woden's day.

hey duders,
it's another 'nother day.
i think it's a baking day.
the the house isn't that warm,
the hottness hasn't been activated,
and the oven could use a preheating.
yeah.
definitely a baking day, y'heard?
chocolate magic funtime treats,
for everybody, and their faces.
the process is the whole point.
the path is the goal.
and then there's yum4tum treats afterwards.
c'mon.
*
i didn't plant it in my garden, but it's there-
whatever this thing is,
it's expert.
teleport:

uh-huh.
even the weeds in the woodsly goodness are dope.
i guess it's called orange hawkweed,
at least according to my
new hampshire naturalist's guide to native wildflowers.
smart.
it just showed up to be dope.
that's word.
***********
ummm,
are the rainbow sprankles infecting me
with fancy-pantserized cookie-cutting seahorseplay?
maybe.
i mean,
i have been reading a sh!tpile of olden days-type poetry.
wait a minute...
...poetry?
yuuuuuuup.
i know.
most of you just don't get it.
that's cool.
me neither.
but i am aware of what's fresh.
those old mutha-'uckers brought the thunder.
probably because they didn't have modern
technological distractions to dilute their powerful sauce.
even the light and little itty-bitty bits
had that furious force in 'em;
check these four lines of flavor:
-
"A hater he came and sat by a ditch,
And he took an old cracked lute;
And he sang a song that was more of a screech
'Gainst a woman that was a brute."
-
c'mon.
haters gonna hate.
and b!tches gonna b!tch.
my ninja P.B.S. knew what was up, kids.
oh, you like it.
or, at least, you should like it.
...alas!
this is not what i thought life was.
(^that's another good one)
neither is this:

awwwwwwww, man.
oak tree miscarriages!
baby acorns who didn't make it full-term.
of course,
that same tree has about a billion more chances
each and every year to pass on it's potential.
a few failures don't impede progress,
and that woodsly totem can't even walk.
so we've got NO excuses, kids.
that's a thing.
***********
wednesday is hump day for some.
you and i both know better, though, huh?
yeah.
more like humpback with a hunch day.
awwwwwwwwwww.
bloated and bumpy, beached, breeched and breached;
it's a sore, seared, and sullen way to span a day.
but it sure is really happening anyway.
neighbors,
there's not enough poetic pie-baking to change any of that.
it's just What Is.
hard styles,
crisp crusts,
soggy bottoms,
and a healthy dose of brown.
i think i'm gonna get some chocolate mouse turds.
those sprankles are just what's missing;
never quiet, never soft.....

sweet sixteen.

umm.
so, yeah, kids.
i'm reppin' another 'nother dose of the dopeness.
check the teleport:

spranks, again.
yuuuuuuuuup.
a way-less impressive high-noon scoople
of  berry-flavored purple sh!t,
with activated rainbow-refracted prismatic sugar-cyclinders.
it's expert, y'all.
for real.
and they're always rainbow.
i doo-doo the ones that don't look like rodent doo-doo.
because i've got a parade's worth of gay pride inside.
huh?
someday you'll find it, kids.
the rainbow connection.
for lovers, for dreamers, and, well, y'know...me.
that's the brightest spot in a brightened-out day of
impenetrably dark moods and modus operandi.
the spiritus mundi of neither the mundane nor the ethereal
have deigned to include me in today's designs.
huh?
i'm out of place, in time and space, neighbors.
just sayin',
i worked on my day off,
i tatblasted some stuff,
and i've got a date with destiny.
or maybe just a chance to hang out and eat pizza
with my good friend and coworker wayne.
dining alone gets old immediately,
and eating enough is easier with company.
the styles are hard,
and the truths are ugly.
i can't promise that tomorrow will be any better, either.
there's rain in the forecast, though,
and that's something, at least.
small joys and minor gains,
it's all really happening.
deficits and detriments and hungry skin and bones;
melancholy marrow and petrified pores,
all aching for the call to regenerate,
revive, resuscitate and rescue the sense of touch,
the sense of self,
and the sense of wonder missing these long months
from the woodsly goodness's embrace.
i can't feel it,
i can't taste it,
i just remember it all.
a ghost of a smoke ring in a circle of light,
a full moon and a new moon
and both waxing and waning slivers.
jeez,
this one took on an unexpected downturn, huh?
yep;
never quiet, never soft.....7x16

spranks.

i'm wasting away.
for serious.
somewhere in these last weeks,
i slipped past slim,
and starved my way to skinny.
like,
ribs and femurs and that.
like an animate hairy skeleton that looks like
a preserved mummy of a missing link
in the chain of the developing homo sapiens
evolutionary human genome chart.
i didn't just write that, did i?
oh, yes, i did.
somewhere there's an olduvai artifact,
or a sangiran fossil,
with a striking similarity to my present state of being.
ugh.
i need some bulk to fill out my frame,
and fill in the holes and blank spots everywhere else.
it shouldn't bother me to shed unnecessary weight,
but i've lost one-hundred and two pounds,
plus whatever i don't weigh anymore, too.
but, neighbors-
don't despair.
i'm taking action.
the next step should be obvious:

sprankles, ninja.
mutlicolored sorbet seasoning,
with sparkly, sorcerous rainbow-spectrum sugar
on raspberry syrup-water ice magic.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
sticky fingers and brain freezes and sugar rush crashes.
that'll fix whatever's wrong, right?
of course it will.
 ***********
who are we kidding, duders?
i'm just not feelin' it.
what?
i'm not feelin' IT.
the interconnectedness of these
overlapping concentric circles
of spirit and memory.
the idealogical framework of the
secret universal plan.
or any kind of plan whatsoever, even.
uh-huh.
ninjas,
i'm getting more of a resonance on that first stanza
of the second coming type of sh!t.
it's yeats, A*holes.
look it up.
(seriously, though, i'm not asking: look it up)
i'm thinking it's more a random spattering of
cosmic dust and debris over here,
and maybe more over there,
with good and bad luck F*ing off in the middle,
y'know?
awwwwwww, MAN!
i thought that the back-ups and contingencies
of woodsly goodness and that fresh-to-death,
from now-unto-death-do-us-part-type sh!t
would've activated some sort of failsafe protocol.
...nope.
it's a chaotic suckballs sh!t-salad smearface,
and i think i've made it safe to fail, instead.
there's a fifty-fifty fallout of functional dysfunction
and disjointed joint efforts and effortlessness.
what does that even mean?
it means that whatever the big picture is,
i sure as heckfire can't see it for the overwhelming details.
and it's spreading-
at least we can agree we get a choice.
right?
if it's our true story in the telling,
and our real life in the living,
and our magic moves in the making,
and we're clearly being antagonized proactive participants,
(main mutha-ucking characters, y'heard?)
who do we want to be?
the lonely laird of his own family feudal futility,
the abandoned baron of barren inauspiciousness,
(c'mon- those're pretty good)
OR,
the barbarian battle bard of worthy warrior poetry?
don't even hesitate.
we all know what's up;
never quiet, never soft.....111

this isn't good news.

birth and death?
what the F* are you talking about?
oh.
well, maybe stop looking for meaning, duders,
and just look at the picture:

skull-acorn redux.
i've been redrawing old images,
honing, tuning, refining, and redesigning
all the kinky stinks and stinky kinks out of 'em.
i much prefer the new hottness.
that's a thing.
i'm composing prose in glyphs of gypsy encryption.
if you aren't a raging stormswept savage,
you'll probably need a translator.
trust me, though....
the i's are dotted,
the t's are crossed,
and so are my eyes-
c'mon.
bleary, teary, weary...
all that.
i've been busy,
staying up late riding nightmares
into infinite insomnia,
and then waking up early to reenter the world
of hard-styles and brutal truths.
i write these memorandums to the spirit of
active participation in the interest of preserving
some small sliver of the ghosts of worthy warrior poetry.
i'm sayin', neighbors-
really real immersion in expertism exists,
woodsly goodness persists,
weak-sauce waterbabies resist,
and real life documentarians subsist
on a steady diet of gratitude, generosity, and honesty.
 it's all happening, all the time;
all at the same time, even.
i'll keep reporting the deeds and derring-do and doo-doo butter
as long as my spindly spiderfingers can tippity-type out the
true stories of what the F* is going on around me-
cross my heart and hope to die,
cross my fingers and hope it's you instead.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
**********
it's sunday,
and it's sunny,
and it's F*ing biker d!cktard week,
and they are out in full force in their full regalia-
with a heavy accent on the gay in the middle.
yeah.
i hate it.
like, secretly studying shamanism and sorcery.
just for the annual summoning of a swarm of vermin;
an unholy host of indeterminate pest and nuisance creatures,
to clog roads, mire tires, and flow like a hungry wave
of all-consuming unstoppable righteous fury,
to stop up and then whittle away the nancyblasters
on their steel horses with mandibles and claws,
until only scratched chrome and chipped bones remain.
hard styles are, in fact, my flippin' specialty.
i've got a molten core of thermonuclear disgust firing it's
ions and protons into protected space.
the radiation, however, of my white-hot hateful heart
is glowing through my pores like a punched-tin lantern.
a toxic patterned picture of professional polka-type dots.
yeah.
if i knew what i know, and i wasn't me?
oh sh!t!
i'd keep clear of the fallout from today's sour mood.
it's super-sunny, and sorta warm all over the mountains-
it's also dark and cloudy, and pretty forkin' cold,
but just on the inside.
i'm making wishes and ouija-boarding for bovine ghosts
to manifest and mangle the meathead men wearing their skins
over their legs and arms, but not their butts.
chapped buns from A*less chaps?
they deserve it, duders-
a simple spell to reanimate those tanned-up wrappers,
and give them a shot at squeezing a life for a life.
it's highly unlikely,
but it's definitely where i'm at;
never quiet, never soft.....

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