eleven.

falafels!!!!!

yes.
another day at the fair.
i bet you're turbo jealous.
no?
then you're dumb.
the fair is awesome.
affirmative. positive. positively affirmative. etc.
the sounds, the smells, the sights, the works....
we spent a lot of time milling about,
observing the awesome, the excellent, the righteous, and the radical.

there's so much elite hottness to experience;
like a whole entire booth of stuff made out of antlers.
yep.
baskets, pens, mirrors, magnifying glasses, buttons, lamps, eagles.
what?
yeah, antler eagles.
i tried to get a snappy shot,
but mr. mcoy, the utilitarian antler-art guy,

wasn't having any of that.

he's got interests to protect, after all.

apparently,
antlers are the answer,
but that answer is NO.

the fair has it's share of not-dopeness, too.

i choose not to focus on the dirty doo-doo buttery downside, though.

what the heck, in the interest of real-life documentation;

you wanna know the absolute gayest thing about the fair?:

this guy.
steve drove all the way up from faroff salem, 'assachusetts,

to eat dead bird bits and drink sodas.
he didn't have any falafels.

his sauce is weak,

he lives in mass.

no one is shocked.

still and all,

it's always good to see my friends.

not a whole lot to say about this sandwich.

...except that it was flippin' delicious.

i think that there's as much garlic as chickpeas in the brown blops,

and there's easily double that amount in the tahini.

is there garlic in the pickled veggies?

uh-huh.

how about the v.h.s.?

oh yeah.

cloves of damnation are roiling and boiling inside my bellyhole.
you'd better believe i'm glad i think vampires are dumb,

because there is no freakin' way that i'd have an interview with one...

not with this dragonmouth hot fire spit blasting out of my breathbellows.

wolfen warrior poets, however,

are not adverse to tarnished tongues and blarney blisters,

so i should have no trouble competently communicating with my peers.

whaaaaaaat?

yeah.

another 'nother 'nother falafel.

i'm as surprised as you are.

be easy,

i was there all day,

and all that walking around makes a man develop a healthy appetite.
therefore, it makes a real man develop an unhealthy appetite.

that's number eleven,

in case you're counting.

you'll have to excuse me,

but i've got to attend to the science project in my stomach;

never quiet, never soft.....

cupcakes?

yeeeeeeeeeeah!!!!
i'm flippin' in love with the g-darn fair, kids.
but,
before i could bury myself balls-deep in falafel balls,
i had to work it for all it was worth first.
those big brown balls aren't going to pay for themselves, y'heard?
(that's what she said)
on the brighter side of having to go and zap it up,
i had some kickass clients pop in and pay me,
and i even got to do some fresh tatty-o activities.
that's almost always a welcome event...
what?
no,
i didn't take a picture of the cute-as-a-cupcake tattster i zapped up.
no,
i didn't snap off any snappies of the dual, dueling now-laughing, later-crying
forearm comedy/tragedy 'hood goodness, either.
i just can't be expected to devote a single micromegagiga-what
of digital bobotronic memory card tardedness to stuff like that.
y'wanna know what i DID get a glamour shot of though?
F* yes, my ninjas:

do you flippin' see that gooey goodness?
it's like they get better somehow, with each and every day.
and when you tune 'em up with mixed pickled veggies, ya'll,
it can rearrange your entire culinary perspective.
two more wood-fired wraparound middle-eastern masterworks,
right down the hatch.
nice.

in other news:
do you know what israelis like even less than palestinians?
hot hands.
yep.
the Louderhorn hebrank-types sent us a fresh housewarming present.
a little somethin' somethin' to handle the hottness with,
apparently imported from israel,
if the accompanying card is to be believed.
autumn earthy quilted Folk Life kitchen accoutrements.
they definitely know the style we represent on.
thanks, my duders.

and if we actually felt we needed a reason to fryeburg it up,

instead of stayin' home and cooking;
here's a glimpse into what's poppin'.
debris and destruction in the kitchen of the woodsly goodness.
the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress is closed for renovations.
what's cookin?
not much right now,
but we've got enough clamps and cutters and counterspace to prepare a
berserker barbarian banquet buffet.
damn, but that's a long length of wood.
butcher block burliness,
courtesy of uncle steven.
the new hottness promises to be even hotter than the original old bustedness.
trust uncle steven.
it's the right thing to do.

ohhhhhhh sh!t!!

psych!, mutha-humpers.....

and you thought i was done for today?

shame on you.

that's lucky number seven.

i mean, were you expecting less?

sorry, i'm just not prepared to pour on the weak sauce;

i'm sayin',

see those dotty dots of burnt orange blops on top?

that's the 'very hot sauce'

a little dab will doo-doo ya, for sure,

but that's nothing compared to the thai chili relish underneath.

i sh!t hot fire.

word.

we met up with some of our buddies, the Barnes, and their friends,

and twirled a tour or two through the twists and turns of fairground fun.

it's always good to see our peoples,

although my full-moon frenzy and fury and fervor

doesn't always play well with new acquaintances.

i was informed later that the new friends had been forewarned.

i'm not sure if i'm flattered or flummoxed,

since i just do what i do,

and let the chaff get blasted back from the worthy wheat.

that's just that pure wu-tang, yo.

jess says regular people need to get ready to be around me...

but, i mean,

a muthalicking warning label?,

and nc-17 rating?!

c'mon, ya'll.

fortune favors the bold.

but average joe-type duders can't always take it to eleven,

or even comprehend that kind of crucial kickassery;

therefore,

i guess i'm fortunate to have the few friends who can hang tough.

i'm grateful for meet-ups and meanderings,

and for minutes and moments that matter most.

real life, documented,

one sumptuous sandwich at a time;

never quiet, never soft.....

full, fuller, fullest.

okay,
it's Falafel Week.
that's the dopeness, obviously.
but what i didn't know was...
it was a totally flickin' full moon werewolfen howling mad harvest night!
my inner hirsute horrorshow definitely popped right out of my skin.
and insisted on some seawolf shark gluttony.
right to eleven, right off the starting line,
i doo-doo that freaky sh!t...
and man-o-man did i wolf down some treats!!
uh-huh.
and they taste even F*n better than they look.
and they look so mouth-wateringly good.
daaamn.
them jauns hit SO many spots,
it was like an accupressure massage
...on the inside of my body.
look closely,
because like a truly true connoisseur of consumption,
i get 'em different each and every time.
and then,
because there is rarely such a thing as too much of a good thing:
boo-ya!, duders.
in super-short order i'd plowed through a triple threat of tahini-beany hottness.
look at those voluptuous brown blops under that sesame butter.
i even slowed it down and managed to chew this one a little tiny bit.
then we walked around awhile.
jess ate all kinds of crapola.
jim ate all kinds of crapola.
we had maple-sugar cotton candy.
what?
you heard that right.
never mind about that everyday pink and blue b!tch-fluff;
it's beige, mutha-licker,
and it is also bangin'!
we half-heartedly talked to about a billion semi-local yokels about tattoos,
and whole-heartedly drooled over the rustic shaker furniture.
we found uncle steven towering above the crowds,
and looked at quilts and pumpkins and all of that good stuff.
my stomach was distended disturbingly far.
i'm talking about tight-stretched skin and everything.
my whole digestive tract was communicating loud and clear.
it was even kind of funny,
me joking that i was so full i would burst.
hahahaha, and that.
it was all well nice, but by then the sun had gone down,
and then the clouds parted,
and i think 'thriller' was playing in the distance
...and it was right at that moment that sh!t got real:
this falafel has a name.
and that name is the wrench.
yep.
somehow, i had it worked out that including a double-dose of cucumbers
would cool off the furnace of fury in my foodbox.
in retrospect, i could well've predicted the obvious outcome.
i went well past the limits of good sense, good taste,
prudence, practicality, and pleasure.
you can never go too far, but you may be able to go too fat.
i led an unsanctioned incursion beyond the borders of epic obesity.
let it be known, on record,
i suffer the consequences of my infinite nature for YOU, my ninjas.
warrior poetry is only partially art,
the other part is pain.
there was a long moment,
after i chased down the delicious dopeness with a bucket of sweet cool apple cider,
when i was sure i'd see an encore of this guy's palate-plummet,
in reverse.
some folks aren't susceptible to full-moon fever.
some people don't like falafels.
not me, my ninjas.
i've got that berserker barbarian battle-beastliness,
and lunar lunacy and sharkbite werewolf powers are how i get busy.

...of course i did.

they told me about how it was organic.

they told me how it had specially-selected scotch bonnet bombs,

the told me about how it was homemade, and with love.

all i saw was the handwritten label,

and that's all i needed to know.

and yeah.

it is.

did i end up groaning and bloated?

wallowing and wiggling?

sleepless and overfull with indigestive nightmares?

hell yes i did.....after all, what am i?

apparently, an A*-hole.

i should've known.

if i was lamer, i might have known.

do ya'll know about those terrible lunar calender charts?

they're always in purple or blue ink on cream paper, yeah?

and inspire wiccany 'buffy' fan-types to talk about lunar goddess weak-sorcery-sauce?

yeah.

those.

well, i'm pretty much predisposed to hating that kind of stuff.

hard.

but no foolin',

it just might have come in handy.

an ounce of prevention against a secret universal predestiny?

it honestly wasn't until i espied a glimmer of the dominant disk of doom,

the luminous lantern of lycanthropy,

that i figured out why i've been positively off-my-t!ts crazy for a few days.

obvious enough now, innit?

tell that to my battered-wife bellyhole.

poor thing,

it won't leave me,

even though i'm gonna subject it to even more domestic abuse tonight.

oh c'mon.

i know.

Falafel Week;

never quiet, never soft....

ten-four.

roger that, good buddy.
it's here.
yep.
you know what i'm talking about.
and conditions are perfect:
the sun has made it's big reappearance,
right on schedule.
the tourists have all left because of the rain.
and we've got special dispensation for early dismissal from zapblasting this afternoon.
today is the day.
and for the next eight more,
in a row,
so is every day...
the very best thing about maine is poppin' off,
in crisp, autumnal new englandy fashion.
the party is started,
the battle has been joined,
and the spirits and the memories of the woodsly goodness are rejoicing.
loud, hard, and greasy.
it's happening even as i'm typing...
there's even been talk of a falafel mafia tattoo.
we'll see about that;
it's gonna take a ton of tahini to persuade me
to indelibly depict the delicious dopeness on my body.
in my bellyhole is one thing, (and that's a sure mutha-F*n' thing at that)
ON my bellyhole is a whole other 'nother one.

uncle steven did some serious berserking yesterday.
we came home to sliced and diced,
dismantled, dismembered, destroyed dopeness.
what's cookin'?
well,
for starters,
he shaolin sawzall master killered the kitchen.
it didn't stop me from simmering up my last non-falafel feast for a while,
but it didn't make the magic any easier to make, either.
i'm sayin',
he made like the bikini atoll and pretty much nuked the islands.
now they're all hacked up, stacked up, and bracketed up,
in the beginnings of a brutally barbarian bastion in the middle of the floor.
yeah!
old and busted and new and the hottness.
concentric overlapping circles, y'know?
uncle steven does manly, manly stuff.
we took him, and jim, to see zombieland.
that was our big treat for the evening,
and it was short, sweet, and seriously bloody.
it made me fall in love with firearms all over again.
but that's all in the past,
ancient history,
and it just isn't relevant to the sunny sunday stormclouds i'm brewing up.
is that thunder you're hearing?
kinda,
i am bringin' it,
but it's actually the ursa major grumbles of my foodbox.
i'm on the attack, my ninjas.
i've got a battle plan drawn up,
and it looks conspicuously like the Fryeburg Fair floorplan.
ironically,
i'm only targeting the middle-eastern enclave among the turkey-lickin',
blooming onion idiot patriotic 'necktards.
i'm a hottness-seeking smart bomb
and i'm about to cram my warhead full of ever-loving motherfunking falafel.
it's destined to be a fair fight,
and probably a food fight,
but i won't fight fair,
i'll fight fire with hot fire...
megatonnage, my ninjas;
never quiet, never soft.....

inclement.

it really eats a hot crusty one outside,
even though it's neither hot nor crusty.
it's actually cold and soggy.
and windy.
and muddy.
what the F* ever, though.
the weather can molest the mountainsides all it likes,
right up until roughly 4 p.m. tomorrow,
and then i expect that ma nature and the inestimable secret universal planagram
will dry up the meadowlands, fairways, and walking tracts
of the 159th consecutive northern maine blue ribbon classic,
the mutha-lickin' freaky-diki Fryeburg Fair.
just for me, even,
because i'm on a mission, ya'll.
a furious flagrant-foul-flaunting falafel eating mission.
and i am going to execute my directive in true shark-glutton fashion.
Falafel Week is waiting in the wings, my ninjas!
it's a caustic combination of 'shark week' and 'sandwich week',
and it is dope.

today is my sister's berfday!
miss mary grace turns 32 years of age.
in a row.
and it's sure to be a happy one,
old-ass b!tchslappin' battle bizzle that she is!
in true family tradition fashion,
she has already planned out practical practicing party points
for at least the next consecutive seven days.
nice.

the weiner guy popped in yesterday;
that's always an interesting event.
and as per usual,
there was a sausage explosion all over the studio.
that's how it should be, i guess.
y'know; letting it all hang out.
but not in a metaphorical way at all.
at all, at all, ya'll;
it was a real cocktoberfest.
i mean it,
there was even a jack o'lantern set of blumpkin balls involved.
no joke.
there are dull moments sometimes,
but not when fellow beehive humpers are present.
beehive humpers?
yep;
ask shawn,
he'll explain it....

i've got just 29 short hours to kill until i'm elbows-deep in deep-fried dopeness.
the clock is ticking;
never quiet, never soft....

chilly, chili, chile.

it's just the right temperature.
which is to say: marginal fractions above freezing.
and yet, until i can see my breath in the indoor airspace,
the heat stays OFF.
we keep it rough, rugged, and raw in the woodsly goodness.
as a result,
my fingers are like miniature pinkish flavor-ice pops.
i could almost wear some warm woolen mittens in the house.
almost.
however, socks and shod soles are a madated must-have.
i mean it,
we've got a really mutha-flippin' cold floor.
naturally,
my slippers are keeping my battle-damaged digits safe and sound.
(a fleece-filled cradle for crippled curlies is how it's done up here.)
....and if you happen upon a scorch-marked miniature hybrid jellyfish/elizabethan collar,
scoople it up in a tissue and call me;
i'm looking for my a-hole.
sometime during last night i seem to have blown it off my body.
like an outtake from 'backdraft', i assume.
it's possible that maybe two whole bulbs of garlic added in for extra hot fire,
in my already eleventh-level three-bean barbarian buttblasting spicy veggie chili
wasn't my very best idea ever.

texas pete AND sriracha? oh MAN!

it was delicious, but at a brutal, bass-boosted price.
talk about alchemical transmogrification, my ninjas.
i definitely activated some failsafe self-destruct balloon-knot popping powers.
i spit hot fire, indeed.
not surprisingly,
regardless of the northerly nuances of netherworldly temperatures outside,
it was damn warm in the bedroom last night.
somewhat surprisingly,
a fog horn sounded to help me navigate through the clouds i'd conjured.
ouch.
what's more,
the dog cooked herself to well-doneness like a clam-baked holland native,
in what amounted to a devasting double-boiled dutch oven.
that's a pretty hard style,
even for a dirty dog.
--------------------
it's friday.
that's supposed to be good news, yeah?
i've got a whole batch of not-much to look forward to at the shop.
spanning time at 'job' is not as good as spending time at work.

seems everybody else is saving up for the fair, too.

beat street cheapskates and broke-ass b!tches, yo.

those falafels aren't going to buy themselves y'know.

ah well,

48 hours left to languish in the losery lurch of lean times,

and then it's word to new england autumn harvest Folk Life hottness.

fair Fair fairy that i am,

all unabashed, unabated, and un-a-believable,

i am going to puke up a small mysterious serious syrian infant.

by the close of next week,

a phantom teentsy tahini/beany baby is bound to be bursting out of my bronchials.

somebody prep the foghorn;

never quiet, never soft.....

Rabbit, Rabbit!!

F*n' A-right, my ninjas,
it's october.
and that's so dope.hollering heartily from under the covers,
i gave a universal shout-out to good luck,
and ushered in the hottness that can only be cold, wet, haunted october.
the very best month of the year.
thirty one days of amazing,
culminating in the most elite and exciting holiday on the calendar.
believe it.

and that's not all;

sweaters!

woodstoves!

leaf piles!

burly beards!

hay bales!

purple kale!

it's all really ready to jump off.

keep your summer swimsuit season to yourselves, sun worshipers,

because the woodsly goodness is at it's most perfect right now.

a meticulously matched meter of poise and noise,

it's that time of year when even rainstorms are so rad.

go smell the air outside.

seriously.

open your window and take a snootful of sniffage.

that's cool, crisp uncut autumn you're inhaling.

woodsmoke, leaves, apples, hay, corn, rain and wind wafting at your noseholes...

delicious.

if you can't smell it,

you might have a cold,

but more likely than stuffed-up sinuses,

it's probably due to you living somewhere waaay less goodsly than the woods;

which, obviously, is everywhere else.

and if it smells like straight-up sh!tty doo-doo butter,

it's either the stank of the city,

or your upper lip.

that's butt nastiness, indeed.
olfactorily obdurate, kids.

we may be far of from function following form,

but we've got a decidedly better aroma as a result.

it's also our friend jim's twenty-somethingieth berfday!

he gets to work at his suckie job instead of celebrating,

but then again,

so do i....

happy day, ninja!

word up.

i made brownies, twice, to pave the way for octobery dopeness.

the first batch sucked the hardest, fullest set of crusty clankers of all time.

i really, truly should've known better,

but still i tried to hippie-veganize my reliable ol' recipe.

i may be an A-hole after all;

i mean, sunspire chips?!

why would i do that?

if you know anyone, vegan or not, who DOESN'T hate those suckie sucklets of suckiness,

punch 'em in the repros.

hard.

they definitely went to eleven

....on the awful batch-of-ass scale.

of course,

despite the completely precedented fallibility of my baked (not-so) goods,

i was up and at 'em, early shirley this morning,

re-doo-dooin' that brown-eyed brownie batch;

and the NEW hottness,

using my old recipe,

is true-dish delish.

i may not win 'em all, ya'll,

but i've got a chocolicious plate of berserker barbarian brownies

that says i'm willing to go double-or-nuthin';

never quiet, never soft.....

wake me up,

...when september ends.
ouch.
did i just quote up on some green day?
what am i,
an A-hole?
i must be coming down with something.
like a sweltering case of the douche-chills.
c'mon.
i should've gone with an Avett Brothers lyric,
but i'm not all the way ready for that much dopeness.
have you heard the newness?
go get it.
right now.
you need it, you really do.

this is it.
the last little bit of september.
already.
time certainly blows by at about a billion bits a second.
october is on it's way.
parts of the world are already there, even.
this week will usher in a pair of important berfdays,
but we'll burn those bridges as we come to 'em.
the very beginning of next week is what's actually worth waiting for.
and once it starts,
the secret stash of cash i've kept locked away is getting broken out.
somebody call the hospital and tell 'em to get the stomach pump ready;
Falafel Week begins in just a few short days.
and when i say short,
i mean it.
early sunsets have been stealthily encroaching on my daylight savings account.
it's pitch black out before dinner's cooked?
what?
at least i can curl up and take 'er easy as she goes,
with a good book, a ganache-glazed barbarian brownie, and a lovely ladyfriend,
all under a toasty flannel blanket,
without the dark and dank leaking in.
new windows are doing it for me these days,
and doing it well.
i've got a lot of optimism for the days ahead.
the right nows aren't exactly epic,
and i'm not exactly livin' it up,
although i'm still living well;
there's a pot of pasta fagioli and escarole on the stove,
there's a comforting comforter on my bed,
there's more of this lessened leanness to learn a lesson from up here,
but still,
it's all really happening,
and the really real reality of a slowed-down season is sinking in.
the weather is ugly over here,
i wish i were beautiful,
as much as i wish you were here,
in the meantimes,
i'll settle for ugly, broke, broken, and dope;
never quiet, never soft....

spent.

skunked!
a zero day at the tatblasting superstation can put a dirty dent in a decent day off.
no tattoos at all, ya'll.
hell,
the lone phone call we got was a wrong number.
i'm serious.
for the last decade,
the iowa heart center has put out a television commercial in the midwest
with OUR toll-free 800 number on it.
instead of theirs.
for ten years.
in a row.
seriously,
they never corrected it.
and so,
during a station break on 'all my children' or some other serial visual inane A-holery,
old ladies call us to inquire about their cardiopulmonary well-being.
and then the confusion sets in.
imagine the alzheimer's dementia fears when you find yourself talking to ME,
instead of to the representative whom the television just told you
is supposed to be standing by with more information.
yeah.
that was the big action for the workday.
lame.
i thought for sure that i'd be big-ballin' with deep pockets.
instead i'm deep doo-dooin' a 'buttery bag of doo-doo.
what?
yep.

new windows are keeping the cold out today.

the ever-present uncle steven-y construction continues.

these diabolical dumbwaiting dongs were hiding in the wells in the walls.

they dildoo-doo that up and down action ya'll.

window counter-weights might be pretty fresh.

one disappeared into the wall,

all mines of moria-type careening, it seems,

but without making too much of an orc-inciting racket on the way down.

of course,

much later in the evening,

it must've slipped loose,

because the crashing cacophony caused some incredible drums in the deep

to hammer out a double-bass double time tempo of destruction.

i'm not even trying to see what kind of wreckage resides within these walls.

if they could talk, ya'll,

they'd probably just laugh and name-call us for trying to fix the place.

a band-aid on a bullethole, yeah?

wrench-choosing knows no limits.

the weather is better.

the temperature is colder.

i don't know if i'm more broken than my home is,

or my house is, for that matter,

but i'm definitely more broke than i was earlier.

new windows.

delicious dinner.

days off with no dinero.

it's all still really happening.

really-real rural pre-winter preparations;

never quiet, never soft.....

broken homes and broken bones.

i've got both, ya'll and i'll tell you what;
the toe-jamboree hurts waaaay less...
the good news?
the garage leak is watertight and out of sight.
of course, that's not the only news...

there's a leaky situation in the back bedroom.

no,

robert hasn't made an important anthroplological breakthrough in my house.

that's a leakey situation.

this is the other kind;

i've got water seeping within from without.

in a whole new other 'nother spot.

spontaneous disintegration, my ninjas.

unnanounced, improvised havoc.

one middle finger plugging up the dam,

and ten more holes popping up.

that's eleven holes all together, kids,

and that's one more problem than i've got the dexterity to deflect.

it's not exactly fun trying to guess where something terrible will spring up next.

it's like that cow poop bingo thing that churches do.

where you 'buy' squares of lawn,

and if the big ugly bovine cudsucker craps on yours,

you win a used pontiac that somebody's grandma left to the church when she died;

except it's my house,

and it's the whole wide world peeing into it,

and all i win the pleasure of fixing it.

so i guess it's really more like wondering where i'm going to lose next.

since i already own all the squares an' that.

nice.

yep,

aaaaand,

there's a little plinking plunking droplet faucet

forming on the other other side of the house, too.

i must be a newly birthed baby goat, because someone is obviously kidding me.

in every life a little rain must fall.

that's cool.

i just hoped it would be outside.

when folks say something's got to give,

i wonder if it should be assumed it will be the roof?

never quiet, never soft.....

sun(less)day

cold, wet, and awful.
no, not my underpants,
the weather.
grossness is pervading the atmosphere.
wet oaks drop branches bigger than babies on my roof.
loud and hard, just the way i like it.
there're acorns rockin' my world up here in a hailstormy deluge of debris.
the Fall fallout free-falling from the boughs is bangin' breakbeats outside the bedroom.
i can't stand the rain, kids, and you know this;
this nasty drippy drab doo-doo is the precursor to big treats, though.
the nights are longer and harder,
and all that chilled-out darkness leads to light bright magnificence.
peak season is headed down the pike, ya'll.
that's autumn foliage color explosions
all over and under the valleys and mountains of the woodsly goodness.
somethin' about cold rain has the secret nutrient combination.
it activates the sugar-changing tint-transformers in the trees.
i'm ready.
i need the hottness of the fiery flame-hued treeline.
it'll help soothe the road-raging berserker fury directed at all the leaf-peepers
out on the rural roads, driving like snail-paced gawkers,
amazed that when you don't pave over 'em to build donut shops and discount retail outlets,
trees are actually pretty flippin' rad.
where's the lorax when you need a lesson to be taught?
i'm just sayin',
it's unfortunate that trees become almost safari-like exotic and rare spectacles
to weak-sauce waterbabyish city-limited sh!t-slickers.
but while the deep doo-doo of elderly lookers-on is lame as F*,
the sparkle magical freshness of Fall is in mutherlickin' full swing.
when the rainy days are over,
the wicky-wacky windy wonderment will kick it up to eleven.
it's a waiting game:
one week until the fair.
one more day until my weekend.
one hour, one minute, one moment at a time....
ma nature is shaking her money-maker, my ninjas,
like a go-go dancing stormswept gypsy stripper,
peeling layers in red, yellow, orange, green and brown;
i'm paying my pre-winter dues in the woodsly hood,
waiting for my all natural lapdance of autumny butt-nastiness;
never quiet, never soft.....