no time. like the present.

that's a thing.
no time.
presently, that's what there is.
busy busybody business,
and balls-out nonstop uphill battle beastliness.
tiring?
yeah, kinda.
luckily,
sickness and vacationary family times
make sleep very nearly nonexistent.
after all,
sleep is restful,
and the wicked aren't supposed to get much.
which is weird,
since most lazy D-bags i know sleep in regularly.
of course,
all us early birds and sleepless heaps need a little somethin' extra
to get it poppin'.
somethin' along the lines of nuthin'.
huh?
nuthin' muffins that is!

bam!
no berries, bananas, nuts, chips, or whatever.
...just muffin.
not cake in a cup,
but nuthin' in a muffin.
with a heapin' helpin' of hot oat streusel on top.
wordimus prime, ninjas.
************
days off, over and out.
tomorrow the grind is back in effect,
with or without grist to get the gist.
dry grind?
like a homecoming dance, neighbors.
uncomfortable, ugly, awkward, and dreaded.
it's happening.
tomorrow.
tonight, however,
it's good little girls with sugar, spice, and everything nice.
and chemical lights.
or as you skeevy dancehall doo-doo bumpers know 'em:
glowsticks.
secret mutha-lickin' tunnels, kids.
in real life;
never quiet, never soft.....

big fun family togetherness times.

whaaaaaaaat??
even pooped-up squack can't compete with that, my ninjas.
just the five of us,
in full effect.
having a time of it.
a good time of it, at that.
making the best out of the trials and tests
of vacation visitation frustration.
concentrate, duders.
with your mind.
and concentrate,
like a bouillon of super-saturated thunder-sap
distilled into Folk Life & Liberty warrior poetry.
so good.
*
we hit up the walk-in clinic this morning,
and got a deep-pockets diagnosis.
fifth's disease.
when you have it,
you just have it,
until you don't have it anymore.
$100 for a doctor to take three actual minutes
to tell us that.
we waited for over an hour in the reception area.
$33.33 a minute?
that's a rate i can respect,
even if the prognosis was petulant and prim.
*
we did the green elephant for dinner.
vegan shark gluttony, in big bigger bites,
lots of swallowing,
and little to no chewing.
the five fingers of folk life, neighbors.
that's a fistful of fretful feasting,
fraught with fresh veggies and spicy soy nuggets.
that's a thing.
for real.
since we were already in portland, maine,
we hit up trader joe's,
and whole foods, too.
crackery, uppity snobbery?
yes, please.
we've got holistic, healthy hunks of
twenty different kinds of treats an' that.
organic cookies are still fatty-boombatty calorie bombs,
but they don't have any funky chemicals,
so it's good for you, right?
c'mon.
we did it,
we drove,
to, fro, and in the mix of the midst of maine's downeast coastline....
and now we're back where we began.
with no time on either side of any minute in my life,
we made a slated-up slot
of family togetherness.
that is absolutely what's up.
full hearts,
full bellies,
full schedules.
oh, and fifth's disease.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

the dwindle.

the world does seem smaller, right?
i mean,
not necessarily in an overpopulated congestion way,
but more like there's a disconnect in the interconnectedness.
a break in the circadian circuits,
y'know- more arcs,
and fewer perfect concentric ever-expanding circles.
or maybe, just maybe,
the more inward we look, the circles are just getting smaller anyway.
radiating smoke ring water-ripple overlaps...
the epicenter is the smallest point,
and maybe that's where i'm at right now.
wait?
what?
duders,
i'm talking about the dwindle.
it's a waning, declining, past-peak downturn kind of a thing.
once you hit your acme,
it's all downhill from there, yeah?
yeah.
now THAT'S some underenthusiatic-type hard-style sh!t, son.
i guess that's just what it is.
***********
there are a pair of gorgeous little girls hanging out up here.
they had a stepmom funtime explosion while i was tatzapping,
and the flavorful vibes are flowing fast and free.
neighbors,
i came home to hot dinner,
hotter wife,
and superfly fresh 'best dad ever' cards from the girls.
harvest and maple are having big fun.
it's woodsly.
it's goodsly.
and it is most assuredly all really happening.
snow fort?
yep.
arts and crafts?
yep.
green elephant?
tomorrow, ninjas.
there are good parts,
even during the dwindle.
if it's gonna blow out like a candle,
it's gonna also go out with a bang;
never quiet, never soft.....

fresh out of time.

sunday morning,
and it's anything but easy.
i'm tellin' you duders-
my immune system is apparently mislabeled.
because i am NOT immune to the nutmeg plague.
that's a thing, neighbors.
and it is no fine and dandy matter.
at all.
i have come to the conclusion that
connecticut has it in for me.
i was there for only the briefest of moments,
and somehow procured a doomsday virus for my face.
i'm serious.
tons of folks in the woodsly north have some kind of trailer-cough,
or hick-foot.
or woodbooger-lung,
or whatever other 'nother up-here ailments they catch....
but for us former city folk,
those redneck germs from up here are too backwoods and backwards
to infect our vegan-healing, white blood cell system-superpowers,
but,
the kryptonite of connecticut's strength-sapping suck-sauce
has accomplished what the blackest of white mountain forests could not,
and aggressively infiltrated my lymph nodes an' that.
like assassins and spies,
these virulent infectious defectors and dissidents
sowed civil unrest in my antibody collective.
agent provocateurs, all up in my busy body business.
and now i've got that 'itis, ninjas.
head all swollen solid,
ears all plugged and deaf-defied,
nostrils all clogged/unclogged in unpedictable intervals.
it's pretty cool,
or it would be,
if it was happening to someone else.
of course,
that's not how it ever goes, now, is it?
nope.
if it weren't for hard healthy homeopathic herbs,
i'd probably just drip-dry until empty.
but that's weak sauce,
and we don't put that on our partcipatory pasta, right?
riiight.
i've got a north african uprising in my brain bucket,
and the protestors aren't looking like they'll be leaving town square
anytime soon.
sorry, winter vacation,
but it's snots and spreading of the connecticut snotulism
all flippin' day.
indy 500?
what?
i'll be doing laps to the bathroom and back.
pole position on the buttery, blarpity, booger express.
yesterday we made regular people look like zombies,
today,
it's me who looks undead,
and that's without the use of latex and make-up.
*
airborne contagions,
all patient zero-type hot fiery feverskin tattoo time.
you'd better have eaten your eagle's eggs, kids.
you'll need molto nutrients to battle back against
this dastardly doo-doo butter.
i'm sayin',
it's happening,
and it's happening hard;
never quiet, never soft.....

z is for zombie.

photoshoot production photos?
okay:

c'mon.
very special thanks to jason and jojo rosen for making the trip from ledyard, ct.
check out jason's big action at monsterwood.
thanks go out in just as big amounts to
max, elsah, and brooklyn for gettin' covered in goobie blops,
peter marques for bringing guns and wearing masks,
and the generosity of the rovetti family for allowing the use of their home
as a makeshift super-rad portrait studio.
greenscreen, whaaaaaaaaaat?!
yeah.
all in all, a great way to spend a saturday
in the great white wintry woodsly goodness.
a bunch of educated duders,
and active participants gettin' into it,
mixin it up,
and doo-dooing all the freaky sh!t.
hard.
my peoples bring the fresh noisy berserker dress-up fury, son.
and no thanks to any of y'all, ninjas who stayed home and sauced out.
because you wallflowers missed out.
big time.
it happened, neighbors.
...and it was good.
real life pretend zombie hottness.
if you aren't psyched,
you're probably, nay, most definitely an A*hole;
never quiet, never soft.....

happy returns.

i did not shoot the sheriff.
it may have actually have been the deputy, anyway.
still,
the messenger is never ever really the one to blame.
that's a real thing.
***********
over and out, connecticut.
a lot of driving,
almost no sleeping,
and a double dose of tatzap fever....
i'm home again, home again.
all jiggety-jig an' that.
late to bed and early to rise,
and a whole highway or three full of
road warrior poetry,
plus a couple of quickie fill-in tattoos,
and the day is done.
hard.
and so am i .
finished with being awake.
finished with being at work.
finished with being in the car.
over.
and out;
never quiet, never soft.....

connected, severed.

aawwwwww, man;
my ninjas, i am trying to tell y'all-
doing what needs doing means doing the doo-doo butter.
that's no joke.
if you're tuning in late,
you may not know that i have two terrific little ladies in my life.
yep.
darling daughters.
valkyrie vixens.
and it's high time, well-nigh time, and the perfect time
for a little super-duper family togetherness action.
which is where the hardest style of vehicular sojourn comes in-
guess who has to take a whirlwind jaunt,
all p.m. powertrain,
and passing through massholechussetts,
to the nutmeg nut-job nut-bag state?
yep.
after work today i get to go to connecticut.
before work tomorrow, i drive home.
getting up early to get ahead of presidential weekend traffic,
just to get nestled back into the tourist turdblasts
of presidential weekend population pump-ups
in the presidential mountain range.
10 hours in the car,
with 6 hours of sleep in between.
real ninjas do real road warrior sh!t, neighbors.
the silver-lined bright spot in this sunless trek to turdtown?
once it's over and done with,
harvest and maple are gonna be where they belong-
the woodsly goodness of Folk Life & Liberty in
the white mountainous mount washington valley,
of northern (read: genuine real life) new hampshire.
before i go-go to the no-no spot,
i'm tattooing some more face skin.
eyebrows.
again.
another other 'nother set of surprisers...
and then driving down to the swamp.
the bog of eternal stench, even.
doubled-down on stress, kids, for sure.
actually, now that i think about it-
responsible adulthood called earlier;
told me to 'take it deep',
whatever that means.
weird.
***********
hours and hours and hours.
that's what's up.
and let's not forget that we're adding the wolfen lunar tug
of the full-moon guiding-nightlight.
back to the o.g. den where the cubs got whelped, ninjas.
hours after hours, all afterhours...
work.
road.
traffic.
sleep.
traffic.
road.
work.
circadian rythms,
and concentric circles.
tightening cycles,
inside ever-expanding gyres.
add in some pyres,
and you can bet it's all really happening.
next stop:
weak-sauce waterbaby world...
connecticut,
you're lucky you'll be asleep when i arrive-
we comin' rougher every time;
never quiet, never soft.....

consumption.

dope dinner.

all roasty, rooted, and doused in homestyle homemade mushroom gravy.
when it's late night, and past time, and family dinner needs cooking,
we doo-doo the triple threat, neighbors.
tofurky roast.
brussels sprouts.
onions, carrots, 'tatoes, and sweet'uns.
the oh-so so-goodness got all kinds of ovened-up.
we like to share some foodie parts in a big way.
the best thing about a panful of tubers
is that a panful is too much for three people.
too much is what time it is when it's time for dope dinner.
and that means leftovers.
and leftover dope dinner makes for even better big breakfast.
teleport:

what-whaaaat?!
scrambled up 'fu, with that pimenton dulce ahumado?
yep.
english-type toasting bread?
of course.
baconesque slabs of some kind of ruddy brown strip material?
okay.
home-style re-roasted rootin' homefries?
c'mon.
what am i?
an A*-hole?
no flippin' way.
i'm a full-to-burstin' fat-bellied barbarian.
so good.
***********
so the iraq war was based on the word of some dude.
some dude who said that iraq was a serious biological threat.
and it turns out that some dude was tellin' fibs.
big fat wartime liarmouth fibs.
no chemical monster sauce.
no truck-bed rockets.
no nuthin',
but a disgruntled ex-iraqi national who
'had a problem' with iraq's regime.
had a problem, neighbors.
and when he saw the chance to cry wolf,
AND get results,
and indirectly kill 100k people, mostly civilians.
now that's a problem, son.
what.
the.
mutha.
F*?
oh, don't worry,
he's proud of what he did.
and possibly not the only one, either.
i mean, germany gave him asylum, too.
i know.
true stories, told truly, are how we get busy up here-
but i guess tall tales turdblasted out
is how the other 'nother doo-duders do it.
weak sauce is an epic understatement.
freedom based on falsehood?
the ends justify the means?
am i crazy,
or did somebody just turn on the suckiness all the way past eleven?
full-moon lunacy just got outshone.
but, at least liarmouth sh!theads got what they wanted,
and freedom is ringing somewhere.
just probably not in the hearts or minds of all those dead folks.
*
we tell the truth.
because we always employ the best policy.
worthy warrior poets.
real-life documentarians.
active participants,
and goodsly, woodsly, honest, honest-to-goodness
gratitude and generosity.
i am grateful for where i'm at,
who i'm with,
and for the truth.
it's all really happening-
good, bad, and ugly;
never quiet, never soft.....

day off layoff

panniecakes or bananas?
pannie cakes AND bananas.
banana panniecakes!
start your sh!t right, son!!

oh yes.
when the woodsly havoc takes a deep breath,
and allows for a lapse in the lightning-strike launches,
it's not actually a day off, duders.
it's a race to cram in as much hottness as possible.
that's right, we work twice as hard at relaxing than we do at working.
and when it's time to disembark from the brouhaha barbarism,
you've got to begin with syrup, and potassium,
and sweet griddled-up goobieblops.
now that's the darn truth.
i'm just sayin',
when the buttery batter gets browned up,
errands get run, ninjas.
hard.
***********
the hoth base is under construction, kids.
for my kids.
secret tunnels,
in the snow.
an underground ice base.
a snow fort beyond comparison.
the big fun in the big drifts.
it's underway.
and when the second phase gets finished tomorrow,
you'll get a sneak peek.
don't sleep, neighbors.
you wouldn't want to miss out, would you?
i didn't think so.
*
don't forget about saturday.
the big zombie make up photo shoot.
you'll wish you were there if you aren't;
and you can be there.
so be there.
i mean, really, ninjas.
blood, guts, guns, and green screens?
that's what's up.
let's make it work.
***********
also,
take a look outside.
up in the sky.
that big pizza pie?
no, it's not amore, friends.
it's the howlin' holy-sh!t hottness,
and it's got the wolfen wendigo a-go-go
going into overdrive.
sleep?
sleeeeeeeep?!
c'mon.
i don't have to doo-doo that weak sauce until some other time.
i've got silver to shun,
skin to shed,
and berserker battle-beast burliness to blast out.
the waxing is waxing, an' that.
more.
that's how we get busy on a non-business day,
and even more is how we take on the night.
right about now,
i can almost feel the tidal tug of a gnarly, nuanced neap leap.
oh,
and nobody has firewood worth a dang,
and i'm fresh out.
howling mad,
and huddled close for comfort.
thank heavens for all the fur under this pink veil;
never quiet, never soft..... 

be mine.

truth.
love.
true love.
that's all well and good,
if you're a sad sack of 'sauce, suckas.
warriors of the poetic sagas want something way better:
possessive love.
obsessive love.
progressive love.
tainted love.
....duders!
today is the big day.
saint valentine,
and his 24 hour chocolates and satin soiree.
it's time for conversations about hearts,
and conversation hearts.
two-word messages,
and one-two-punch knockouts.
swollen aortas,
fist-sized muscles moving floodwaters
of red and white.
now that's a heart attack, duders.
hard-style pounding,
and hard style pounding.
punching platelets, ninjas.
pugilistic plasma.
the vital life-nectar,
sweet syrup from the geyser of romance.
easy now, i'm talkin' about in your chest.
less-than-three, an' that.
<3...c'mon. you like it.
the constituent filtration system.
ciruclating, like rings.
no ends, no new beginnings...
just more and more of all this.
air, nutrients, eagle's F*ing eggs.
attacking hearts and minds,
and winning.
that's what we're on about.
stoking the ebullient ashes in the hot fire furnace,
and deeping to the doo-doo dolors of
it's cast iron black-history breakbeat kettledrum cadence.
arrows, and eros/cupid naked flying babies,
and piercing stabulator robin hood quiverings.
...and candy.
don't forget the candy, neighbors.
sweetness to balance the bitterness of loves-me-nots,
and sugar to boost the sappy saccharine sentiments
of the insincere and unworthy.
corny cards and corn-syrup carotid-clogs.
shot through, and stickily sealed shut again.
real talk,
and real hearts.
and conversation.
*
it's not enough to have free love, kids.
i want to own it.
be mine.
not everybody's.
that's word.
i've got my sparkle-magical woodsly goodness,
and my two best buddies,
one of whom is my turbo-hot and fantastic wifely dopeness.
heck,
you can keep them chocolate jauns,
unless you'd like 'em melted by all the warm feelings
and hot fires we're druid-drumming and shaman circling
right here at the homestead.
hot chocolate?
maybe.
hot fire?
absolutely.
aww, c'mon.
circles, in smoke,
circles, in arteries,
in corpuscles and capillaries.
flowing forward, and back again,
over and over.
my heart beats.
yours get beaten.
heart attacks and conversations.
true stories told truly.
it all happens-
really;
never quiet, never soft.....

thirteen ways to say some things.

sunday morning.
the thirteenth.
unluckiest of numbers,
lamest of days,
hardest of styles.
even a t-n-t breakfast of tea and toast
may not be able to pull up from nosedive like this one.
wrenches abound, duders.
in every way, on every nut, and every pipe.
metaphoric sausage-squeezing tightening-vise constricting?
yep.
you know this, my ninjas:
really-real mutha-uckas should be getting busy doing so much more
than just working and sleeping and eating.
that's word.
we only get this time we've been given,
and not one extra day for perfect attendance,
or additional work-ethic related drive or motivation.
a finite fleet of fleeting hours,
and an empty vessel for the contents therein.
jeez.
what the F* are we gonna fill in all these blanks with?
lightning.
vikings.
barbarian battle-beasts.
bullets.
bread.
puppets.
and participation.
especially participation.
passive aggressive just won't work with warrior poetry.
aggressive aggressive? that's more like it.
shore-storming berserker attacking and sacking.
we plunder whilst we bring the thunder,
and what we're taking is time.
our time.
that's exactly it, kids.
we take our time, at breakneck pace.
sunday, bloody sunday.
like a british epithet,
or a dry-air woodstove nosebleed.
we doo-doo that pulse-pounding hard-pounding real sh!t.
it's that time.
every time.
*
halfway to march, already.
march into spring,
and spring into summer.
it's a just a short series of walks, skips, hops, and jumps,
and before you know it,
we're out of time.
...again.
which means, in the meantime,
there are sure to be some mean times,
and hard-styles,
to beset and besiege the big business and big action
of a woodsly, goodsly, Folk Life & Liberty lifestyle.
things, neighbors.
things happen.
and if you aren't at eleven on the hottness scale,
you're probably already out of time.
it's all really happening.
all these things.
the lamest day,
the unluckiest number,
the easiest morning,
the hardest styles;
never quiet, never soft.....