true story, as usual;
never quiet, never soft.....

filth.

yuuuuup.
neighbors,
left to my own devices,
i will always choose the wrench.
hard styles and dirty burgers are what's up.
when's the last time you were disgusted with yourself?
a better question would be:
when was the last time i wasn't?
feast your faces on this teleportational activation-
check it:

terra cotta colored cut-off wieners?
uh-huh.
double fatty-boombattie veggie patties?
sure.
hummus to cement that sh!t in place?
that's doo-doo buttery mortar for this building block
of protein power and dietary fiber and that, y'all.
c'mon.
fancy-boy sprouts because i'm gay,
(we call 'em ma nature's pubes over here, son, what!!)
chipotle hot sauce because i'm expert,
and i like that hot smoky fire spit dripping down, around,
and in between my fake meat.
(that's what she said?)
and those new diet-mom-type thin buns
...because i'm anorexic.
wooooooooooord.
sustenance shouldn't always be uplifting.
i'm scratchin' and surviving.
thriving, however,
is an overestimation of my success.
striving, on the other other hand,
is where i'm always at.
y'heard?
why do i do it, duders?
i'm building up an immunity to iocane powder.
you like it;
never quiet, never soft.....

rising. shining.

midnight movie premiers?
yeah.
you're never too old to activate the nutrients
of epic comic book nerd entertainment.
i definitely doo-doo that dark nightly dopeness, duders.
for real.
explosions and sh!t are all i really need to get amped up
about spanning two hours and forty mutha-F*ing minutes
watching the league of shadows beat up on gotham city.
real talk.
i forgot about adults and late night interaction.
the movie was muffled by the giddy giggles of a gaggle
of gagging girls, there to be seen at the scene.
not a lot happens in the woodsly goodness at midnight,
so a chance to sit in a dark theater and watch a big debut
is kind of something that a whole cross-section of youths
need to be present and accounted for i guess.
...and then be seen being drunk and dumb.
nothing says expert like dropping bottle after bottle
of bootlegged beers down the sloping floor of the theater.
...except everything else.
awwwww.
is that what they call ambiance?
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
gaytard explosions of disappointing social interaction.
that's a thing now, i guess.
it was almost refreshing to see folks ruining a movie
with their chatter and bad behavior.
almost.
i prefer a less-covert kid and play combo,
and a more overt conversational debate
with the screen and the actors and the plot,
y'know, like at 'hood movie theaters.
those popcorn-eatin'-A* moviegoers get
loud, fresh, AND hard,
and give zero F*s about the content
or the caliber of dramatic action in a film.
just sayin',
where my 'hood ninjas at?
(they weren't here for the midnight showing, friends)
college-ish age kids,
chubby grubby kevin smith-type black shirted locals,
a couple participants,
a lot of attendees.
by the time it was finally, mercifully finished,
and i made it home to hit they hay,
it was time to get ready for another 'nother full friday
of full-force ferocity at the lonely, homely hot fire furnace
of tattbombing and comedy-hour sadism.
y'know?
no?
i'm tired,
and i'm taking it out on somebody/everybody/anybody.
hard styles, as always, abound.
it's not as easy as it used to be to stay up and out and at 'em
and then jump back up and out and at 'em,
but you know i choose the wrench, right?
whatever, neighbors.
i don't need sleep.
i don't need comfort.
and that's a good flippin' thing too,
because i got none of those jauns at all.
today is definitely gonna be the day!
***********
huh?
oh, yeah.
don't worry.
i'm on it.
total coverage, kids.
wall-to-wall heavy hundreds and molto thousands an' that.
two scoops, thick with the spranks.
why?
because too much is the right amount.
teleport:

more and more and more.
that's what i want,
that's what i've got;
never quiet, never soft.....

five months.

soccer?

yeah.

that happened.

pulled muscles in every direction,

smashed toes at the ends of smashed feet,

wrapped in synthetic form-fitting cleats,

marked my hobbled wobbling off of the perfect pitch.

i get hurt, every single time.

and i never score.

that's the truth.

literally, metaphorically, philosophically.

not anymore.

overall,

my performance was less-than expert.

old legs and crappy knees are hard F*ing styles.

plus,

i don't think it helped very much that my whole entire back 

was criss-crossed and zig-zagged with welts,
sorta like i'd received a healthy dose of dreadful
old-time belt-strap discipline.
yuuuup.

raised red strips of sore semi-spotty raw skin!!

i looked like a recently recaptured runaway from

the free-labor department, circa 1840...

oh, c'mon.

i'll say this, though, neighbors;

today, 

that tract of torso is baby's bottom smoooooooth.

that's it, duders.
i got my first professional depilatory hot wax treatment!

rip. rip. rip. rip.

i'm so vain, i'm betting that this blog is about me.

haha.

***********

fancy pizza after sports?

absolutely.

nutrients from the future after fancy pizza?

don't be dumb.

teleport:

once again, mutha-F*ers!!!!

sprankles.

wu-TANG!!

a hallowed halo of holy deliciousness.

art shot chiaroscuro jauns.

fancy.

i am not afraid to eat that sh!t every muthaflippin' day.

no, but for real though.

every single day.

*

the events that unfold from within the secret universal plan.

the bellowing minor keys of discordant doo-doo butter

from the accordion-file portfolio of portents and premonitions.

the really realness of real life.

it's all really happening.
midnight batman movie jauns?
yuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
smallish screens and local flavor,

active participation and entertainment,

long nights, hard times, and popcorn.

taking separation of love and marriage,

or friends and substitutions,

of five blistering months of shriveled soulmate status,

to eleven.

it has to hurt if it's to heal;

never quiet, never soft.....

in-betweens.

a little work,
a little play,
a little baby bit of coffee-shop socializing,
a whole lot of driving,
a small spattered smattering of smoothie,
and a dinner with 'the dudes'.
full, hard, long, hot, wet, rainy,
lightning-striking viking ventures and adventures
from the woodsly goodness to the water's edge,
all mutha-flippin' dang day long.
duders,
i hung out like a social butterfly,
but i kept it real just like a moth.
you know.
i hit up the whole spectrum of vacationary possibilities.
riverside tanning,
foresty hiking,
tax-free shopping,
tattoo shop cussing and fussing,
frappuccino sipping,
chit-chatting,
under-the-awning-in-a-rainstorm smoothie drinking,
showing off my flaming sleeves, ahem, my firearms, i mean.
c'mon.
dinner for eight, at eight, with eight separate checks....
yeah.
that happened.
swipey-card-carrying robot-moneyed young'uns
have to make things more complicated for the sake
of simplifying their own conveniences.
a posse of young men stuffing chimichangas down their faces,
and my sad bean tacos getting shoveled down mine.
ahh, the joys of membership in a group of self-discovering males.
nothing says 'approachable' like a gang of randy youths,
and one grey-haired old monster-man,
hanging out on the town,
getting loud and fresh,
and repping the hardest styles.
that's just a thing i guess....
***********
so,
neighbors,
maybe you've heard about how i get expert?
y'know, how i actively find new ways
to travel to the future, like a pioneer of participation
in it's purest sense, right?
yuuuuuuuuup.
teleport, mutha-F*ers:

yes, that's a smoothie
...with SPRANKLES!!
boo-ya, b!tches.
my people in the industry will put those spranks on anything!
i've got the power like that.
oh, SNAP!.
get it?
it's cool,
that one was for the adults.
frosty beverages and thick straws.
a recipe for frozen brains and hard suckin'.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

you shut your mouth-

how can you say
i go about things the wrong way?
i am human,
and i need to be loved-

just like everybody else does.
*
it takes a hella long time to find enough smashed glass,
cracked-up crockery, and pottery shards
to fill up the empty space inside of a heart.
it looks patchworked, piecemeal, shattered,
and let's not refrain from noting,
no matter how smootherized by abrasive flow the edges get,
it's still broken glass,
and that has it's own set of timeworn 'with-care' handling rules.
rocks and refuse and refugee recycling attempts,
coupled together to crudely craft a carefully collected
riverwater and firewater valentine-type love-note,
written in tetanus and microbacterial sepsis
and the shipwrecked remains
of prior engagements and previously alleviated good times,
filled with the drowned flotsam of drowned sorrows,
in the middle of nowhere,
and to no one in particular.
without the photograph,
it never happened, y'know?
and even that only exists in a robobotronic digital ether.
awwwwww.
so,
if the symbol gets washed away before tomorrow,
in tonight's swollen currents and rainy rising water levels,
what's the symbolism of that?
it never happened?
it never mattered?
it gets washed out to sea,
fragmented and forgotten about,
under the salty tiers of an ocean of salt tears.
dark?
a little.
-
so you go and you stand on your own,
and you leave on your own,
and you go home, and you cry,
and you want to die.
-
and that's not too far off, really.
metaphors, neighbors.
i like 'em a lot.
sitting on a shoal.
sitting apart from any signs of people,
in the middle of a river,
making transitory monuments to broken hearts
and hopeless romanticism.
and that's almost exclusively for your benefit, kids.
yuuuuup
-
see,
i've already waited too long,
and all my hope is gone.
-
today is the day,
and it's all really happening.
how soon is now?
never quiet, never soft.....
...yeah.
so i'm trying new things.
go easy.
inspirationally derivative, you say?
no sh!t.
but if you can't hang out with morrissey,
you're probably an A*hole.
just sayin'.

crestfallen.

today will be different.
y'know why?
because today is the day.
i powered up my evening with important ingredients.
well, to be a bit more specific,
i really just added those heroic specks of spectacular color.
y'know: sprankles.
...of course.
but i also doubled down on the scooples of frozen freshness.
two kinds of berries for my face?
what am i?
an A*hole?
possibly, but i'm an A*hole with twice as much treats!!
(i needed a bigger cone, it was provided)
teleport towards my only sweet spot:

yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup!!!
my new frozen dessert-dispensing homeboy,
fabrizio,
even gave me a side order of spranks,
in their very own special container.
seems i've made an impression on the local scoopers.
now, all my spots get it poppin' immediately upon entry.
who'd have guessed the tall, dark, deeply soulful face
of a yeti monsterman would have that effect?
oh, c'mon.
preemptive activation, though?
that's expert.
that's what's up.
and that's how it happens in the woodsly goodness.
weirdest fish meets smallest pond.
interactive participation ensues.
*
raining?
looks like it.
good thing it isn't ruining my day off though.
huh?
oh,
i mean, because, like, what the F* is a day OFF?!
it's on like king donkey honkey dong kong.
or somethin'.
i'm working!
grands do NOT come for free, neighbors,
and movie checks need to keep the funds in check,
even more so than the teleport maintenance check, son.
awww.
i got a car repair scenario trying to F* my A*.
i got a decline in structural integrity,
and a drought on liquid assets.
hard styles,
rough patches,
dry spells,
it's ALL really happening.
do work, son;
never quiet, never soft.....7x21...147!!

just one thing goes right.

hey kids.
it's a muggy monday in the mountains.
the sun is out behind a haze of ozone
and the water vapor in the air is a misty moist
runaway bridal veil of skin-sticking clamminess.
gross.
y'know what's worse?
everything else.
except the influxed glut of ice creameries in the area.
that's better than ever.
another 'nother new kind of
fruit sweet icy sugarconical sprankle sh!t?
you know.
check the repetitive teleport:

very berry, very delicious, very necessary.
bright spots?
not exactly.
it was raining on my spranks.
well, spranklin' on my spranks anyway.
***********
anybody out there still read this thing regularly?
no?
oh.
well anyway, for those casual scanners
and periodic perusers who DO browse this grousing
gripe-filled folio of fury, frenzy, failure,
and fleeting flights of fanciful frailty-
i think it's been fairly obvious that the semi-private
personal personnel issues affecting the infrastructure
of the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress have not been
going very well.
hmmm.
understatement?
yuuuuuuuup.
real talk and true stories and accessible tales
of tragic-traditional human suffering?
i GOT they!
but,
it's kind of catching up with me.
in addition to the toll it's taken through attrition,
and contrition,
the conditions of positive proactive participation
and real-time reconciliation are neatly nearing nonexistence.
but what kind of worthy warrior poet just gives up?!
no kind, obviously.
quitters and bed-sh!tters aren't worthy.
c'mon.
never give up.
that's a thing.
never say die.
that's a goonies thing.
never say never.
that's james bond, i think?
never ever, though, yo, under any circumstances,
do we let the weak-sauce tidal waves wreak wreck on
on the promises made and freely given.
that's noble barbarian bard's honor-type jauns.
know what you want,
say what you mean,
do what you say.
y'know, just be dope.
that's it.
the alternative is to F* right off,
and that sure sounds an awful lot like quitting to me.
sometimes,
fighting the good fight seems hopeless,
an uphill battle, even.
the match-up is awfully awful,
and unanimously one-sided,
the odds stacked immeasurably against you.
too often, actually.
and sometimes things DO just fall apart.
i know that.
but not these things, ninjas.
and not these times.
i'll admit a loss when i'm outplayed,
i'll even concede defeat in a fixed game,
but i'll never take a loser's walk
in a forfeit by the other team, somehow counting against
my long-standing outstanding upstanding good standing.
i'm going down swinging, at least.
trying to swim against the currents,
saving nothing for the way back again.
routed, overrun, defeated,
but i'll be goddamned if i don't die tryin'.
what else is there?
*
i've overdone it again and again in every direction,
over-the-top extravagance,
top-of-the-line interactive introspection,
appreciation, accusation,
grand gestures of savagery and sentiment by the yearful...
too much IS the right amount, right?
but what happens when goin' to eleven isn't enough?
awwwwwwwww, man.
what gets bigger the more you take away?
a hole.
what stays empty the more you put in it?
a black hole.
...
...i'm a hole, growing in proportion
to match the mass of what i've lost and continue to lose...
well,
i'm physically smaller, and a whole lot harder,
but i've expanded my sphere of perception to
include the blind spots, dead zones, and ghost circles
of the wrought wrongs and righted writings from
my transient halo of spirit and memory.
oh, man, what am i?
i'm a hole.
hell,
maybe even an A*hole;
sh!tting out my guts, my frustrations and my elations,
my present privations, prior predations,
and pursuant providences for inculcation
to a sensationally insensate blackened version.
holy sh!t.
that's a hard style, y'all.
good thing no one reads this anymore.
open letters to the big empty expanse of entropy
inside of this house make for x-ray escapes
from the suckiest suction of that same vacuum..
it takes hearts to make homes, neighbors.
it takes work to make it work.
nothing good can come of any of this,
and so far,
nothing has.
self-improvement is self-destruction.
by the time y'all get where i'm standing,
i'll be gone.
i make moves,
but you just move on;
never quiet, never soft.....

harder.

sundays get harder and harder, y'all.
probably because saturday nights are so live.
after a doo-doo buttery day of tattbombing,
it takes a special something to pull up and out
of the nosediving plummet that accompanies
the good ideas and great people that compose
prose of a whole day's worth of true stories.
good and great being completely subjective values.
obviously.
it's getting easier to smooth over the rough patches.
all it takes is sugar, and fruit, and cold.
you know it.
if i can get positive, y'all duders can appreciate it-
you can check the teleport:

sprankles, ninjas!
lemonade sorbet is pure citric acidity!
bitter sourpuss frozen bellyache punishment
in a cup, with a cone!
the rainbow gritty bits are the essential element in
nighttime hangout-style active participation.
hanging out, munching up, talking to strangers.
i don't think the friendly folks from this forest realm
really get it though.
i'm talking like a competent, clever, coherent
captain of his own cognizance,
and they're smiling and nodding and blank-stare hoping
i'll stop forming syllables sooner than later.
is that ever very likely?
nope.
fightning the good fight, on a saturday night,
seated in a polychrome polymer adirondack chair,
looking up, whilst things continue to look grim.
hard styles abound and persist.
***********
compliments and insults,
general genial, menial, and demeaning observations.
listening sucks balls.
no, for real though.
because if you're listening,
you can't help but hear some things, kids.
and i hear 'em all.
that's the penalty for paying attention i guess.
what do i mean?
oh, i'm getting to that, don't you worry-
throughout this week,
i was told a few vastly differing casual/offhand
descriptive assessments of and about myself, by others.
that's true.
it started out pretty encouragingly,
and took a turn fairly early on.

...
neighbors,
a professional interpreter of the human mind told me
i'm 'obviously brilliant'.
that's pretty flippin' expert.
it might even be true.
i don't know though, yo.
he is a pro. that counts for something.
later,
a pair of hot-yet-b!tchy b!tches (of course)
made mention of their certainty that i am
'definitely NOT a genius.'
uh oh.
that's a severe step down from the compliments
carried over from the previous 24 hour period.
i'm not sure of their qualifications, truth be told,
but pretty girls get over most of the time.
is that all?
when is it ever?
over snacks at work the next day,
half of that team of sniping harpies took it up another 'nother notch
with some unsolicited cataloging of my finer coarse qualities.
yup.
this stylish, tasty young ladyfriend of ours reaffirmed
that i'm actually more accurately not only NOT a genius,
but also really just tricking people into thinking so
because i'm loud and abrasive.
and also (this was later on) cocky with low self-esteem.
is that a thing?
it happened, that's for sh!t-sure.
that's one hell of an analysis, right?
uh-huh.
i had thought that the week was in a decaying orbit way earlier,
back when i first lost the illusion of my previously obvious brilliance,
but we went into full-collapse atmospheric re-entry
meteor-impact dinosaur-extinction meltdown mode,
to eleven, even,
in the prime hours of last evening, for the win.
does it get better?
only because it gets worse-
(and you know how i know how to tell a story, neighbors)
last night, sitting outside the franchised,
name-brand ice cream parlor,
with a witness, even-
a little boy bounced out of the doors with an ice cream cone
and a hard-style opinion, with extreme naive innocence,
and extreme nutrient-depleting destructive force.
with a big grin on his big head,
looking dead ahead at me,
with unconcerned conscious conscienceless eye contact,
glanced up at his parents and back again at me,
and then said:
'look mom! a MONSTER!!!!'
real talk.
no.
there wasn't some other explanation.
no giant lizards, man-eating horrors, vampires, just me.
he was smiling, so i'm probably a friendly monster;
that's positive, no?
still,
i wondered (hoped) if their last name was henderson.
i saw that movie, y'heard?
maybe they'd take me home is all i'm sayin'.
awwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.
saturday did not get it in, guys.
not at all.
and now it's sunday morning.
take it easy?
i'll take what i can get,
where i can get it,
wherever i find it.
it's all really happening.
true stories, told truly,
with love,
from me, to you;
never quiet, never soft.....

going hard, staying hard, in style.

shirtsleeves?
no way, duders.
we went full-on sideless to celebrate
the sexiness of friday the thirteenth.
that's real.
complete with short-sleeve stocking-style cap,
and brand new activated sweatshorts.
wait a minute.....
that sounds like jocktard A*hole gear!
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
the woodsly goodness has a big lawn in the middle of it.
it's even got a name-
schouler park.
that is the spot where pretty all the centrally celebrated sh!t
that gets poppin' in the mount washington valley goes off.
it's what all y'all would call the village green.
plenty of people,
plenty of kids, dog, frisbees, y'know-
an expert interactive social environment for people
to hang out and about within and on.
...and also for really real ninjas to get rad at.
what's that?
who gets rad?.
a better question would be:
who plays wet grass barefoot futbol?
i doo-doo that.
mini soccer has mini goals and a tiny ball,
and it is designed to hurt you.

ouch.
splintered shins,
stubbed toes,
skinned knees,
grassburns,
all that.
neighbors,
friday night was pretty tight.
young duders, 2/3rds my age, hanging out,
gettin' sweaty, being seen, being scene.
that's retroactive youthful exuberance.
i'm old and busted, but i'm not dead and gone.
until then?
it's all really happening.
occupational space and time spanning;
never quiet, never soft.....

i've got my lucky machete.

awwwwww.
no pictures again?
you may as well stop reading now,
you attention deficit spenders.
-
duders,
it's friday the thirteenth!
another one!!
a jinxy link to the misfortunes and woes,
worries, and crestfallen failures of super-duper
superstitious mother's-back-crackin',
black-cat-napping path crossing, and general
malaise-ridden midden heaps of bad news,
worse tidings, and hardest styles.
huh?
unlucky??
i don't know.
it's either not-casual friday,
or it's sleeveless-sideless friday.
i've got a necktie and a scissors and i'm not sure
which one has the power to pump this day past ten
on a scale of one-to-then,
and take the 13th to XI.
y'know?
just sayin', neighbors-
i'll totally slice and dice the arm-ends of a t-shirt to activate
those heavy-metal nutrients the sides restrain.
but,
i'll also button up and batten down a three-piece linen suitably suited sensation
IF i can be convinced with guarantees as to it's efficacy in
realation to ensuring the probability of having relations.
and i know it's all relative,
especially since the only people who ever attempt to relate to me
are relatives.
not like that.
but still.....
***********
sometimes,
the hardest part is softening up.
i'm a warrior poet.
i compose prose and verse in the form of conflicting emotions,
combative and competent communication,
and hard-style hardline absolutes.
weak saucy namby-pambies can't hang out with that.
i'm choosing wrenches, getting tight,
and turning my sh!t clockwise towards that loud forward
progress-type participation.
but,
what happens when all there are are diaperbabies?
you can't discuss philosophy with a newborn, my ninjas.
the disparity between purposes is orders of magnitude off
from the tenets of worthy real life interoverreaction.
i mean,
eat, sh!t, sleep, suck.
that's all those duders got.
it's a metaphor, but that really happened though.
thinking ahead puts you in the future.
that's time travel,
and even jason voorhees got in on that space-time business.
ahhhh.
you get it.
(friday the thirteenth, kids, try to keep up)
on the ones-
i'm not standing above anybody.
i'm just a tall order of true stories getting perceived
as a high horseplaying tall tale tailor.
it's all really happening.
i'm just looking around so i don't miss it.
i'm not talking down, y'all.
i'm speaking straight ahead,
but just a few inches, feet, and maybe even miles,
over the domes of these duders.
comprehensive comprehension is key.
so how does a elusively elucidating eloquent interlocutor
soften his style enough to be understood?
i'm sayin'.
hard water gets conditioners, yeah?
yeah.
so what kind of creamy leave-in smootherizer butter
is there to make hot fire spit gets spat
at tolerable temperatures?
y'know-i'm pretty sure fire stays hot,
styles stay hard,
and only soft goods get stake whilst real mutha-flippers stay fresh.
or is that inaccurate?
dumbing down and smartening up,
the words to the wise from the worthy and vice versa
are the essential element of really real life,
and the prime component of grasping and taming and retaining
the beautiful big action of Folk Life & Liberty.
that's the word.
the question is:
is today the day,
or are the compositional constituent bits and pieces about to get
jinxed, hexed, befuddled, and bebothered?
i doubt i'm gonna get lucky,
but maybe i'm gonna be fortunate;
never quiet, never soft.....

diversionary antics.

finding ways to be the opposite of
productive and progressive.
some folks are better at it than others.
i mean,
i know ninjas who work harder and harder and longer
and never get one footstep ahead of where they started.
they're better at undoo-dooing sh!t, i guess.
however,
after my very busy busted and unsatisfying tuesday,
i found myself determined to idly span an expanse
of time by only doing inconsequential activities.
i drank a big vat of iced tea at the coffee shop.
nobody sat near me, and nobody gave a sh!t....
except the quartet of F*-bags walking around shirtless
on a sunny summer day along the main street of my
idyllic, idiotic village.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
tank top? gross.
sleeveless? gross.
sleeve/sideless? worse than gross!
shirtless, sunglasses, fake white rapper tattoos,
aggro man-walk and backwards hat? SO gross.
duders,
put a shirt on. nobody likes that sh!t.
okay, well, maybe greasy young skanks like that sh!t,
but seriously,
we all know you're walking so hard because
you lost your license being a drunken A*hole.
awwwwww.
haha.
yeah.
after my skinshow,
i had a pretty flippin' expert pizza with my buddy eric.
uh-huh.
a power lunch date with my homeboy,
and a cilantro-infused tomato basil 'zza with roasted corn?
i'm about those jauns, y'all.
neighbors,
y'know what goes great with digestion?
mother-in-laws.
no, for real.
i stopped by her house to squeeze out a steady stream of
emergency, can't-wait, hot, wet, golden peepee sauce,
and it turned out it was her berfday!
happy flippin' berfday, right?
so a brief civil somber chat was thoroughly enjoyed
to the capacity it was capable of being so,
and then it was time to activate the next three hours
like a much younger, stronger, faster poet of war and peace-
fuuuuuuutbooooooool!!!!
soccer is the wednesday way, friends.
running around, hurting myself, and my team,
and everybody's feelings?
heck yes, yo.
that's the way it's done.
so that's the way i do it.
after getting my right foot off on the wrong foot,
crushed and cracked, and swollen like a hoof,
i hobbled home to the Fortress to further damage myself-
and after a bachelor burger and a batch of bitchery,
my friend came over for an after-dark, after-work
late night-type slice of delicious chocolate pie.
i am capable of being surprised.
not often, but it happens.
20 yr. old girls aren't known for being that surprising,
but our buddy sweet de is pretty good.
then again, i'm shallow, and she's not ugly, at all,
and i've been known to take what i can and leave the rest.
at least somebody likes my bakey treats an' that.
just sayin',
i did a minimal modicum of applicable participation,
and at the end of the night,
which was technically the start of today,
i had sore legs, a heavy head, a full belly,
and dehydration diarrhea.
every single day can't be a woe-wallowing hollow one.
it's true.
sometimes,
just being busy is better than getting busy.
light action,
hard styles,
short sleep,
long nights.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

ten-year life span?

neighbors.
friends.
duders.
you guys like symbolism?
i do too.
here's an analogous metaphor of symmetry
and circles and cycles.
it's all really happening.
teleport:

uh-huh.
that's me, duders.
get it?
c'mon.
look closer.

yuuuuuuuuuuuup.
a grotesque, monstrous nightmare husk.
a simulacrum of a still-living, breathing single-purpose
creature from the deep dark depths of the earth.
an afterimage leftover from an evolutionary adaptation.
the animus has left the shell, though, kids.
that's a thing.
ugly on the outside, empty on the inside.
holy sh!t, y'heard?
you can see right through it.
and yeah,
i guess the whole point is to leave the old life behind,
and move on to flying high and mating like a master,
but i'm the old life, duders.
...and that's what's up.
sorry, y'all.
i'm kind of going through something.
real-life documentarianism.
true stories, told truly.
all that stuff;
never quiet, never soft.....141

joy?

duders,
i had a busy day!
i broke my lawnmower,
so i've got a half-mowed lawn;
i did the teentsiest tattoos,
but they took up half of my day off-
that's the price you pay for trying to be 'nice'.
(those ninjas finish last);
i hooked up some mexican magic at my favorite
ethnically-pretend atmospherically inclined
restaurant in the area.
i got up super early,
hit up the grossness of the grocery store,
at just-opened/mostly-empty o'clock,
and gathered the goodly 'gredients to greedily 
engage in some active participation that just
had to happen for everybody's future faces!
oh, yes, i did....
more pie, for your eyes?
yuuuuuuuuuuup.
teleport:

coconut, almond, chocolate, sugar.
that's almond joy, right?
right.
except, what the F* is joy, ninja?!
shut up.
a big fat crunchy-topped circle of treats, yo.
i'm luring all the hungry ladies to my lair with
fancy crumbs and fancier fire-kissed toasted
versions of the most nutty of those tasty nutrients.
toasted almonds?
dooooooooope.
toasted coconut?
expert.
neighbors,
there was no shortage of things to do on my
action-item list, y'all.
i still found the time to hang out after dark with some
good guys from the realm of soccer and situationally
appropriate young man interactive camaraderie.
teddy and thatcher, friends.
they know that sprankles are the answer:

c'mon.
i deserve it.
but that was just a blip on the timeline.
a bitty baby bright spot,
snuffed out as soon as the last bottom most tip
of that sweet sorbet sugarcone got bitten.
just sayin',
really real men do really real things.
like what else?
uhhh, like,
pack and organize ten years' worth of sh!t.
arrange and separate his from hers,
and laugh out loud at the idea of ours.
awwwwwwwwwwwwwww.
losing isn't the same as giving up,
is it?
lost time, lost wages, lost things, kids.
an infinite expanse of lost things.
i don't think that a slice, or even a whole entire pie
would or could be up to the challenge of
filling in the blanks between before and after.
the only thing left is the now.
and right now,
today is another 'nother day.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....7x20!!!

keep-awaylienated.

druids?
i don't know, y'all.
i mean.
some sort of shamanic fire-spit sh!t
has definitely been on the morning's agenda,
but mostly just to get woodsly and goodsly
and activated with barbarian sentimentalism.
i don't think i'm summoning any sacred spirits,
or invoking the evocations that create protection
from the bad mojo, ju-ju, vibes and jinxes that
permeate the ephemeral ether in between
here an elsewhere.
more like,
i have a drill and some twine and an idea
about what represents that savage stormswept 
windcatching driftwoodsly decor-type jauns,
and i've got the nimble spindly spider-fingers to 
make that sort of thing happen.
y'know?
so, no, no druids are getting overlapped in burlap
while i get busy being a bearded weirdie all by my lonely.
yeah.
so anyway,
this is where the teleport gets checked:

nature makes it, water breaks it, 
we collect it from it's forsaken resting place at the river's edge,
and then activate it, neighbors.

speaking of,
i'm sure my neighbors love 'em.
who wouldn't want some sticks and vines dangling like
lead weighted anchors around their property values.
awwwwwwwww.
that's what happens when i haven't got a woman's touch to
temper the tempests of temptation when the feeling hits me.
uh-huh.
5am braiding bits of burl and beads?
i doo-doo that early bird's eye stuff.
and i like it.
***********
every day is the same.
it's THE day.
the big action bigshot crapshoot 
for worth and value and expertism.
it's always happening.
even now;
never quiet, never soft.....

skipping beats.

awwwwwwwww, man!
duders,
my big fun vacation week with my kids
is drawing to a close even as i type.
harvest and maple head back home,
courtesy of my livery services,
this very morning,
in just a few hours as a matter of fact.
lame.
we packed the week to the tippity-top
with super-fun family togetherness
and fatherly know-how,
and active participation.
...and fireworks, neighbors-yeah.
don't forget about those orchestrated, socially included,occluded,
clouded over bright spots in the rain.
that happened, after all.
an almost-expert expression of celebratory jubilation.
*
little-ish girls growing up and getting bigger,
spanning time in the woodsly goodness with
the spirits and memories of their whole short lives
as the overall atmosphere of the Fortress falls through,
like a jar with a lit candle being capped with a lid.
it uses up what's there,
and extinguishes itself for the effort.
no oxygen, no light, y'all.
a used-up and burnt-out smoke ring,
winding it's way inside a vacuum
like an opposite and unequal echo of what was.
5am, sunday.
how much does that suck?
i skipped yesterday,
and give y'all this as a consolation prize?
feel consoled?
i'll bet;
never quiet, never soft.....

'cakes II

panniecakes are pretty flippin' good
as a treat for your face in the morning,
but personal participation cakes are expert
doses of dopeness for when the sun goes down.
duders,
me and my two special girls got rad on some 'cakes.
doublecakes, even.
like,
our cups were half full....
of cake, y'heard?
then we beat down all the leftover pessimism
with leavening agents,
and our spirits and our crumb both rose.
and then,
in order to bring the thunder just a wee bit more,
we filled the other other half with frosting.
and now our cups runneth over, kids-
teleportational checking is in order:

yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
we doo-doo that fancy pantsy sh!t, y'all.
freeze-dried, powdered real raspberries
all up in the mixer with the sugar and flour?
yes.
we made purplish batter for our big action, b!tches.
that's that raspberry cake business!
with power-whipped white frosting from the future,
and double-boiler raspberry chocolate ganache
specifically for that black and white and double drizzle,
and then a boo-ya pinch of dried raspberries on top.
it's exactly that little touch of pink sparkle magic
twinkle-dusted across the tippity-topmost spots
that activates the expert nutrients we celebrate up here.
see?

why do we do it?
because we go to eleven as a matter of fact and action.
just sayin',
cakes are what's up, ninjas.
*
it matters.
the little something extra.
the from-scratch, by hand,
on purpose-with purpose stuff.
making pictures or making food or making moves.
we commit completely to the idea that eleven
on a scale of one-to-ten,
is the only level worth taking it to.
just being dope, morning to night,
with my daughters, with myself,
and with the express intention of taking something out
on everyone/thing/where else around me.
surround sound symbolism,
with sprankles and blops and drips and drabs.
we do it, because it's what we do.
***********
ugh.
it's a full day, today.
today is the day.
the fullest one, even.
tattbombing and zip-zapping on some fresh-ish jauns?
maybe.
working hard for the movie checks?
you know it, neighbors.
it's all really happening,
and it's powered by cakes;
never quiet, never soft.....