fire. water. works.

happy birthday, 'merica!
here in the woodsly goodness,
we don't exactly get patriotic in the au courant sense.
no country music, no flag-waving, no barbecue and beer....
generalized patriotism seems to embody the worst aspects
or xenophobia and mediocre complacent catchall
case-studies in settling down
and then following that path right down the tubes
as such,
there's very little, or even nearly none,
of that kind of weak sauce here in the Fortress.
we don't aim for the middle and settle for the bottom,
we overdo it, shoot the full) moon,
and get busy with that high livin', high spirited
high-horsemanship that comes with going to eleven.
july 4th? add up the month and day, duders-
actual patriotic jauns are for the furious fusiliers of
worthy warrior poetry in motion-
yeah, neighbors,
we do get expert on some old-timey
real-talking revolution-style original betsy ross
thirteen colonies-type jauns.
y'know?
yeah.
Folk Life, Liberty, & the pursuit of happiness.
well,
two out of three, anyway.
chasing happiness happens to always be a losing race.
it flees at the same pace i run after it.
awwwwwwwww.
it's 'merica's party,
but i'll cry if i want to...
***********
fireworks bring the thunder to the sky
from the ground up, even.
however,
the cumulonimbus monsters hovering up above
threaten to reverse the position the thunder comes from.
is anybody surprised?
hard weather,
hard rain,
hard times,
hard styles.
it's always the case,
because it's all always really happening.
*
we spanned a righteous, revolutionary day
at the river's edge on a sandy shoal
getting tan and getting involved, actively,
in being part of it all.
big action and big pictures, kids;
never quiet, never soft.....

struck, stricken, striking.

i overdo it,
add the hot fire and explosions to it.
i doo-doo it, like freaky-diki sh!t,
but i do not do it this time, kids
for the very first time in ten long years,
there's no overwhelming onslaught
of appreciative generous gestures to commemorate
the active participant's worthy warrior poetic
interactive profit-sharing scenario.
ugh.
as hard a style as it is,
i fought against the nature of infinity,
and erased some schematic plots from the
secret universal plan.
do you know what that means?
it means a tornado of windy sh!ttiness blew through
the whole woodsly goodness,
but only metaphorically.
the winds of change blew in the answer, y'all.
basically,
it means i didn't do a F*ing thing for a change.
this time,
the right amount was a surgically precise,
correctly-measured amount of too much of not enough.
neighbors,
the tissue paper and metallic foil wrapping paper days
are over and out like a radio sign-off.
the gratitude and generosity of viking virtue and publicly
displayed affectations of affection are off the air,
and off the list.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
today is the day, is the day, is the day.
all day, even.
a sh!t-hot batch of thanks for nothing,
spanned with a couple of kinds of giving the least F*s possible.
uh-huh.
the only thing not half empty around here is the full moon.
awwwww, MAN!
a luminous lantern in the firmament,
beaming in the lunacy,
and bouncing back the lengthy waves of wolfmannerism.
giving up isn't giving in?
i don't know, kids.
what do you guys think?
***********
marshalling my martial merits and marital demerits?
sounds serious.
i got a list,
i checked it twice,
and i noticed a few things.
in order, the weak sauce was sponged up
from it's sopping waterbabyish diaperpants,
and expunged like a placenta of dementia,
then outvoted, and subsequently vetoed, in absentia.
holy sh!tballs, y'all.
here or not, here or there,
and everywhere in between,
it's all really happening.
a convoluted locution of locomotive absolution.
get it?
no?
okay.
here:
i didn't buy any presents.
it killed me not to.
i fought through that sh!t.
word up.
now you get it, right?
right.
struck, like from the record, and like a shot in the mouth,
stricken like a heart sick, forlorn, and forsaken sucker puncher,
striking, like lightning and like handsome mutha-'uckers.
yeah.
that's right.
ugly is the new hottness.
believe it.
inside and over and out;
never quiet, never soft.....7x19

that's it.

ugh.

duders,
i have a hard time backing down,
easing off, letting go, and moving on.
i know you're surprised by that.
ummmm. sure.
i keep my intentions and my emotions red lined
at the beyond-maximum overflow and engine-blow level
of eleven or more at all times, kids.
so throwing 'em into neutral,
and giving up is against the established order of chronological biology.
huh?
oh, yeah-that's a thing, neighbors-
y'all have come know and love it as infinite nature;
some people call it genetic predestiny, or primitive inherited memory,
but whatever name you give to it, whatever you call it in the lonesome,
sleepless sections of lightless, heatless, vacuum-sealed voidance
of your own introspective voyeurism-
it's still just not my style to give the F* up.
why not?
because i'm not a quitter-pants weak sauce waterbaby, probably.
i can concede defeat, i can acknowledge failure,
but only when i've exhausted all the other actual options,
and have only hope left.
...that's an unrealistic underactive emotion, by the way.
i mean,
in real talk for the real world:
when the going gets tough?
obviously,
if you're a worthy, committed captain of your own soul,
you try harder, sing louder, get fresher, get busier,
and go down swinging until your worn-out soles,
leaden arms and heardened heart physically fail
the ever-loving everlasting warrior spirit
raging and rattling around inside the stormswept
barbarian hot fire furnace blazing inside of you...
or,
if you're not really into that whole just be dope theory
regarding active participation,
you maybe just F* right off?
i don't know, yo.
i presonally prefer the epic, heroic, legendary
main-character character assassination
and proactive protagonism of being a part of it, and not apart from it.
you feel me?
awwwwwwwwwww.
*
today is the day.
harvest and maple are here.
the woodsly goodness is better for their company.
the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress feels alive again.
...and i do too.
my darling daughters,
after being exposed to the raw nerves
of evolutionary overcompensation
are adapting to new situations, y'all.
that's right-
all in together now.
we doo-doo that.
because we're a team.
we don't just move, we make moves,
we don't just get busy, we do business,
we don't just get paid to lose,
we fight to win.
it's all really happening.
that's the whole goddamn point;
never quiet, never soft.....

rabbit rabbit.

yeah.
i said it:
rabbit rabbit.
i remembered to speak it out loud,
first thing at 12:01 am and again when i awoke.
the lucky charm, the magic mantra, the superstitious spell,
cast out into the secret universal ether as an ephemeral
lure for good fortune and positive vibes from the future,
for the future, in the here and now.....
i remembered the appropriate utterance,
inflection, intention, innuendo,
and all that pronounced polysyllabic sentence fragmentation.
i do what i'm supposed to, y'know?
and i only ever do more of it.
that's that expert additive active participation type jauns.
it's the way that worthy ninjas get involved.
subtractive subservient static is not invited to my makeout party,
y'know?
something as simple as a monthly magic word, or two,
or the same word, spoken twice,
is as good a place to start as any other.
do i think that there is any evidence to support it's efficacy?
is it working?
is anything lucky going on, at all?
is it likely the first of this month will be any different
than the following friday, or the next one,(the 13th)?
nope. it's not.
probability and odds and long shots on lagomorphology
generating spontaneous improvement are just a placebo,
but i'm not above investing a breath or two in
contingency plans based on mystery and magic.
it can't hurt.
and if it doesn't help, (and it doesn't help)
well,
at least i've proclaimed a genuine intention towards
the ghost rings and overlapping circles of spirit and memory
that comprise and never compromise and promise
to keep it all really happening here in the woodsly goodness.
you got any better ideas?
right.
it's a watership down watershed moment, my friends.
phantom bunnies and complete interactive social collapse?
yuuuuuuuuuuup.
today is the day.
awwwwwwwwww, man.
***********
harvest and maple arrive this evening.
that's great news.
we're gonna work, and have a fire, and have fireworks,
and work on spitting hot fire and all that sort of
warm weather interactive family-style togetherness.
me and my girls, neighbors.
a trifecta of terrific?
maybe.
a trio of temerity and trying hard to hurl hard-hearted
heavy-handed hard styles at the hard times that
compose this really real life we're living?
absolutely.
gratitude, ninjas.
i get lucky,
not in the ways i want,
but in precisely the ways i need;
never quiet, never soft.....

meaningless efforts, effortless meanings.

hey-O!
a super-steamy saturday in the mountains awaits.
a billion degrees and a billion weekending A*holes
crammed and jammed all together for an altogether
awful batch of disregard-
for propriety, politeness, and active participation.
weak sauce waterbabies want tours of the woodsly goodness
like voyeurs and peepers and creepers.
it's mostly show up, and very little get busy.
they don't make moves, they just move on.
c'mon.
that's neither worthy nor real,
and certainly not warrior spirit.
i can't hang out with that.
these bunches of b!tches just want to be entertained, y'all.
distracted and diverted and all that kind of noise.
and for what it's worth,
i'm pretty flippin' entertaining, too.
but it all costs somethin', y'know?
the albie rock show, like most grands, and all movie checks,
does not come for free,
and i don't plan on ever selling my life cheaply.
some minky mama-jamas can't afford it,
and other other miki-fikis can't afford NOT to get some.
i'm a luxury, kids,
and in that sense, very necessary.
word up.
worth and value and price aren't always all the same thing.
you know it.
today's bargain bin buyout of barbarian business?
rib cages and power outages.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
the juice broke loose and escaped it's circuits.
after a million parallel lines on a moving target,
my second appointment of the day sh!t the bed due to
primitive underelectrified conditions.
no motive motorization means no sweet moolah.
awwwwwwwwwww.
saturday took a crap on my wallet, y'heard?
so how did i respond?
did i flip out and chop arms and legs and heads?
stop it.
it's too hot for that nonsense.
i took it on my hirsute yet weak chin like this:

c'mon.
teleportationally activated nutrient checkpoints, neighbors.
hard looks from a hard-lookin' warrior poet.
staying ugly, staying dope.
i may be engaging on almost every level,
but i am not amused.
y'know what takes the edge off of being a burgeoning barbarian?
this:

sprankles, b!tch.
i doo-doo that tangible, consumable comestible rewards action.
and i take pictures while driving,
albeit poorly.
***********
tomorrow is july.
tomorrow the girls i made come to visit.
tomorrow everything changes.
just like every day.
just like always.
it's all happening.
i am grateful for the time i've been given,
and for the ability to document it for you.
thanks, friends, for tuning in;
never quiet, never soft.....

capricious.

soggy-bottomed rainstorm?

wet-dog smelling canine companion?

marathon insomniac werewolf transformation?

duders,

it's all really happening.

check the teleport:

motherF*ing motherF*er.

even when i manage to fall asleep before dawn,

olive the dog finds ways to brute-force herself

into disrupting my rest to take her 

on a lengthy jaunt around the woodsly goodness.

in the dark, or the breaking light, or the rain.

(the rain is particularly expert in the dark.)

now, i'm not actually an A*hole, y'all.

i understand that pooping is waaaay better outdoors, 

specifically if you're a dog. ...or that dog's owner.
i mean,
during a dream,
or even just the blissfully insensate oblivion of unconscious sleep,
the aroma of fresh turds is horrible to wake up to-

coffee? smells good.

breakfast? smells good.

your lover's hair? smells really good.

hot logs of semi-digested doo-doo? uh-uh.

so, despite my exhaustion,

i'm up and at 'em every time, 

letting nature takes it's course

through the beast's intestines, i mean.

it's all about price and payment, kids.

everything costs something.

that's real.

is a few seconds of shuteyed sleepytime worth beginning

my day with a skidmarky-marked mattress,

and a hard-style hardwood hulk-heap of steaming sh!tballs?

nope.

not for this night trading day traitor.

i'll swap the serenity of slumber for fulfilling responsibilities.

awwwwwwwwww.

real ninjas do real things.

and i do my work mutha-uckers.

and on the ones, yo?

F* this F*ing dog.

she loves to go right back under the covers 

and right back to sleep immediately after a heroic deuce droppin'
stopover in the forest she regards as her own moldering toilet.
from dropping logs to sawing 'em.

i don't have that bullish, imbecilic simplicity in my head.

so i'm still awake, neighbors.

and it's yet another 'nother morning where i've been 

a wakeful witness to the sky brightening up and over and out

from black to blue, and then to grey, and finally to rain.
***********
it's all really happening.
what it all is, however, is just a matter of perspective.
i don't know if what i'm saying is actually, indisputably what's up,
but i sure call 'em like i see 'em;
never quiet, never soft.....

tea time.

tea for two?
c'mon.
that's not real.
i've got a whole body full of broken
that needs some steep steeped leafy blackness.
i'm cold.
it's not cold outside, either.
i'm cold, on the inside.
i'm no doctor, duders,
but it would seem that no sleep, little food,
physical exertion and trauma all add up
to a big batch of old busted jauns.
i need some of the wet hottness to infuse this
weak sauce with some spicy hot fire from the future.
...or some irish breakfast tea.
whichever.
i got tatzapped at tsunami tattoo yesterday, neighbors.
and i fell asleep on the table, too.
that's tiredness, not toughness, for the record.
check the teleport for a small portion of the progress:

i've got crabs.
and copper kettle tea time activation for my knee.
the whole thing wraps around my leg
and up to my cute little buttcheek.
yep. that happened.
it all happened.
it still is, too.
i force-fed my face some green elephant vegan dopeness.
it tasted just like scorched F*ing earth.
just like every other thing i've shoved down my gullet
these past few weeks.
but, i had to load up on nutrients,
because soccer happens on wednesdays, kids!
what am i?
an athlete?
well,
i did show up at the field yesterday,
post tattbomb session-
and i also pulled muscles in both legs.
awwwwwwwww, MAN!!
lame... literally.
that's a helluva hard style, y'all.
i can hardly walk right,
and my sexy new cleats did nothin' to stop it, either.
i guess i forget how old i actually, chronologically am,
and how little exertion i exhorted from my frame this last decade.
probably because of my puerile personality, right?
i'm still a snarky pr!ck, but i'm an OLD snarky pr!ck.
how did i miss that?
the fleeting, fleeing grey hairs should've reminded me, i suppose.
oh, well.
nothing like a little humiliating injury to reaffirm
my faith in the idea that hurting the team
is exclusively the province of beating yourself, first.
i doo-doo that.
***********
the raging stormswept savage berserker fury
is out in full category 5 hurricane force these days, duders.
a battle-beastly pre-full moon monstrous mien from
the confines of my mind to the secret universal plan 's
people, places, and things;
i guess i've been bottling up a bit of that brutal truthfulness.
i've got an everlasting bag of holding, full to bursting
with limit-stretching past-capacity, standing room only
wild, untamed, werewolfen animal ferocity.
it's hard to hold in the hard-hearted styles every minute.
but, i've had years of practice.
it takes a lot of effort, energy, and maintenance...
you want to know my secret?
i'm always angry;
never quiet, never soft.....

anachroconda.

(you really don't need this, friends)
out of time.
time out of time.
taking time away from itself,
which is to say, time traveling.
where?
to the future.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
and there's no future like no future.
what's that?
yeah.
the backspace button has gotten a lot of use already.
uh-huh.
that's real.
i mean,
what do warrior poets write about
when all their battles have been lost?
defeat?
c'mon.
if our failures define us,
then if nothing else,
i am a devastating and spectacularly active participant
in the general undoing of the deeds of an entire decade's
worth of hard styles, hard times, hardened hearts,
and interminable nights.
definitively.
we don't stop fighting, though, y'all, do we?
that's warrior spirit.
that goonies-type jauns.
never give up, never say die,
die, resurrect, repeat, like a ghost in a spiral.
haunted and haunting and re-living a lost life.
never stop doing this?
don't worry, i don't think that's ever been an option.
*
neighbors,
time is slowly constricting.
a narrowing gyre, even.
a funneled tunnel of conical collapsing concentric circles.
it gets tighter, the gaps in between get narrower,
and eventually all the leeway and flexibility
and room for improvement get compacted and condensed
into one solid pressurized core.
a small, easily ingestible, undigestible ball of the
intractable trappings of temporal temerity.
huh?
it's crushing a little bit more life out;
and with every sigh of contentment or
world-weary whoosh of exhausted air,
with each and every single example of exhalation,
the capacity within it is diminished.
you don't get back what you lose.
and eventually, when the insides are empty,
and the outsides have been tempered into that tiny
sphere of concentrated quantum energy?
you know the next step, don'tcha?
yessiree-
...swallowed whole without a second's worth of second thought.
yeah.
that's some sh!t, duders.
never quiet, never soft.....

cleats.

my hands have teeth,
my shoes have cleats,
my butthole has pleats.
wait......
um. yeah.

i got some site-specific footwear
for kickin' it about on the footie pitch.
yuuuuuup.
that's what's up.
running. jumping. kicking. sweating.
in other words- activating.
i doo-doo that.
and now,
i do it with non-slip trainers on my toes, yo.
neighbors,
i'm ushering in a new era of infinite nature...
gregarious loneliness?
haha. go ahead, laugh all you want.
but it's a thing.
i've mastered the gentle art of making enemies,
and as a result, i've moved right along on down to the
coarse course of cultivating coincidental acquaintances-
how hard can it be?
(that's what she said)
well,
there's a great deal of violence of action,
decisive conversational sensationalism,
and incomplete life sentences.
*
guess who got suckered into work today?
did you guess it was me?!
awwwwww, man!
i just wanted to hand-deliver some cupcakey goodness,
and there was a shopful of duders wanting what i do
to happen to them.
i made those moves, y'all.
why?
movie check mastery is essential to the continued
survival of expert activational lifetime nutrient sh!t.
whatever that means.
i get masterful, mutha-uckas.
a master of ceremonies, a master of the universe,
a master and commander, a master blaster,
and a master of his own manifested destiny-
sounds like a jack-off of all trades, almost.
weird.
*
real life.
it's all really happening,
no matter how disbelieving i try to be,
that secret universal plan keeps unfolding.
at least now, with those garish cleats,
i'll have a firmer foothold on the truths and
a stomping-hard kickoff for the consequences;
never quiet, never soft.....7x18

doo-doo that.

yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
i take it to eleven, neighbors.
cupcakes?
yes, indeed.
chocolate frosted chocolate cupcakes,
with chocolate sprankles?
F*ing right, kids-
check the teleport:

wooooord.
that's the sh!t.
and i'll eat the sh!t.
little mouse poops on thick dog poops
on big blarpity road-apple-ish horse poops;
that's exactly what those jauns look like.
recognize, and turn brown with envy.
oh,
and there are mini-baby chocolate chiplets on top
hidden under the poop-icing.
uh-huh.
too much is always the right amount.
huh?
really?
you think i could take it further?
okay,
then check out this teleportational next-level activation:

F* all y'all.
that's chocolate goobieblop filling, mutha-b!tches!!!!
doo-doo butter?
i doo-doo that.
crapcakes in full effect for my face.
that's how i get busy when it's time to get busy.
how can i be so skinny,
and still live so fat?
y'wanna know why?
because i'm a warrior poet,
and i'm like that.
***********
bad weather is only bad if you've got plans.
i don't,
so this rainy gayness is great.
i'm not kayaking, or rock climbing, or trail running,
or hiking, biking, sports-teaming, or whatever.
i'm working.
indoors.
and i couldn't give less of a sh!t about any of it.
awwwwwwwwwww, man!
i rep a hard style, duders.
and i'm as stylish as i've been in a while.
*
plural pleural cavities?
like, a second hole in my torso?
i think so.
only this other one is an abyss.
my best guess?
it's somewhere behind my heart and lungs.
black, cold, empty, all that stuff...you get the gist.
no light enters, no light escapes,
no thermodynamic energy is generated.
there is minimum entropy,
and a void of genesis.
that's a big batch of anti-matter and x-rays, y'all.
a whole lot of nothing, even.
ABSOLUTE ZERO.
registered as either a nil set,
or a massive deficit of degrees.
it's all really happening, all the time, everywhere,
except in there.
try that on for size this morning,
and enjoy your monday;
never quiet, never soft.....

void where prohibited.

sprankles on top of coffee chip crunch?
uh-huh:

emergency tofutti started my morning, my ninjas.
*
sooooo,
my sister mary grace had a surprise wedding.
that sort of thing happens in my family.
a lot.
this time, though,
it was perfect weather, at the perfect time,
and the party people were in the house.
and outside the house.
and all over the F*ing place.
my sister, and her new husband, tim,
have a lot of friends and family who all came
together to celebrate what they thought was
just an open-bar magic-type housewarming fete.
psych!!!
nuptials, mutha-b!tches.
they doo-doo that i-do/me too sh!t.
here's a sincere hope for happy times forever after.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
**********
there was no dancing.
at least, not that i witnessed.
good thing, too,
because the only moves i have are a sort of
bobotronic robot arm-swinging hard style.
like a capybara doing capoiera.
yuck.
it's never easy,
even the next day, when it IS sunday morning.
i'm home already.
that's a thing.
extra-early shirley exodus from the watery babyness
of connecticut's butthole?
you know it.
at any rate, i'm back here in the woodsly goodness.
big F*ing deal.
i've got work to do.
i'm a working person,
i put in work, i work with purpose;
never quiet, never soft.....