getting there.

extra hours of awakefulness?
that means extra hours of arthur-making.
this one is shaping up,
slowly, but surely.
teleport:

saturday morning cartoons?
that's not very nice, neighbors.
i still don't know what goes in those top holes.
whatever, kids...
it's early,
my hands are cramped and shaky,
and i'm drawing pictures.
a winning combination that is NOT.
however,
it IS what's poppin';
never quiet, never soft.....

filthy.

what the F*?
this is disgusting:

yuck.
looks like my asiatic lilies
won't be rockin' in the free world this year.
sh!t-blop crapperpillars?
c'mon.
why are they so flippin' wet-looking?
butt-nasty little ninjas who crept in overnight
and bit those b!tches to death.
a pestilence of miniature mandibles and inflated thoraxes.
who invited them?
it wasn't me.
i'm trying not to assume it's an omen.
a harbinger of hard-style destruction,
slowly devouring the beauty in the world
in a colostomy raisin monster's mouth.
awwwwwwwww, man.
it feels like that's what's up, though.
to tell the truth, and i always do,
those lilies got off easy.
bite, chew, swallow, done-zo.
that's it.
the end.
quick and brutal and over and out.
no blooms, barely any buds, just a hope,
and a failure, and nobody knows what they've missed
because it didn't actually happen.
there's something to be said for almost.
because it's equally hard to lament and laud it.
it's spilt milk and dry cows simultaneously.
resignation and hope hang out at the same spots, y'all.
i'm sure of it.
***********
it's bike week.
laconia, new hampshire's contribution
to overpriced leather and sausage sandwiches,
sh!tty tattoos,
and image-conscious unity amongst professionals
masquerading as goateed doucheblasters.
hooray.
i'm praying for bad weather.
seriously.
praying.
to old gods, and dark gods, and elemental spirits.
to tempests and fault lines and ma nature's caprice.
i could stand a week of hurricane winds
and hailstones the size of hubcaps.
i mean,
i missed out on my mayday parade day this year,
and i could've really used a dose of that dopeness-
so why not sh!t on their salads, too?
c'mon.
i love company.
i love misery.
it's all really happening.
enjoy your weekend, kids;
i've already made other plans;
never quiet, never soft.....

oh, snap.

it's so wet and rainy and busted outside
that water is spreading everywhere.
it's seeping out of the soil,
it's turning pastures into ponds,
it's making the driest ditch into the muddiest stream.
and with this advancing liquid frontier
comes advancing semi-aquatic reptiles.
what's that, neighbors?
wild life.
check the battle-beast battle-tank turtle sh!t:

yeah!
this duder was just hanging out alongside the road,
watching traffic splash through deep puddles.
it wasn't really concerned when i got all up in it's face.
no snapping or even really retracting into it's houseback bowl.
i guess it cold tell that we're two pieces of a bigger picture.
no,
not some greater universal synchronicity between all living things.
c'mon.
what are you?
a hypersensitive diaper-baby of weak-sauce feel-goodery?
stop that.
i'm sayin' real ninjas recognize real.
y'heard?
face-biting brutality knows when it's made a friend.
i'm just sayin',
animals have weird senses and sh!t, y'all.
they can tell important stuff with their instincts or whatever.
(it's because they can't talk, i think)
anyway,
we hung out for a minute.
and i got even closer.
F* a zoom function, yo.
i get up in faces, for your faces:

yuuuuuuuuuuuup.
snapping turtles are dope.
even when they're far from where water usually lives,
but close to it's vanguard of surface tension and saturated soil.
hobos who know that heart and home reside in the same place:
in an armored fortress on their back.
a burden and a sanctuary, a comfort and an onus,
in the same place at the same time,
carried with them wherever they go.
portable countries.
sovereign satellites,
sluggishly sauntering from one wet hole to another.
it doesn't sound so bad, does it?
the rain brings the thunder,
and vice versa.
it brings life,
it ruins it, too.
i mean it.
tell those flooded fields how good water is,
and i bet they'd tell you to suck balls if they could.
the remainder brings that wild life.
it's all really happening,
wetly landing in newly marked marshes along the
pathways and former roadways turned watercourses
of the mountainous mudbogs of the woodsly goodness.
***********
i don't get it, kids.
for real.
i thought we were living in the future.
right?
so,
what's up with dwelling on the past?
yeah.
yesterday was terrible.
just like every day.
but today is THE day, y'heard me?
just like every day.
i can't make yesterday more dope than it was,
and neither can you.
acknowledge it, learn something, and move on.
that's the preferred poetic pathway to acceptance,
which, in turn, segues into expert activation.
today, duders.
that's what's up.
cloudy, cold, full of bloodsuckers on the wing.
it's sort of like yesterday,
but it's NOT.
another chance to go to eleven,
to choose the wrench,
to hump a beehive,
whatever.
today, friends;
never quiet, never soft..... 

1613.

duders,
i've been so 'busy',
i missed the fact that i've written over 1600 entries.
one thousand six hundred and thirteen,
including this one.
wow.
that's a pretty big dumb number,
especially for the daily doings of a ghetto philosopher
and introspective extrovert/hermit.
y'know,
when it comes down to it,
i kind of cancel myself out.
i'm not sayin', i'm just sayin'.
but,
i've got some good news for you ninjas;
that's not ALL i do.
arthur-making?
yuuuup.
check the teleport:

it needs so much.
like, so many more lines, and so much more sh!t
to make it go to eleven.
it doesn't even have an XI in it, yet.
that needs fixin', friends.
and what goes in those top circles?
i don't know that either.
i've now got a stack of half-started, stalled-out
projects that beg for completion, complication,
participation and activation.
and just look at this little guy:

yeah!
spitting hot fire, for your face!!
neighbors,
if there aren't acorns, i'm not interested.
***********
i wonder if these bottled-up messages to the world
make it past the duders i know,
and flow off into the atmosphere to summon
spirits and memories of worth, wood, and goodness
out to the ninjas i don't?
one thousand six hundred largely ignored love letters
sent with crossed hearts and crossed fingers to the idea
that a better fate than death awaits us anywhere.
it's all really happening.
that's no joke.
i mostly just have this to keep me company:

hard mutha-F*ing styles, y'all.
low-resolution spirit animal sh!t.
some people get a bear, or a fox, or whatever.
i get a stinky, retarded dog.
i assume nobody is that surprised?
yeah;
never quiet, never soft.....

bachelor burger.

neighbors,
i'm not proud of it,
but i do this:

uh-huh.
a live-alone vegan expert sandwich.
double-veggie boca burgers,
pan-fried tofurkey slices,
cholula chipotle hot sauce,
and some bib lettuce,
(mostly for the photo's sake).
loss of sleep?
lack of appetite?
general malaise?
put that in your face, and cure it all-
it's every night's delight, my ninjas.
like, for real, every night.
what's for dinner?
brown circles.
and you'll notice there's no plate, yeah?
yeah.
dining alone means F* doing dishes,
y'heard?
i'm not starving,
unless it's for attention.
but i'm sure as sh!t not satisfied.
i've got plenty more, as well.
well-stocked with box after box of bachelor patties
for my bachelor padded-cell.
awwwwwwwwwwwwww.
but how many days in a row is too many?
it depends.
most times, the object is MORE anyway, right?
a week of this meal and i'm still going strong,
but four months of other worse things,
and i'm wasting away.
i need the nutrients, kids,
not just the sustenance.
that's a fact;
never quiet, never soft.....

cake.

hey there, folks.
i made myself a berfday cake,
or maybe an anniversary cake,
or maybe an 'it's-not-raining' cake,
or maybe just a bloated grandiose display
of unnecessary fancy-pants indulgence cake.
i'm not sure it wasn't all of those things.
i am sure it was delicious.
and heavy.
and big.
and time consuming.
and sugary-sweet like a cavity creep.
the process was more important than the product.
for serious.
the path was the goal,
and simultaneously that path was the gaol.
yuuup.
i've been kind of trapped in a series
of synchronized absences which require
a whole bunch of baking to activate.
procedural problem solving is my jam, y'all.
baking, a step-by-step-type
plan your work, work your plan-style batch of business,
a logical chain of events,
is how i get busy stimulating my brainwaves to battle
against the doo-doo buttery bad parts of full moons and empty beds.
awwwwwwwwwwwwww.
but enough about all that.
it's time to fill our bellies with empty calories!
neighbors,
from me to you,
from the woodsly goodness to your house,
via the future,
check the F*ing teleport:

c'mon.
triple layers, b!tch.
recognize that even at my low points,
i go to eleven.
a layer of secret self-invented recipe cake,
a layer of chocolate raspberry ganache,
a layer of brownie in circular cake shape,
another 'nother layer of choco-raz ganache,
and a top slab of cake.
oh, yeah,
and strawberry-chocolate frosting over all of that.
it has so much mass, the bottom layer is getting crushed
by the dense-bombery of that brick-sh!thouse brownie.
it's a three-story true story of spirit and memories.
for everybody and everything that keeps it real
and really happens.
stacked instead of overlapped,
but circles of similar-size all the same,
it's a light and dark and light again metaphor.
or maybe just a bellyache waiting to happen.
i'm not afraid to celebrate in absentia.
i do my dirt all by my lonely, homie.
***********
over and over,
it's over,
and over again.
and again.
it's not just cake i'm a glutton for, i guess.
y'know?
amassing masochism by the slice,
makes for a looooong decade, duders.
the truth?
you never go out on top.
and it usually ends with a whisper,
not a bang.
the sweet nothings of nothing?
F* off.
the tantalizing promise of new beginnings can kiss off,
and luckily,
i'm still puckered right up from a faceful of bitter ends;
never quiet, never soft.....

CUCCHIE COUP.

duders,
let's all take a deep breath and sing a song.
you wanna know which song?
the happy birthday song.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
neighbors,
you had better sing it like you're drunk,
and it's karaoke night.
i'm telling you-
i want to hear it loud, fresh, and hard,
eardrum-piercing, head-splitting, axl rose-type
paradise city anthemic capacity-crowd style belting
out of the lyrics, in time, in tune,
and meter measured in hottness and decibels.
you minky mutha-uckers had better believe it:
it's the cucch's berfday.
uh-huh.
trip-deuce is in effect.
thirty-two years of being a good one,
in a row.
now,
you ninjas know i've got a choice crew of worthy peoples.
hand-selected for superior expertism and active participation,
equal parts gratitude and generosity, spirit and memory,
with a whole heaping hunk of just-be-dopeness
thrown in for good measure.
not everybody can hang out.
that's a fact.
i'm very discriminating about who gets
On The List.
and when i cross-reference and fact-check that List,
it turns out there's a name at the top.
word up.
i've got a bestest one.
it's the cucch.
he sure hates his berfday, y'all,
but i'm sure glad he's around,
so i love it that today is the day.
...........
hey!!
i've got an idea...
he's gonna work all day,
instead of taking twenty four hours for himself,
to celebrate life, liberty, and the pursuit of dreams and wonders,
because he's like that.
but don't y'all think he should get some treats
from the other other expert activators out there anyway?
i know that i think that.
...so,
let's all give him a call (even if you don't know him)
at his workplace environment,
and brighten up his afternoon like a party candle.
no.
for serious.
here's the number:
508.693.1137
doo-doo that celebratory fete and festive freaky-diki sh!t.
and make sure you sing, kids.
he's worth it.
***********
yeah.
speaking of worth.
check the teleport:

uh-huh.
rebexpert is kind of winning.
sent, with love and sh!t like that,
to the woodsly goodness,
care of your main man in the mountains,
from martha's vineyard.
four little doses of dopeness.
a quadrangle of quality to improve the mood up here.
just what the prescription/inscription called for.
oh, yeah;
and check this fifth piece of business out, too:

c'mon.
friendship bracelet jauns?
we GOT they.
there were two taped up in it.
but i'm already wearing mine.
i do that.
*
ugh.
F* you, werewolf winter reminiscence.
huh?
i'm just sayin'-
i've not slept in two days.
and i'm freezing.
temperatures in the forties?
not cool.
cold, actually.
and i'm dressing appropriate to the calendar,
by which i mean short sleeves and flippy-floppies.
that's what's up.
frostbitten toes and shivering gooseflesh arms, really.
the frozen june moon has got it going on.
although i just have to feel it, since i can't see it.
the clouds have made the sky a consistently impenetrable sheet
of ash and smoke colored, streaming, steam-style expanding
expanses of cyclical evaporation and condensation.
magnetic pulls and tidal waves,
and tidal pulls and magnetic waves.
today marks thirty-two years
of best friendly earthbound existence.
today would've made ten straight years
of cooperative communicative union.
you can't win 'em all, y'all.
i am grateful for the notches in the victory column,
and i'm learning on a steep curveless incline from the losses;
never quiet, never soft.....7x15

full and empty.

one hundred.
and four.
...luscious degrees?
not quite, my ninjas.
how about a week of rain?

two weeks of rain?

...go away.

come again some other day.

or better yet,

next month.
were i an itsy-bitsy spider,
my water spout topping trials would be
brutally depressing right about now.
plus,
no matter how itsy, or bitsy,
F* those spiders anyway.
wooooord up, kids.
-

y'know what i've got,

but that ma nature is presently not?

check the ghost whispers on the teleport:

shhhh.
you see it right?
the art shot camerawork doesn't ruin it, does it?
subtle, nearly invisible,
but a glance askance tells you all you need:

yuuuuup.

expert.

that's me.
oh, c'mon.
you like it.
it's actually a baby diarrhea green card,
but my light sources had their own hue to imbue.
anyway, i have to give credit to shawn hebrank.
he makes treats happen.
like, design magic, from the future-
for my face.
and yours.
this rainy gayness, though?
i can't hang out.
and i can't sleep a wink.
i'm a sloppy, sopping, shivering mess.

for real.

it's cold and dark and stormy.

still.

it's like we replaced the normally capricious

new england weather forecast with one
far more predictably unpleasant-

like, from the pacific northwest, perhaps,

or the hard-style hebrides of scotland,

or some other other wet busted spot on the map.

it sucks balls, y'all,

and it's having an effect on the overall feelings of

well-being and fulfillment that normally blossom

in the bountiful beauty of june's sunny side.

awwwwwwwwwwwwwww, man.

when it rains,

it pours.

i could be talking about cryin' eyes 

to match these cryin' skies.

i could even be talking about hearts,

pouring out those sad songs and true stories. 

or could it be i'm referring to minds?

the convoluted concentration turned outside in

by staying inside....

and maybe i am.

then again, maybe i'm not.

***********

real life unfolds in an ever-expanding series 

of pleats and creases. 

it's not smooth, neighbors.

it's a wrinkled mass of angles and bends.

the shortest distance may be a straight line,

but that's only on a map.

y'know?

i'm just sayin' duders-

if there's a blueprint,

it's a top-secret need-to-know encoded and encrypted

indecipherable series of less-than easy events,

and it is not accompanied by a map key.

one inch equals a million square miles?

who knows?

one hurt feeling equals one red circle with a line around it?

sure, why not?

i don't pretend to know, yo.

i'm just documenting it as it unfurls into this bleary, 

blotted, and besotted stretch of watery weeks and weeks.

i'm spanning time, not with a wrench or a bridge,

but with a sh!t-creek-seasoned paddle.

believe it.

*

flood light?

is that what we're calling the moon these days?

it's not quite that bright,

but it sure is trying.

once in a while,

it breaks through the floating sea of stormclouds

and shines down like a follow-spot during a prison break.

that's usually when the witching hour werewolf wake-up call

comes in live and direct from the spirits and memories

of what's happening.

it's an illuminated manuscript written on the trees and the grass,

a true story of hard styles and all that kind of thing.
interwoven, overlapping shadows making circles to match
and attach themselves to the big blue-light yellow eye in the air.
that's real.
i'm staying up so late, it's actually still yesterday,
at least as far as my rhythm and rhyme are concerned.
there's some kind of skald's stanzas in what's happening.
a paean of power and progress,
a werewolfen weregild treasure trove of words and deeds.
indeed.
somehow, in this perpetual darkness,
this expansive evening-type failing and fading illumination,
that only ever gives way to darker places and longer absences,
a better fate than death still awaits us everywhere.
truth and consequences, friends.
that's optimism, based entirely on pragmatism.
the worst day above ground is better than the best one below.
it's all really happening.
i am grateful for the hardest styles, and the trying times;
never quiet, never soft.....

easier.

it gets easier.
that's true.
sunday morning?
yeah.
that too.
it's mutha-'ucking freezing up here, y'all.
like,
put on a sweater cold.
the sun's rays have been blue-blocked
and ultra-violently ultra-violet violated
by the solid grey gayness up in the air.
we're being smothered by cloudcover.
the warmth and light are taking the weekend off,
but the hottness remains intact.
something about the furnaces in my flesh,
and the hot fire spit exhaust system i carry with me
everywhere i go.
huh?
i'm sayin'-
there's a bass-boosted barbarian bellows blowing
gale-force gusts of the winds of war and change and answers
directly into the lava-lined combustion chamber
inside of my chest.
that stokes that sh!t, yo.
into an infernal conflagration of activation.
check it-
my heart is a raging, stormswept, savage,
gypsy siege engine, powered by perpetual motion,
or active participation, or really-realness,
or sometimes, even competent communication.
that's right, neighbors.
it's a flex-fuel fission machine,
far greener than the grass on the other side, even.
clean-burning truth and consequences and tasty vegan food.
it's a lot like biodiesel.
well, sort of, anyway...
my own greasy guido recycling plant,
self-referencing and self-propelled-
pumping, thumping, and bumping all the thunderclapping
beats of spirit and memory inside of me.
what are we laying siege to?
what aren't we storming like ramparts and battlements?
if you aren't making moves to rush, and rush, and attack
each and every single day,
i'm pretty sure you might be F*ing up.
everything gets easier when we remember that, y'know?
even hard styles and hard pounding,
even long nights and rough times,
even long stretches and low spots,
nadirs and dry spells and difficulties of all sorts.
surround 'em and wreak wreck on their fortifications.
right?
lay waste, an' that.
it's the true and proper way to make sure a sunless sunday
gets a bit brighter.
*
what's that about a silver lining?
cloud cover conceals the blindingly bright bulb
of battle-beastliness that begets that polymorphic shape-shift sh!t.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
we're creepin' on a sleepless situation
wherein those who, what, when, and why jauns are
matters of less import than the big question-
where?
right here,
in the woodsly goodness,
there's a werewolfen warrior poet staying up,
eating words by the paperbackful,
and tempering his teeth and nails
with tamper-proof total immersion in What Is.
y'heard?
that's a thing.
facts. reasons. logical chains of events.
it's all really happening.
it doesn't change with waxing or waning,
with warring or warning or whatever else.
-
there's hot fire,
there's lightning,
there's a full flippin' moon.
a perfect overlapping set of concentric ghost circles,
making ripples, making waves, making moves.
it gets easier with practice.
being like this, i mean.
perfect practice makes perfection,
imperfect practices not really so much.
so we've got to make sure that we're on refined finery.
no, for real.
that fashion-savvy sensitivity to looking the part
of a poised and predatory prowler who
provides a preponderance of proof to support
his disproportionate powers of portable purporting.
practice makes perfect.
it gets easier with practice.
repeat it.
it gets easier;
never quiet, never soft.....

theatrics.

hey, duders.
peony bomb?

yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
that's nature winning.
i mean,
who decides to start poppin' off,
in the rain, overnight, while nobody is watchin'?
ninjas.
that's who.
i've got ninja peony plants doo-dooing what they do.
this wavering weather,
this back-and-forth b!tchbaggery,
this stereotypically unpredictable new englandy
outdoor up-and-down fluctuation,
well, kids,
it's making the garden get busy whilst the getting is good.
i've got blooms.
i've got buds.
i've got berries in assorted colors and flavors.
but am i enjoying any of it?
c'mon.
what are you?
an A-hole?
of course not-
it's raining.
like,
deep, dark, dense clouds of water vapor
are blotting out the sky and keeping the risen sun
out of sight and behind a barrier of burly, blurry,
diffuse dinginess so far this morning.
nice.
i can think of no reason that regular folks shouldn't have
to span their days off of work under a shower of
stormy weather and altered plans.
i mean,
the burden of disappointment feels lighter
when other people are also in the swampy darkness with you.
right?
i know I sure feel better with an audience of active participants.
just sayin', neighbors-
it's not just misery that loves company,
but it's not only happiness either.
that's a real thing.
so,
the sky is dripping it's tears down in whimpers and sobs.
the woodsly goodness is being hydrated in a big way.
like, muddy and swollen and supersaturated past the point of
any effective rate of absorption.
that's a lot of wet.
maybe it's just a big shower to wash away all the sh!t.
a clean rinse.
i could probably hang out with that.
especially since i live up on a big hill.
yeah.
i'm like that.
***********
i watched that play, y'all.
little shop of horrors.
my friend did an expert job of voicing the
extra-terrestrial carnivorous monster plant.
it was good.
i like to associate with talented folks.
now don't get me wrong-
i don't have anything specifically against the untalented.
i just exercise my right not to hang out with 'em.
i mean,
just be dope, y'know?
the individual determines their own worthiness an' that.
it's what you do that creates value and virtue.
those lightning-striking qualities of move-making,
and by-force time-taking are what i want,
what i need,
and what i've got to have.
lucky,
there are some fresh mutha-lickers who get it gettin' at it
nearby enough for me and mine
to have a company of companions keep us company.
a troupe of theatrical castmembers here to help us out.
sometimes, literally, even.
i'm pretty psyched to know the ninjas i know,
and to get to get proactive in my participation
in the worthy, well-meaning deeds and feats they feature in.
it's happening.
misery, happiness, love, and company;
never quiet, never soft.....

rabbit...rabbit...

a whispered incantation for charm and poise;
a semi-silent sotto voce conjuration of good fortune;
a barely audible polysyllabic spell cast towards
securing and shoring up those secret universal plans-
the best laid of which are designed to kill us all,
according to the blueprint,
and according to the infinite nature of nature-
...and that always wins.
it's an intercessory in-the-meantime intervention.
a well-meaning magic trick to keep time on my side.
what?
oh, c'mon-
you know it, and you like it:
RABBIT. RABBIT.
what else could it be?
i mean,
it's the first of the mutha-flippin' month, neighbors.
and so, as usual,
i said it out of my mouthpiece in the darkest night;
i hushed it out, and rushed it out,
and let it fill the empty spaces of 3:00 am.
huh?
yuuuuuuuuup.
that's right i did, and that's when i did it, too.
the witching hour.
like an internal alarming clock set to 'haunted',
i was up and at 'em at an ungodly and godless hour.
luckily,
i pronounced my prime piece of protective phantasmagoria,
first and foremost amongst my litany of lamentation,
and designed to keep the creepy creaking of my house at bay.
oh, yeah, kids.
it was more than a little freaky-diki
in the lightless limits of pre-dawn over here.
even olive the dog got spooked.
...hard.
did i go looking in closets and down basements?
no way.
i'm not getting served up to any hostile spirits and memories,
be they zeit-, polter-, walden-, or whatevergeists,
on a silver-lined cloud of self-imposed trouble-seeking.
curiosity kills cats, so i'm into it, of course,
but not if it kills me too.
i'm just sayin' ninja,
if not for my mantra of echo-activated abjuration,
it could've been a heck of a hard-style.
chilled and stilled by specters?
it would make a good story,
however,
i think i'd prefer a battle-beastly barbarian blaze of glory
to a silent night of frozen-in-fear failings for my last minute
on the earthly realm in my mortal coil...
but, that's a tale for another day.
because i spit it out, quick and quiet,
and ensured that this time, this month,
the hottness will incite and excite and aright all the big action.
uh-huh.
what now?
umm, i'm pretty sure that's a thing.
anyway,
it's documented.
i said it, i meant it.
it's happening.
june, duders.
any day in june.
***********
friday night plans?
i'm going to see a play.
really.
little shop of horrors,
featuring my buddy eric as 'audrey 2'.
y'know,
the man-eating plant.
spanning time,
theater-going,
getting all dramatic.
what else could i be doing?
what happens in a meadow at dusk?
everything.
nothing;
never quiet, never soft.....