costumescence

more!

that's what today is about.

if you can't be about it,

be somewhere else,

because it's SO going to eleven today.

uh-huh.

appalachian moonshinin' pioneer activation?

oh, sure thing, kids.

i GOT they.

check the porch-settin' drawler, via teleport, y'all:

c'mon.

C'MON!

that's one hard-styled handsome homesteader right there.

complete with rocking chair and all.

huh?

yeah. 

that's a G-darn union suit, son.

is it wrong that i own all those articles and items in non-costume form,

and just put 'em all together to make something better?

no way, ninja.

it's all about improvising and 

i looooooooove Hallowe'en!!!

real hard, even.

there are destined to be several costume changes throughout the day.

...that's a thing.

i've got the day off of work,

i've got the need for sugary treats in my face,

and i have to get some black nail polish for later.

i can't promise that everyone is gonna have a good time today,

but i assure all y'all,

it won't be due to my lack of participation.

uh-huh.

there will be much more documentation to follow.

today is the day.

all day.

until my teeth rot out or i pass out, or both,

i'm humpin' beehives and choosing wrenches until tomorrow.

....and don't EVEN get me started on tomorrow.

hahahahahaha.;

never quiet, never soft.....

tricks and treats.

Happy Hallowe'en!!!!
that's right duders,
it's happening.
and as always,
it's dope.
will there be tricks?
i hope so.
are there any treats?
c'mon.
don't be dumb.
check the teleport:

yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
mini-choco-chips are living inside those jauns.
and fancy vanilla bean dusties, too.
little black speckles of hottness, and baby brown blops of freshness
and then all that orange-colored sugar-activated frosting on top.
and then all those expert-A* sprankles.
son!!!
for realsies, i take my holiday desserts verrrry seriously.
i get it poppin', and i get it going on, because i'm popular and i get it on.
trick!!
haha.
on the ones, though, yo-
it's the last day of october,
and categorically the most rad day, too.
neighbors,
i'm not about to let a spooky sh!t-salad life F* up a damn good thing.
it's Hall-O-flippin'-we'en, ninjas.
bats and black cats and ghouls and goblins and ghosts and mummies and witches
and monsters of all shapes and sizes,
and treats ALL over the sunovab!tchin' place.
it's dope.
...like i said already.
it bears repeating, though,
because it's a big fun batch of dressed-up mess-ups and hard-style make believe.
if you can't hang out,
you are certainly an A*-hole.
fact.
it's all really happening. pretending, on purpose, to be something we're not.
because today is the day,
and for just this once,
i get to do what everyone else does all the time.
backhanded pumpkin-slaps, y'all.
i'm on it;
never quiet, never soft.....

mischief night.

tonight, neighbors-
i expect all y'all to be out amongst the cars and buildings,
creating unrest and fomenting disquiet in the name of deviltry and deviousness.
late night darkness-aided fullish moon scampering rascal jauns.
like, whatever scamps do.
you know:
pulling pranks.
writing on glass with soap.
putting toothpaste on the underside of doorhandles,
lighting poop on fire on doorstops and running away,
crank calling heavy breathing-style,
shaving cream bombing,
toilet paper mummifying,
throwing rotten applesauce at passing vehicles (it's an egg substitute, dummy)
and generally creating minor disturbances of an impish goblin spirited nature.
it's mischief night, ninjas.
and that's dope.
also sort of dope?
uh-huh.
hallowe'en tattoos.
once a year, i get a little bit busy on my friend meredith.
she only gets hallowe'en-themed tattoos, yo.
this year she wanted a plumpy dumpling of a witch with the thickness.
for serious.
check the teleport:

yuuuuuuuup.
someday, i'll do tattoos with background.
but not today.
*
truth be told,
(and it always is)
i'm plenty under the weather.
not sick like germs and sh!t,
but broken by some other other dirty business.
if the rambling rants from yesterday didn't clue you into that tidbit,
you most likely didn't read 'em.
ummm.
yeah.
i guess full moon crazy person activation is going to eleven these days.
my favorite season, my favorite holiday, and i'm kind of not feeling it.
the tainted unsainted days that follow seem to be weighing a little heavily on my head.
maybe i should get used to it?
...
i'm so not getting used to it.
there's rain up here. no perfect maelstrom. no end of days assault.
it IS very wet, though.
and that's uncomfortable.
discomfort is the name of the game.
*
go break some sh!t, kids.
it's mischief night;
never quiet, never soft.....7x36

wolf eyes.

duders,
i wish i had some pictures to show you.
but,
everything is gray and busted and hidden behind a haze of chiaroscuro chalkiness
blanketing the blaze orange oak leaves that have lingered past their expiration date.
uh-huh.
check it out-
the whole of the woodsly goodness is on danger alert.
like,
off the charts, to eleven, panic-mode sh!t-flipping-the-F*-out style.
all the bread and water in the valley is gone.
to the homemade prisons of fearful 'fraidycats who for some strange reason
need sandwiches when the weather turns frightful.
bread and water is incarceration food, i've always thought.
maybe they don't even know they're doing it wrong?
(the problem with always encouraging too much as the right amount
is that i'm consistently overestimating everyone, by accident, on principle)
anyway,
the shelves are cleared out, and the streets are ghostly empty.
it hasn't started raining yet,
but a great wall of gaseous water and whim and wrath is feeling it's way up
across the mountainous girdle of granite protection
that wraps itself around the woodsly goodness.
ew, it's so dirty.
...and it's comin'.
what do i find far more interesting than a little rough weather?
nobody remembers that it's also a full moon.
that's the real deal righteous danger zone stuff, mango.
magnetic polar activation from space is adding it's essence to these insults
and injuries that seem to have my other other neighbors at a loss for decisive direction.
surround-sound stormswept savage gyspy werewolf monster-mash-up jauns
can't be battled or bargained with.
a thick soup of misty clouds concealing the luminescence can't redirect the rays.
just because you can't see it, kids,
doesn't ever mean it isn't there.
the fog banks and wind gales aren't much of a bother-
it's the no-sleep silver of a sterling wolfen moon that has me worried, y'all.
i can feel it, guys.
like, blood science or something.
anticoagulant transformative disease, a tricky tantric temper tantrum,
a traumatic thaumaturgical metaphor for bad tempers and hard styles and worse times.
and for sure, son, it's ALL really happening.
a toxic cocktail of comingled commensurate commiserate misery.
a roiling, boiling, toiling, troubling bubbler of undesirable deeds and dates,
and feats, and defeats, and foibles.
on the real,
it's a perfect storm all right:
the end of october,
the samhain hottness of all hallow's eve,
all the tricks, the absence of treats,
and the impending upheaval of no-thank-you-vember.
awwwww, man!
that's no jokes, folks.
today is the day.
battling heavens, hidden circles in the sky,
eyes of the storm in wolf form,
and savage barbarian battle-beast ferocity in the air around me.
blowing those winds of war, and change, and unenviably answerable questions,
directly at my own fanged and fur-lined F*ing face.
i'm howling at the sky, i'm howling at the moon, i'm howling for a year's worth of
hard times and empty nights.
there's a storm coming, for sure, and it isn't comprised of rain drops, either.
wolf's paw watermarks, bloodstained bits of tooth and nail,
the distilled essence of animal ultra-electro-magnetics,
in magenta and crimson,
and a deluge of biblical proportions apportioned to the woodsly goodness.
because after all,
who doesn't love the smell of wet dog?
yuck.
bedraggled.
it looks exactly like how it sounds.
it's a wholly bedraggled experience to be present and accountably counted on
in the withering white mountainous calm before this touted storm.
today is the day,
but tonight is more the night than ever.
an adverse universe.
an unrehearsed soliloquy.
howling winds, howling wolves, maybe moving castles, too.
anything can happen when the overlapping smoke ring ghost circles
of then and now and later meet up in the middle of spirit and memory.
take my word for it-
nothing good will come of this;
never quiet, never soft.....
also, post #1776?
that's pure patriotic Folk Life & Liberty, son!

i live on a mountain.

superstorms!
perfect communions between environmental rage and elemental chaos.
duders,
that's all i've been hearing about.
and for what it's worth,
i'm looking forward to some natural disasterpiece theater.
for serious,
a good old fashioned bootheel-stomp from my sweet baby bottom-b!tch-
the one and only ma nature.
because mama don't play, fool.
believe it.
she's got a hard-hearted hate hard-on for the mid atlantic,
and that just makes it seem sorta romantic.
(i hate it there too, y'know? we've got so much in common.)
hurricanes and northerly merciless gusts and cold fronts and all that,
joining up like a supergroup of mighty smiting.
so,
i'm kind of all about it.
downed limbs, felled trees, floods, property damage on a cataclysmic scale,
power outages, food shortages, public outrages, destroyed roads, collapsed lungs,
topographical pummeling of historic landmarks,
riots, flash mobs, murder, mayhem, savage stormswept every-man-for-himself
berserker barbarian bedlam and martial law,
where bullets and band-aids and beans and b!tches are the currency of a new
barter economy where only the unruliest make all the rules.
alas,
i live on a mountain, in an idyllic sheltered vale,
so it's probably just gonna rain a lot.
if i'm really lucky, i'll get hit by lightning;
or just maybe, if i stand in the perfect path, on the right track, so to speak,
a tree will get blown over, and in it's descending arc, as i call out 'timber',
you'll hear the word goodbye inside it.
awwwwwwwwwwwwwww.
relax.
even if snow and wind and rain and hail and fog and calamity and deluge and all those jauns
come crashing down around us, neighbors,
we've still got what really matters.

ALL the guns and ALL the food, ninjas!
bwahahahaha!
i'm sayin'.
purpose is a wonderful thing.
heavy winds and hard rains and deep snows and all the other other sh!t
can only serve to send me off with a few extra days off of work.
and a couple spare days of october's end-times could be good.
on the real,
october is dope.
it's all the best parts of a fond farewell.
after this,
we've got to deal with november.
ugh.
it's weak sauce and grayest, gayest days of doo-doo buttery b!tch-sap.
chilled air, colder shoulders, frigid roommates after a fashion, and all sorts
of semi-sentimental milestones and testaments to the frailty and failure of
the intimate intricacies of interpersonal immersion in active participation.
what i mean is:
a little nature taking out a little aggression is a welcome change.
for a minute or two,
it will be the world around me bringing the thunder and lightning
and city-destroying ragnarok smiting and blighting;
not just another indifferent devastation from the exes that mark this spot.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
so nature wins, kids,
and gets a hearty thank you form the warriors of the woodsly goodness.
for this reminder that we don't really get a say,
so we'd better be getting busy and making moves and keeping it really real,
because we can get 'sploded, or washed away,
blown down like a little pig's house, or stranded in infinite isolation at any minute.
plus,
it's still october,
so there's that.
 a long day of endurance-tested tattbombing is on the books, y'all.
maybe the power will go out early,
and i can come back to the Fortress and wait out the drizzle and the sniffles in peace.
...but probably not.
hard styles, heavy skies,
and the bonus of the onus of activation is on me.
make it fun, make it happen, take it to eleven, and live to tell the tale.
it's worthy work but it never ends.
real life documentarianism doesn't get easier, just more familiar,
and we all know what that breeds.
oh, right.
while we're speaking of breed:
it's also a full mutha-F*ing moon.
that's right.
when it rains, it pours.
but what about when it rains and pours and sucks?
yep.
that's today.
perpetual catastrophe today is just an apostrophe before tomorrow;\
never quiet, never soft.....

man, oh mannequin.

neighbors,
what are we gonna do with this?
teleport:

...we've got to do somethin'.
i've got two of 'em actually.
j.crew models,
tha's fancy white-people-style sh!t.
twin trunks,
tandem torsos,
thorax-type jauns, size small.
what do y'all recommend?
i'm listening;
never quiet, never soft.....

ball out friday.

DAS IT!!!
ninjas,
it was an all-out ball out friday afternoon up here.
shootin' guns, going to dinner, drinking fancy coffees,
driving around, being fresh, getting frisky,
and in general participating like competent capable catalysts
of change and war and spirit and memory.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
just an extra-special display of gratitude and generosity by
the activation society.
and since the object of all of this is more-
more fun, more appreciation, more guns;
to celebrate and commemorate the cycle of circular logic,
circadian blast-beats, and rhythmless blues-balls,
and other semi-clever labels about time and place and situation,
i balled the F* out, b!tches.
check the teleport:

an actual law enforcement remington 12gauge semi-automatic
PO-lice model 11-87 shottie-boombalottie, neighbors.
for my face!
hell,
for everybody's faces.
what?
oh, yeah, it's used.
from a real life department of the filth, F*ers.
like,
maybe it helped apprehend, or better yet, ventilate, some tuned-up icepipe scumbags?!
i sure hope so.
....real talk.
but for really real, friends-
who knows how to blow out a butthole on a pumpkin at 100 yards
with a solid lead slug of smooth-bore cannonfire like a mutha-flippin' expert?
yeah.
i doo-doo that marky-marksmanship jauns, kids.
why?
because every of guns is dope.
reread that.
uh-huh.
i said it right.
all guns,
like each and every of guns, every of times, is dope.
especially the new hottness.
ball out friday 2012.
successfully activated.
i even did some tattoos somewhere in between all the big flippin' fun.
real ninjas do real things i guess.
i'm reppin' full days as we approach full moons,
and werewolfen fury and berserker gypsy cursing and all sorts
of clandestine cavorting and cantankerous cantilevering of
all the woodsly warrior spirit and minor-keyed disconcertina
concentration of concentric circles of Folk Life.
what i mean is,
it's all really happening,
and for the first time in a long time,
it isn't the worst thing that could've happened.
i'm closing in on the end of the end,
and the beginning of the new beginning looks pretty flippin' sexy.
i'm grateful for the hard styles and hard times, if you feel me.
without the bitter,
ball out week would've sucked balls.
nobody wants balls-out weak, y'know;
never quiet, never soft.....

the activation society.

social clubs are dope.
that's real.
but they aren't all the same, y'all.
that's even realer.
to wit,
the breakfast club comes to mind.
demented and sad, right? but social.
so in the intense interest of being dope and neither sad nor demented,
the worthiest warriors, poets, picturemakers, pugilists, and partygoers
in the northern hottness of this cold clime have been meeting up
and getting lively with it.
it?
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
ALL of it.
the activation society is here, neighbors,
and it is F*ing exactly what this place needed,
and even moreso what I need, every single day.

word.
a group of elite hand-selected soldiers
getting busy with big fun, big business, and big action,
all the while initiating good times,
and snackin' up on expert treats,
shooting expert guns,
and participating in really-real life with turbo-rad hang outs
in the pursuit of Folk Life & Liberty,
right here in the woodsly goodness.
*
so, yeah,
that's what's up.
the last few days have been busy,
full of events, full of work, full of so many different kaleidoscopic
interactive overreactions and compliocations.
it's good, though, kids.
keeping busy means keeping my brain out of the swamps.
swamp schlampen brain is bad for everybody,
believe it.
instead,
this cadre of individualists, this collective of chieftains,
this council of shamanic druids and doo-doo duders,
this eleventh-level futuristic activation society,
is spanning time.
we make moves,
we get it in;
never quiet, never soft.....

1771

the end is the beginning,
the beginning is the end.
awwwwwwww, man.

every day, neighbors.
every single day.
even today.
it's all really happening.
real life unfolds like a love note,
passed down along many little hands,
each pair respecting the privacy of the appointed recipient.
there's a blueprint with heart-dotted i's in there somewhere,
and it's waiting for the right sequential series of bends and creases
to decode and decipher the secret universal messages written indelibly
in invisible ink.
hold it up to the hot fire and smoke ring ghost circles
of spirit and memory and maybe they'll leave their echoed essence
on it all just enough to translate and transform the plan
from preparation into activation.
this is blog #1771.
that's a lot of real life documentarianism.
it keeps occurring,
i keep enduring,
and there is only ever more.
it's all too much, all the time,
and that's all i'm really even prepared to ask for.
y'know?
...more.
that's the whole point.
not the biggest, nor the most beautifullest,
just more.
and so it goes;
never quiet, never soft.....

i would never ask about other nights,

only a fool would spoil it all....
*
home again in the warmish embrace of the white mountains, y'all.
that's right.
after a whirlwind 48 hour blitzkrieg on the nutmeg state,
and a walloping overdose of weak sauce, heavy traffic, waterbabyism,
and premium retail shopping experiences,
i got up before the break of dawn,
and bounced upwards and onward to the great white north.
there is just nothing quite as expert as the woodsly mutha-flippin' goodness.
fact.
sure,
i spanned a whole lot of interesting time with my whole family,
and of course,
seeing harvest and maple was beyond a healthy booster-shot of beautiful
fatherly doting and darling dopeness,
but i belong up here.
a rugged, rough-and-ready soldier of really real Folk Life & Liberty.
that's just how it is.
speaking of really realness,
take a good long look at the culmination of twelve long years of growing and
learning and leaping and living well and all that kind of stuff-
teleport to the future:

check!
yuuuuuuuuuuup.
that's what's up.
the berfday girl herself.
and yeah,
i do have two of 'em.
recheck that teleport, yo:

wordimus prime.
i'm pretty lucky i didn't get a couple of A*holes.
i mean, genetically,
the odds were kind of almost completely against getting two amazing
active participants.
well-mannered, considerate, compassionate, competent and capable.
they got that sh!t on lock, neighbors.
i couldn't ask for better.
***********
so i'm back in the heart of the hardest styles and emptiest beds.
the Fortress, kids, is where i'm supposed to be.
luckily,
it's precisely where i'm at.
there's no place like the right place.
i'm a woodsly goodfellow to my core;
never quiet, never soft.....7x35

and you can hide behind a cloudy night...

connecticut doesn't play, duders.
that's for serious.
hard styles and family togetherness go together like
guns and ammo, y'feel me?
dynamic disaterpiece dinner theater was the tall order we were
placing on the crazy, lazy, amazing japanese restaurant that
my very smart, funny, talented, capable darling daughters
decreeed we were gonna get shark-gluttonous at.
...and we did.
there was drama, comedy, tragedy, history in the making,
a few different kinds of tears, like joy and pain an' sh!t,
from a few very different kinds of people,
and missteps, mishaps, mistakes, and a couple little misses, too.
all the orders got F*ed,
all the tempers got short,
and the noise got brought like an A-bomb on that hibachi hottness, yo.
neighbors,
berserker barbarian battle-readiness must be hereditary,
because when things started to go bad,
me and my blood-peoples got activated.
really real mutha-uckas are always ready to make it so much worse.
you better believe that sh!t, ninja!
my sisters give a grand total of absolutely ZERO F*s.
and that's dope.
we will get loud, fresh, and hard, kids.
at a moment's notice, with or without good cause.
explosive personalities and dynamite reesponse times are what's up.
just sayin',
we gotta teach these lovely little next-generation futuristic frauleins
precisely the kind of expectations we have in our heads for their
performance as worthy warrior poets as time passes.
we're shaping things to come.
i'm on that expertism jauns,
like, valkyrie vixens, an' that.
real talk.
*
it's good to be home.
and since home is where the heart is in equal measure to where the house is,
my good feelings and sweet sentiments all dwell in this brutal batcave
of connecticut craptardation.
i'm as surprised as you are, i promise.
the peoples who still care the most are here,
and now so am i.
time gets spanned,
gratitude and generosity are enacted,
we all interoverreact,
and participation is mandatory.
hey!
you're part of it,
and this place has surely broken my american heart;
never quiet, never soft.....

and when you want everything to stay the same...

...then things change.
*
duders,
i'm in connecticut.
uh-huh.
the smeggiest suck-sauce in the union is hosting your favorite
woodsly warrior poet for a few days.
neighbors,
it's a hard style, for sure.
since i don't sleep anymore, again, and all that,
i hit the highways and inroads through all the subpar sections
of the lesser, undesirable other other parts of new england.
and now here i am.
back home.
it's where i'm at and where i'm from,
and for the time being, it's what's up.
so why would i want to dive deep down into this doo-doo buttery
brutal barbaric pit of hard-hearted hard feelings and savage stormswept
ferocious gypsy fury?
because i'm NOT an A*hole.
for realsies, y'all.
today is the day,
and like i already told you-
when it's time to make moves,
i move.
ninjas,
i'm here in the heart of the beast because the most important people
in the whole wide world to me are celebrating some serious sh!t today.
that's right.
today,
my oldest daughter,
harvest skye ruth turns twelve.
years old, yo.
in a row.
it's a happy berfday party time.
and so,
because i'm papa bear numero uno,
and also a wrench-choosing right-action activator,
i'm here.
i love my kids more than i hate remembering what i'm made out of.
that's real.
so i'm picking the harder way,
and having a good time no matter what.
we'll see how it goes.
every day is like sunday;
never quiet, never soft.....

rock blockin' beats.

duders,
the activation society is good at helping.
that's a fact.
i needed company while i got molto busy in my friday night kitchen.
that meant shotgun training videos,
worthy warrior poet participants with hungry bellies,
and rainy weather broski hang outs with the fellas.
all that really happened, and simultaneously,
i brought the barbarian bakery business to bear by battle-beasting
through three batches of three different kinds of expert treats.
that's a thing, neighbors.
when it's time to make moves?
yuuuuuuuuuup.
i move.
why was i making such a sumptuous spread of the infamously delicious
mutha-flippin' rock bloxxx?
because i'm a good friend,
and also kind of a showboat.
uh-huh.
check the teleport:

baby shower building blocks of rock, ninjas.
original rocks,
double chocolate blocks,
and peanut butter oatmeal blops.
you better recognize, son-
my peoples need help?
they get help.
i'm a helping hands-have-teeth grinder,
and it's not like i was preoccupied with getting a good night's sleep,
so that left tons of spare time to dominate the dopeness with my dudes.
thatcher, teddy, and austin have become fixtures
of the Folk Life & Liberty experience.
really good guys, those three.
believe it.
who else would've spanned a friday night being domestic at the Fortress?
just to keep a bleary-eyed berserker from battle-beasting his own heart out?
c'mon.
that's what friends do.
also,
they eat cookies, and bake cookies, and keep it real with shotshells,
and bring the thunder down on all the weak-sauce waterbabies
and cookie-cutting sodapantsed seahorseplayers who can't doo-doo that
really real life active participation.
it happens up here, kids.
i am still grateful for the time i have been given.
and for these people i span it alongside.
time travel to the future?
right now;
never quiet, never soft.....

empty beds.

they say those who lie down with dogs
wake up with fleas.
which could be the basis for the seven-year itch?
ain't that a b!tch?
an unlucky septet of calamine-cursing canine calamity,
which, in human years,
would add up to just one very uncomfortable cycle around the sun.
duders,
i've GOT that jauns.
the sh!ttiest span of time along the ex/why? axis.
c'mon.
you like it.
luckily,
the fleabitten bubonic plague of chronic colic that's invaded
this bucolic idyllic woodsly goodsly northern mountain realm
probably leaves when the dogs do.
and the dog hasn't been cuddle-buddies up in my spot for a hot minute.
yuuuuuuuuup.
that's right, kids-
even olive the mutha-F*ing dog sleeps elsewhere now, y'all.
awwwwwwwwwwwwww, man.
the last lazy companion has been bought off by better biscuits,
and the promise of lower expectations of beastly behavior.
yes indeed,
man's best friend has traded up for heavier blankets
and more space for all four legs to spread out on.
and so now i sleep alone,
only,
i can't sleep when i'm alone.
therefore,
in addition to the everlasting strength-sapping exhaustive loneliness,
i'm also wide awake and feeling every empty, skin-crawling,
pestilential nanosecond of it.
insomnia makes long nights seem longer,
and there have been so many, many nights.
enough to make up a whole year, neighbors.
now that's a hard style.
and i'm spanning hard time.
in fact,
each and every line i write is a compositional prison sentence,
adding up to prison paragraphs,
all unwilling and unable to be commuted for time served,
with a very bleak outlook on the likelihood for parole.
yuck.
there will be no stay of execution, either.
there's only death sentences and cold mattresses;
never quiet, never soft.....

daysaver

duders,
i worked on my day off, and it was worth it.
check the teleport:

yuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
neighbors,
my main man from dallas, texas came and got busy!
all the way to the fallish flavorful forests of the cold white north,
to get a hard-style poundings' worth of warrior poetry in motion
tattblasted without remorse all over the flippin' place!
spirits and memories of the woodsly goodness,
etched in full effect on his chest and sh!t.
that's how really real ninjas doo-doo that fresh hardness jauns.
yeah.
sometimes,
you gotta do work, son.
in progress crazy activation like the most expert of experts, y'all.
yeah,
that's a duck with a hand in it's mouth,
being told truly like a true story to the transformative three stages
of the legendary life cycle of mothly just be dopeness.
or maybe that's just my imagination?
nope,
i assure you, it's all really happening.
that's the whole point;
never quiet, never soft.....

but that's just pretend,

and these are just words....
but do you feel it like me?
i feel it pulsing, like blood.
*
so,
how was my anniversary?
c'mon.
don't be dumb.
it was fittingly thirteenish.
a cranky transition into the adolescent animosity that
the developmentally unbalanced teenage years always introduces.
as in:
it sucked all the balls that comprise the whole entire world.
awwwwwwwwww, man.
but,
there's always something redeeming about even the gaytardedest things,
right?
i think so.
in this case,
it was the festivities that facilitated an expert evening.
it took some brutal bitterness to seriously sweeten up
the second section of my spanned times.
once the blistering marrow-depleting doo-doo butter of
the longest half-day of my career drew to it's inevitable,
inexorable execrable ending, with underwhelming results,
things got pretty flippin' activated!
neighbors,
i spent an evening with the real and proper poet laureate.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
can you say living mutha-ucking legend?
that's it, kids.
morrissey.
live, in concert, in sunovab!tching full effect!
that preening crooner rocked the collective socks and shoes,
and in some cases, even the shirts,
off of every breathing body in the house, y'all.
it was just what the doctor ordered.
the experience was a necessary anti-atrophying agent,
and it resuccitated the really realness that the rest of the day
tried it's absolute very hardest to kill.

ummmm.
yeah.
*
Love is natural and realBut not for you, my loveNot tonight, my loveLove is natural and realBut not for such as you and I, my love*
if james bond, an opera diva, and a matador all combined
and then you added oscar wilde and a eastern european princess,
you'd get the basic foundation of what i witnessed last night.
holy crap, kids!
it went to eleven, from the first note to the last.
so much hottness,
for a long-A* setlist of serenaded sadness,
for my face!
i got a dose of that real life good stuff,
...and heaven knows i'm miserable now;
never quiet, never soft.....7x34

anniversaries are disappointing.

hey there, duders.
anybody i notice i skipped a couple of days?
well,
i did.
why?
because i've got nothing, kids.
not one thing.
it's all really happening, of course,
but it's all already been said about all of it-
grinding away at the tattbomb studio,
wasting away in the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress,
drinking coffees by the bucketful,
and keeping it really real in the woodsly goodness
with the active participants from the activation society.
all of it is happening,
none of it is new.
in fact,
it's older than ever today, neighbors.
huh?
yep.
happy anniversary to me.
what? now? really? already?
oh, yes, my friends. you read it right.
it's my anniversary.
no.
there won't be any more of those anniversaries.
awwwwwwwww.
instead of the romance of fruition and actualization,
it's the milestone-mark of a much much longer love/hate affair;
one with harder styles and heavier hearts, if you can believe it.
the sun and moon and calendar square on the october page all tell me so.
i did my first tattoo, ever, so many many years ago, on this very date.
that's a real thing-
thir-F*ing-teen unlucky years of poking and wiping and sh!t
as a professional jinx-magnet and image-conscious, conscienceless,
alter-egomaniacal life-alteration specialist.
thirteen YEEEEEARS.
that's right.
today IS the day.
and in a way,
i guess it's also albie rock's birthday, really.
that's no joke.
a brutal barbarian battle-beastly berserker bar mitzvah for your favorite
warrior poet and waldengeist wordsmith from the forest realm.
happy thirteenth?
sure.
it SO figures;
the teenage years are a real b!tch-sap-bastard to deal with.
my professional stride coincides with occupational adolescence.
that's awkward on all accounts.
the circles are pretty full, though.
i started it all with a skull;
i keep it going it with even more of that.
that's all there ever is, y'all.
more:

yup.
ninjas,
do me a  little-bitty baby-sized favor-
stop bringing me google image search pictures, y'heard?
i don't have ideas anymore.
i don't need 'em.
you want a signalman/pirate/wastrel?
you got it.
(10 pts. to anyone who got the atlas shrugged reference)
it's getting so out-of-control that these days i just copy sh!t.
i mean, sure,
i freestyle freehand with my marky markers an' that,
but from references of other other people's hard work.
i don't know who did the actual dope original,
i just know that the cycles and circles of spirit and memory
know how to wrap around the ghost rings of this life of mine.
thirteen years of all of this.
i'm grateful that there's been so damn much of it, too.
every resentful second, every bitter minute, every sour grape,
all the resultant piss and vinegar, the swearing of mighty oaths,
the swearing of dirty words, the northern new hampshire Folk Life,
all of it, all the time.
there's not a lot to say,
but thanks, happy anniversary,
and happy berfday albie,
you F*ed up manifest figment of creative non-fictional fecund fury.
today is the day,
like it or not.
time travel only works in one direction;
never quiet, never soft.....

if you aren't doing it, start doing it.

neighbors,
short and sweet is what's up today.
the message?

yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
activate!!
that's that international phonetic alphabet jauns.
fancy-pants sounds and syllables voluntarily voweled and
co-conspiratorily consonanted together constantly
to make noisy gibberish into a cohesive meaning-specific word.
wooooooooord.
get it? c'mon....
language and it's decoder key to pronunciation,
lead to edicts of enunciation and participation.
uh-huh.
competent communication is in full effect.
if you aren't making it happen,
you're definitely F*ing up.
do what needs doing, duders-
activate;
never quiet, never soft..... 

(pro/con)sequences.

duders,
according to the backwards way that americans read calendars,
today is the day.
(sorry, everywhere else, but it'll be next month for all y'all)
that's right, my ninjas,
we've got a special event horizon keeping it really real-
y'know, like we're on a date. get it?
yuuuuuuuuuuuup.
today IS the day:
10-11-12.
c'mon.
...that's pretty dope.
ascending numerals,
a counting-upside accumulation of greater-thans and more-so?
yeah.
i'm into it.
no surprise there, really.
i like to mark occasions with assigned meaning,
no matter how trivial,
because without ceremony, all emcees are just masters of nothing,
just like those depth-perceptionless one-eyed jacks of all trades.
huh?
oh, i assure you, it's real.
active participation, real-life true-story telling,
organizational instigation, hot-fire proliferation,
and spectrum-spanning just-be-dopeness all qualify
as necessary ingredients for worthy warrior poetry and
the basic foundations of re-renaissance manliness.
oh, c'mon.
you get it.
all barbarian battle-beasts settle where they see the future,
and become fixtures of the lands they inhabit.
from conqueror to defender to creator.
that's it.
they grow roots, mutha-uckers.

the woodsly goodness is my triumphant terra firma and terrific firmament,
and i plan on continuing to make the most of that sh!t, neighbors.
*
so,
while at face value i may resemble neither a very diversified tradesman jacker,
nor the head ninja in charge of special operations, presentations, and interactions,
i promise you,
i'm taking the time to create reasons and causes and circumstances;
building the brutal berserker battlements of dynamic willful imposition,
and fortifying the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress with moments that mean something.
what's that?
for real?
it's just a cleverly numbered day?
oh, my poor little stoopidheads, pay attention-
we document real life as it happens, because we make it happen:
we get to name our own cause de celebre, kids.
and through ritual and routine,
force it to grind it's way through the coils and cogs of the clock,
all hourglass-gallows and
to be sacrificed by axe-split seconds and insightful instances...
get it?
our special days are the imaginings of
spirit and thought and memory.
yep,
i told you twice already,
today is the day.
it always is, but maybe even more than usual, as usual.
i'm trying to make every day count,
because i'm pretty sure our days are numbered;
never quiet, never soft.....

the good stuff.

it's possible i lack direction.
okay, probable.
at least when left to explore my innermost desires without distraction.
...for serious.
it becomes a ritual of deposed despotism,
driving to the brink of disaster on a daily basis,
unreservedly recalcitrant in the extreme,
hour by hour eating away at the availability of absolution,
and through attrition losing the cognitive capacity for contrition.
like,
i'm-sorry-i'm-not-sorry-style jauns.
taking time and unrepentantly killing it,
and being granted asylum in my own routine as a matter of principle.
exile in perpetuity, in media res, in full effect.
but really,
how many times a day can one man drink black tar quagmires of coffee,
talk a raving rasher of sh!t,
and smoke inch after black greasy inch of cigars?
well,
that depends on what else is on the menu, ninja.
i mean,
i can really instigate a smelly self-destructive docket
of ne'er-do-well-to-do litany,
but only if there's no ingredients to enable my considerable kitchen skills.
because, when i'm feeling personally disorganized,
there's just one thing that really focuses my energies and restores my calm.
yuuuuuuuuuuuup.
treats!
word up, mutha-lickers-
a procedural plan of attack, well-measured and preheated,
to prepare and execute a spate of delicious sweet parcels of
active participations and vegan turbo-hottnesses.
the more decadent and filthy, the better.
(that's not for jokes, yo)
i even doubled-down, yesterday.
that's a thing.
check the teleport if you don't believe me:

pumpkin muffin-tops of cakey rock block expertism.
extra oats, and extra sweetness make 'em like
october-activated fluffy whole-oat granola clouds for your face.
F*ing right-
it's like the whole fall season exploded in your minky little mouth, son!
and,
just so they go even further off of the dopeness chart than that?
yep.
they get maple icing glaze today, duders.
yeah, that's right.
it's that icy jauns, neighbors.
because i'm like that.
i mean, if we aren't taking it to eleven,
we may as well not even bother showing up, right?
riiiiiight.
so since we're all here in the future, present and accounted for,
we've got to get it poppin'.
fact.
-
and i did mention i doubled down, didn't i?
well, that's a true story-
i'm fighting the good fight on two fronts, folks.
spread out to divide and conquer the culinary capitals
of cake and pie.
burning the candles and the stove and oven at both ends,
so success is the only available option,
because, as usual,
there's nothing behind me but scorched earth and sore feelings.
forward, onward, upward, and outward.
wu-TANG!
so,
what's on the menu for those freaky-diki miki-fikis who like that brown sh!t?
mmmm-hmmm:

choclate creme pie, with triple-threat sprankle nutrients.
you better believe i doo-doo that choco-loco bloppity business, y'all.
and the crust, as always, is custom.
i made sure to freak it off with a little extra sumthin'-sumthin'.
you'll have to have a slice, and give me your opinion.
you will love it.
*
yes, y'all.
i'm trying to lure you over here.
don't think of it as bribery.
think of it as calculated temptation.
an even exchange, even.
the barter system, tit for tat,
and not as in nudity for plying my day trade on you, either.
oh, c'mon.
we'll break bread, and break the bad news to each other.
y'heard?
there's going to be more of this,
and it'll keep unfolding like a moebius origami of infinite nature.
uh-huh.
and nature always wins.
ahhhh, sh!t.
***********
baking a batch of gourmet goodness;
fattie-boombattening down the hatches;
keeping it super-fancy and very necessarily unnecessary an' that.
i mean,
what else am i gonna do with a cold, grey, lonely afternoon,
when the wood is stacked and the house is empty and the styles are hard?
i do what i do,
and that's get busy.
heck yes, friends,
all of this, all of the time-
that's all there ever is;
never quiet, never soft.....

stacked up and stored away.

duders,
it's done.
six cords of woodsly goodness,
put up, airing out, and waiting it's turn to burn.
uh-huh.
check the teleport:

c'mon.
that's that 'schuan jauns, ninjas.
log after log after log after log,
piled high, separated into species and sh!t,
and arranged according to seasonal needs.
huh?
F*ing right.
obsessive compulsions and deductive reasoning
give strong purpose to the intricacies of my actions.
just sayin',
birch burns hot and short, oak stays warmer longer.
i maximize the british thermal unit output of my combustibles
by making sure i use the right fuel every time.
when i need short sweet nighttime fires in the fall?
yuuuup,
i straight-up yellow and white birch bomb that sh!t.
what about frigid furious february's bleak bitter barren brutality?
no jokes-
100% hard oaks, neighbors;
and then all the maple and beech an' other other barked-up bits
that throw heat and generate the acrid ash and ghostly smoke spouts
for all the other other chilly evenings and in-between times.
you wanna get hot, you gotta get ready.
that's real.
is it an apesh!t bananas overkill activation situation i'm repping?
maybe.
but it's also totally expert.
i have a system, son.
(you should see how i eat panniecakes)
on the ones, kids,
i do work when work needs doing.
that's just the way it is.
*
cleaning up after myself,
tying up loose ends,
stacking solutions,
splintering, shivering, and getting slivers from my timbers.
it's a process, y'all.
and it's happening right now;
never quiet, never soft.....7x33+1

how things really are.

duders,

i missed out on the last night of the fair.
yeah.
for serious, i didn't go.
no,
it wasn't due to a natural disaster,
or chronic illness,
or physical disability,
or catastrophic engine failure, either.
the fair wasn't closed,
those blue-ribbon classic's gates were wide open, i'm sure.
i skipped out on the big fun of the grand finale
on purpose, actually.
that's right, neighbors.
no falafels were consumed in the spanning
of yesterday's times and spaces.
honest.
but, that begs the question:
why would i miss out on the last night
of the bright bright brightest spot in recent memory?
because i just wasn't feeling it.
at all.
that's a true story, y'all.
epic de-vibulation deactivated, detoured,
derailed, dissembled, and disassembled all of those
activated autumnal participatory experiences right down
the doo-doo buttery sh!t-shootin' tubes.
awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww, man.
uh-huh.
then again,
why would the fair be any different from every other thing
that's happened this year?
it ended on a low note,
without ceremony or celebration,
passing into oblivion with a whimper,
and not a big ol' bang,
under the premise that the second-to-last second isn't worth
savoring because there's probably going to be
just a little bit more later on,
and that there's hope that it's not actually all all-the-way
over and done with yet.
holy sh!t, son,
that's a molto hard style, ain't it?
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
that's that disillusioned disappointment, my ninjas.
that's what's poppin' off.
it's all over,
and i missed it.
that's what's up.
it's all really happening,
or has already happened,
and by choice, even.
the wrench sometimes chooses you, i guess.
weird;
never quiet, never soft.....

moka express.

duders,
mike holmes brought some treats with him up here
for me to inject a little more hottness into the woodsly goodness with.
yeah!
i love treats, ninjas,
and i love things that hurt!
for example,
stovetop espresso?
uh-huh...
you know it-
we ball out!!
exrta-fancy-schmantzy decaf custom-ground deeply
dark-roasted expert sh!t, y'all.
check the teleport:

c'mon.
an italian aluminum awesome breakfast activator by bialetti?
we GOT they.
my peoples know what's up.
that's it.
doo-doo buttery mudbutt juice explosions on that gas range!
if it isn't too much, it's not even close to enough.
that sh!t gets thick, and syrupy, and brown,
and pretty much brings the thunder and the nutrients down and out
from underneath the festy filth filter,
and lets that percolation jauns get it going on.
it's dope,
and you need one.
get it, neighbors, and get right...
right now.
***********
i've got this pot of power,
so my mornings are getting started right,
with diesel sauce and peanut-buttery toast,
and my man mr. holmes getting fresh next to me.
it's the last day of the fair,
and while i'm sorry to see it end,
i'm ready to eat a little somethin' somethin' else,
if you can imagine the hot mess my insides have become
on a steady diet of solely soulful belly-filling blops and glops.
teleport, kids:

seventeen.

eighteen.
ouch.
overdose?
not yet, y'all.
there's still tonight to endure and overcome.
just sayin', though-
hot tarry coffee and fried chunks of chick peas are not
the best recipe for a refreshing feeling first thing in the morning
nor for a sleepytime send-off as the very last thing before bed.
what can i say?
i choose the wrench.
there are plenty of other tools and skills and choices,
but all of those are all for weak-sauce sodapants diaperbabies.
i may be a bad man,
but i'm still a man.
recognize;
never quiet, never soft.....

every guns is still dope.

duders,
no work, and all play,
all damn day long?
you like it.
guns and falafels and a whole group
of ultra-participatory peoples being rad in the warmest weather
and sunniest dispositions on a friday in the woodsly goodness.
so good.
but mostly,
guns.
check the teleport:

everybody loves guns.

i had one hell of a day of dopeness
with big and small guns,
and with tall and short folks.
they had a good time too, i think:

yep.

c'mon.

so fresh.
*
we get busy up here on those Perfect Fall Days.
and sometimes,
we doo-doo that fresh autumnal activation without pause;
it's all always really happening.
no jokes;
never quiet, never soft.....

f.a.f.f.

the fryeburg fair!
six days in,
and it's still dope.

by the way,
it didn't take much, duders.
y'know,
to feel awfully full of falafel.
in fact,
between some seriously hot weather
and the ensuant dehydration,
and a burly overdose of habanero hot sauce,
my little bitty bellyhole took a barbarian beatdown
from a hard-style face-stuff explosion.
teleport:

fourteen and fifteen,
aaaaaaand:

sixteen.
sorry, neighbors-
i just couldn't fit any more inside my body.
at all.

gross.
feel awful falafel friday was a super-success though.
that's no joke.
repping the fair with my duders,
and a whole bunch of active participation throughout the day?
yeah.
we get expert, y'all.
all the mutha-flippin' time.
todd, teddy, holmes, and thatcher ALL got it poppin'
first at the falafel stand,
and then everywhere else.
we kept it going on and on and on.
it was a fairground feast full of shark-gluttonous monster appetites,
and a hundred pounds of fried everything....
and then, just to make sure that a brutally perfect fall day
went all the way off the charts, to eleven,
there was even a grand finale with a whole bunch of fireworks.

c'mon.
couldn't be more grateful for the time i've been given.
***********
also,
if you don't know yet,
you're about to find out:

F*ing right!
c'mon.,
even bittier babier bunnies??
no doubt about it.
too insane to even handle in a reasonable fashion.
my head might explode;
never quiet, never soft.....

perfect fall day.

check the mutha-b!tchin' teleport, neighbors:

yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
111% expert;
never quiet, never soft.....

goat stuff.

goats are dope.
that's a thing.
on the ones.

and sometimes,
art imitates life,
and that is also dope.
teleport:

yeah!
thatcher graves is killin' it, kids.
by sawing and sanding and filing and profiling,
he's taking that woodsly goodfellow craftsmanship sh!t
to the next levels of cut-out coolness.
...and that's for realsies.
your favorite Folk Life crappy capricorn is SO gonna cut
the (soy)cheese on the fresh face of that fancy board.
yep.
as usual,
my peoples know how to get rad.
just sayin',
if they didn't have those hard-styled worthy warrior
poetic participatory principles,
they wouldn't be On The List.
believe that, neighbors.
word up.
it's a pretty damn short list.
***********
speaking of getting active via participation-
michael holmes is here.
like, right here.
in the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
and that's dope.
thirteen hours on a bus?
from philadelphia?
just to rep the fryeburg fair and catch up on the last
couple of years of continental separation?
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
man,
i'll bet his updates are way more uplifting than mine.
hahaha.
misery loves company,
but company rarely invites misery.
we'll see how it goes,
but i'm feeling pretty lucky regardless.
i've got the full-spectrum of people activating the nutrients
that compose, comprise, and reprise the kind of life
i'm trying to cultivate.
old times' sakes and sh!t, kids.
friends from the past,
duders from the now,
making moves towards the future.
it's happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

lucky thirteen.

hey duders,
it's the second half of fair week,
and i'm running out of things to stay interested in.
what?
really?
what are you?
an A*-hole?
no,
i'm not gonna stay home today.
in fact,
it's more likely i'm rolling deep through the fairground gates
with the worthy participants and nutrient-rich ninjas
of the Folk Life & Liberty Activation Society.
that's a thing.
eating falafels, shooting guns, getting expert,
and keeping it all so mutha-flippin' really-real
in the columbus-day tornado of peak-season tourist foliage
and rollicking weekend rural woodsly goodness.
the fair is dope!
i mean, i haven't totally lost all interest-
and yes,
i still like bunnies an' sh!t;
yes,
i still think giant runny piles of crap everywhere is funny;
and also yes,
i like being able to navigate across crowded expanses
full of good and bad noises and better and worse smells...
but mostly?
uh-huh.
it's all about those fattie-boombattie falafel blops.
neighbors,
how much do i love to get obsessively complusive with it?
so much that i repped it after work, in the rain,
by my all-alonesome, sitting silently,
stuffing sandwiches down deep by the shark-biteful.
awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww, man!
i doo-doo that alone in a crowd sort of stuff,
like a bedraggled, soggy sad sack of sauce, son.
check the teleport:

yuuuuuuuup.
worth every single sopping second of sitting there.
and much like every other thing i get into,
i'm quickly developing an aptitude for aggravated injury.
c'mon.
i'm amping up the faceburning lip-melting experience
with even more habanero hate-crime salsa.
yeah.
too much, kids.
and that's just where i start from.
*
i also repped some waaaaay-too-tight-of-pants-type
walking about and talking it out.
yep.
like a little baby deer faun jauns, y'all.
i couldn't figure out at first why all the supernecks were
giving me such a wide berth.
i had the run of the promenade, ninjas.
apparently, skin-tight skinnies are like a contagious strain
of just-be-dopeness.
look out!
you could catch a case of hard-style hottness from legs this lanky.
personal flavor, and chick pea flavor, and very hot sauce flavor.
thirteen falafels, so far,
and today is seriously the day, duders.
feel awful falafel friday.
that's real.
it's on.
awesome, full, and finally awful,
in three easy steps,
and three greasy sittings.
there's thunder needing bringing, kids.
we're all about it.
too much is the starting point,
too far is where we're taking it,
too soon is when it's happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

seriously.

useless cuteness?
activate the teleport:

c'mon, neighbors.
unless you're a huge piece of sh!t,
you know that's dope.
so there's no sense in being a tough-guy about it.
does it have a purpose?
other than making every little girl (and me)
say awwwwwww?!
i don't think so.
mostly it sits there and makes that face.
still,
that face is so flippin' 'tardedly expert that it may be enough.
i mean,
if i had that face?
i'd pretty much sit around getting oohed and aahed over, too.
alas,
i've got this chappy goat grill,
and therefore,
i've got to DO stuff to make it all happen.
yep.
rabbits have lucky feet indeed.
i guess i'm reppin' jinx hooves or somethin'.
*
speaking of crappy capricorns-
my homeboy alby, (with a Y; i know- gross)
and i had a moment.

barbarian boer battle-beast bonding, b!tches.
good times with horny, angry duders.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
don't worry,
two seconds past this phot,
he was back to butting heads and stomping faces
and generally discomfiting his stallmates without pause.
i'm just happy real recognizes real,
and he took a break to get his head petted
and behind his ears scratched.
sometimes,
it just takes a little gesture of kindness,
a gentle interaction,
a soothing second of reflection,
and a soft hand on your cheeks
to inspire new and untold levels of resentment and aggression
towards all the other other ones around you..
uh-huh.
hard styles never stop.
and nature is infinite.
that's why it always wins.
trip-trappin' an' that, my ninjas-
billy goats gruff;
never quiet, never soft.....

eleven.

yup.

eleven falafels, neighbors.

i could've stopped at ten yesterday.

heck, 

i probably should've stopped at ten,

but i didn't.

i mean, really,

when the option to take it further is staring at you, 

right smack dab in the eyes,

covered in hummus,

double-dog-daring you to go too far,

what the F* else can you do?

that's right, my ninjas.

i did that sh!t, 

because i doo-doo that sh!t-

i activated that extra sumthin'-sumthin',

and crammed another 'nother one in my craw.

there she is.

number XI.

so sexy, so delicious, so dope.

eleven for the week...

...so far.

this time,

just to really teach myself a lesson about self-destruction,

i used waaaay too much v.h.s., too.

i can feel it, even still.

burning my insides outside-in,

and inspiring some more of those falafel-style

fever dreams that kept me restless and semi-delirious

throughout the long lonely hours of the late late nighttimes.

on the real,

i had spicy nightmares like cold sweaty hot fire an' that.

pretty much this, every time i closed my eyes:

yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.

i guess tons of fried food, spicy peppers, and raw garlic

all combine forces to counteract and undermine 

the positively positivity-reinforced life changes of this last year.

that's a hard style,

but it's also the butt-ugly truth-

what you love will try to kill you.

if it doesn't, it isn't true love;

at best it's just 'true like'.

awwwwwwww.

-

thanks for trying to kill me, falafels.

i knew we had something real.

-

there's still more fair to be had.

i've got duders taking buses from far flung reaches

to get at this busy business and participate in the

unfolding of these secret universal plans,

as all of it all really happens.

uh-huh.

eleven may have hurt me,

but unlucky 13 will probably do even worse.

then again,

if you aren't broken,

you aren't doing it right,

and we all know it's well nigh time to get right;

never quiet, never soft.....