inhabiting.

duders,
it's pretty great.
i mean it.
huh?
oh.
sorry.
the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress is great.
it's old.
it's busted.
it's ugly.
and it's F*ing dope.
why?
because,
every lonely lord needs a haunted castle.
it's kind of integral to the archetype.
every wizard has his inaccessible tower.
every mad scientist has his house on the hill.
that's a real thing.
you've got to play to the strengths you've been provided with.
and as such,
i'm inclined to combine all those elements in order to make sure
my museum-mausoleum-mansion fits the bill.
there's a whole lot to be said for being a hermit
when your spot-on site-specific space for solitude an' sh!t
is so mutha-flippin' expert.
y'know?
c'mon.
just check the teleport:

damn, neighbors,
i love being home-
and for as cold and empty and creaky and leaky as it is?
yeah.
there's just no place like it.

uh-huh.
it's good for you.
and anyway,
my house and i have a whole lot in common.
we're both interesting and terrible and old and broken.
that's the truth.
and for a little minute, once in a long while,
we're warm and inviting and all that sort of thing.
tonight is that night.
a full moon,
a rainstorm,
a toasty fire,
candles,
and all the things that make the rest of the times,
when the styles are impossibly hard worth it.
i'll stay home, kids,
whenever i can.
it's where i belong,
and where i fit in,
and it's the place and space i am supposed to occupy.
this is my home;
never quiet, never soft.....

full.

sleeping is dumb.
at least,
that's what i'm telling myself this morning.
sure,
i'm feeling more than just a little worn out.
but that's what happens when the night sky is aglow
with raging blood-iron magnetism
and really,
the results of that metallic skin-crawling and shapeshifting-
which is to say,
all of the motormouthed wild animal-type berserker careening that
i did through my entire yesterday probably didn't help much, either.
that's a thing.
sometimes,
despite the woodsly goodness being full of necktard lumberjack-offs,
there's no goodly woodsman to save us.
awwwwwww.
what big eyes i have,
the better to see this silvereed circle,
the better to squinky squint out an evil-see-ball scowl,
the better to narrow and nettle and needle and glare and stare with.
what big teeth i have,
inside this severe and thin-lipped  laceration i call a mouth-
the better to bite necks and pronounce profanity,
the better to off-key wassail and howl and shout and snarl with.
what big ears i have,
too bad i'm not listening to anything but my pulse banging along
at a breakneck rhythm inside my head,
drowning out all but the wardrums and thunderclaps of animal instinct.
what big hands i have,
i've got the whole world in 'em, sometimes,
and they've got teeth as big as the ones in my face.
the better to kiss and slap,
to caress and crush,
to shape and destroy,
to hold and harm,
and all sorts of other other good-and-bad-touch times.
yikes!
werewolf jauns burst out, flip out, freak out, turn out,
and generally go berserk and barbaric and all that sort of stuff.
i'm sayin',
full moons just don't give a sh!t, neighbors.
teleport:

it's not easy.
i mean, when is it ever?
but really,
the reign of unrestrained and free-reined battle-beast business
means saying a lot of things, at volume;
and doing a lot of things, so hard;
and spiraling outwards and upwards in a corkscrew dervish tornado.
and that's fresh.
*
so,
anyway,
sleeping is dumb.
that's real.
and the moon remains a prominent feature above me.
regardless,
there's rain scheduled to dim the lights,
and dampen the dosage of skyfallen ferocity.
that's for the best, i'll bet,
since another 'nother day and night of raging stormswept gypsy jauns
can't be good for my constitution.
really,
shedding my skin,
and shredding my self-image and self-worth
into scraps and shards of gnashed-tooth-and-nail beast bullsh!t
makes for longer than ever nights,
and harder than ever styles.
that's What Is today,
and today is the day, kids.
all the better to eat you with, an' that;
never quiet, never soft.....

roasting.

hey!
so,
what do y'know about being dope?
i mean,
sure,
those of us who remain haggard and hazardous have a special sense
of how to keep keeping it real at eleven,
but only because we have to.
that's a thing.
you can't stay ugly AND be a weak-watery diaperbaby.
y'gotta stay dope, too.
because if you don't keep it fresh?
well,
that's a sure fire way to end up alone forever and ever and ever.
and i just can't hang out with that.
the thing is,
boring people do boring things,
and regular people do regular things,
and worthy warrior poets do real life lively lovely things,
and that's what makes it all so much better all the time.
and it's not that hard, really, now is it?
it's just a compilation of small acts of active participation
and activities that don't involve the same sorry sad sh!t
that everybody else is so damned interested in.
that all adds up to being pretty expert more often than not.
for instance,
check the handful-of-chestnuts-type teleport:

word.
i don't even really like those dirty little doo-doo nuggets very much.
but,
roasting them outside, under a full moon,
in the brisk and biting cold november air?
yeah,
that's so dope.
just like i said.
and anyway,
they taste better when you run that fresh-to-death-type sh!t,
in the woodsly goodness, among the rustling leaves,
whilst the sounds and smells of a roaring open flame surround you.
fact.
expert means doing that other other stuff,
while everybody else is doing what everybody else always does.
sure,
i'll be eating some semi-'sgusting burnt brown nut-rocks tonight.
yeah.
but,
i'll bet y'all aren't doing that, huh?
i love this Folk Life so much.
reppin' flames and forests and scarves and fingerless gloves,
it's a whole lot like being a hobo,
except for the giant Fortress i'll climb back inside of afterwards.
it's all really happening.
werewolf nut-job old-timey jauns.
staying ugly forever,
and staying dope despite that deficit.
this is what is,
and this is where it has to be;
never quiet, never soft.....

fully empty.

jeez, neighbors-
the woodsly goodness is hibernating.

zzzzzzzzzzz.
but,
for all the daytime silence,
and the setting sun,
and the frost and the wind and the hard F*ing styles,
there's sure no shortage of high-wattage luminescence.

huh?
no,
for realsies, tho.
the moon is beaming in it's waves of heatless light
through all the cold, leafless, bare grey branches
of all the sleepy trees standing sentinel around this place.
it's barely being diffused by time and space.
yikes!
that's nearly a full-dose of lunar quicksilver activation-
reflected from our yellow sun
through blue-feeling filters,
off of that orbiting orb of magnificently magnetic zero
that kamikazes closer and closer and closer,
getting bigger and rounder and more swollen with supercharged wildness,
with gravity and playing both sides against the middle,
as we watch nighttimes get brighter and brighter as the waxing
hmmmm?
there's no weight to the polarized pulling and pushing of these
semi-visible veins of pulse-pounding ,
but it's weighing heavily on our heads just the same-
soaking into the soil, saturating our skin and scalps,
and letting loose the moorings of the mournful, miserable,
infinitely lamentable infinite nature we keep caged up the rest of the month.
wait,
what?
you can't be serious?
c'mon.
by now you know all about the berserker barbarian battle-beast business
that wild-animal savagery and stormswept inner turmoil produce in tandem
under the inauspicious illumination of a full flippin' moon.
right?
the synergistic call-of-the-wild werewolfen overreactions
that moonlight spotlight conjures in those of us who are susceptible
to warrior poetics and
i mean,
it's obviously always been a thing-
complete with harsh language, hard hearts, heavy hands,
and an unhealthy disregard for civilized society and personal safety.
i've said it all before.
the thing is,
i repeat myself a lot.
especially when i'm sleepy.
and sleep isn't in the available-options selection
when the blue glow of that ghostly sky circle is shining down.
i'm wide awake, kids,
and i don't know if that's better or worse news
for all the rest of the woodsly goodfolk.
i anticipate a day of loudness, hardness, and molto freshness.
there are wild animals, and then there are wild animals;
never quiet, never soft.....

i'm just trying to pretend i'm warm.

i'll say it-
i'm cold.
more often than not,
i'm freezing inside the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
that's real.
sure, sure, sure,
i'm under a hundred blankets in my bed;
and i've got fleece-lined tights on under my clothes;
but,
there's still a type of chilled-out climate inside these walls
that all the burning wood and burning oil won't cure.
it's all the damned grey everywhere.
it's silvery, and that's cool,
but it's steel and iron and absent of all the bright warm tones
that make the woodsly goodness feel alive.
that's doubly so inside the shadowed shelter of this expansive manse.
ugh.
it's just a pre-wintry malaise, i suppose.
the thing of it is,
it's all really quite simply just a matter of mindset.
and i have just the thing change my mind,
so i can summerize and summarize all the mixed feelings
i'm experiencing over the seasonal sh!t-salad of this awful month,
and the ready willingness to say goodbye to this dying year...
mmmmhmmmm.
what's the plan?
that's easy.
i stuff my face my sugary shark-gluttonous goodness,
until i'm big and fat and feeling somewhat better.
that's right.
i'm putting the warm-weather flavors to my cold-weather world.
yes, i am.
check the fruit-infused time-travel-type teleport:

pink parts for your thin red mouth?
oh, c'mon.
don't be such a baby about it.
you've gotta recognize one thing-
my toasted coconut reality goes great with powdered strawberries.
that's a real life thing, neighbors.
cream chee' and tapioca and brown sugar, and confectioner's sugar,
and a secret citric splash of lemon oil extract in with the vanilla paste,
-so little as to never know what the magic activation you're tasting is,
but enough to always miss it if it isn't there forever afterwards-
(that's definitely my style right there)
and with a goobieblop or two of seedless strawberry jammie-jam?
i get busy with my big business, b!tchbags,
because i am always all about that superfancy action.
and when we put it all together in a pot,
and it get's all whipped up into a creamy fun filling.
expert.
those little baked cups are just right for poppin' in your piehole.
even though they're tarts, and not actually pies.
mmmmm.
oh, cream chee', and butterishness, and flour,
your menage-a-trois makes a sexy puff pastry,
so thanks for that.
anyway,
toasted coconutty strawberry frosting is a new thing for me,
but it's a damn good thing,
and it's making it's big debut right now for all our faces, F*ers.
you're welcome.
hmm?
ah, that's right,
you probably didn't even realize that you wanted it until you saw it.
i create need where satisfaction used to live.
i'm like that.
......aaaaaaaaaand of course,
i had to put that sprankle sh!t to it,
in the form of a cold-snap-styled coconut snowflake dusting.
yeah.
i really just can't resist putting on that one last thing, y'know?
huh?
oh, i know you know.
that's what i like about you guys, after all.
you get it, you get me, you got me, i gotcha.
***********
food writing?
duders,
i guess i'm just doing a whole lot of that for now.
i mean,
what else is there these days?
this IS what's happening,
and so this is what i'm telling you about.
really real life is sometimes just a bunch of tarts an' sh!t;
never quiet, never soft.....

mornings.

toasted pecans.
that's some of that nutrient-rick protein-and-fiber-type sh!t.
they're good for you.
basically,
they're smooth shelled elitist privileged walnuts,
and that, despite their being more closely related to hickory nuts.
the thing is neighbors,
corn muffins are good.
huh?
oh, yeah,
we're making a segue from nuts to muffins, but they go together.
don't be such a worrywart.
jeez.
corn muffins are good,
but they can be a bit dry, and sort of stuffy,
since sweetness is rarely invited into the mix.
well, F* that noise, nerds.
brown sugar gets blended into my cornmeal,
to put some soft and sugary new hottness to it.
it needs it.
and to make sure we take it to eleven in the a.m.?
yuuuuup.
toasted pecans get put all up inside 'em too.
c'mon.
check the teleport:

yeah.
hmm?
of course that's brown sugar on top.
what are you?
an A-hole?
huh?
well,
then, do you think i'm an A*-hole?
go easy.
i mean, friends,
i do know how to get activated, for crying out loud!
***********
it really doesn't ever get easier.
i mean,
there are overlaps and underscores
and intertwines all over the place.
hard styles and lifestyles and hard times for whole lifetimes.
it's all happening the way it's supposed to,
and i would possibly take more comfort in that notion
if the secret universal plan didn't so consistently throw
a wrench into the smooth-flowing cogs and gears
of time-spanning togetherness.
it all costs something, i suppose-
a wrench is not the worst of the wrongs there could be.
it's unfolding, friends,
that's real;
never quiet, never soft.....

let 'em.

duders,
it's got to be time to get busy baking again.
those Rock Bloxxx from 11/11 are all already long gone,
so, then the question becomes:
where the F* are all the all-new treats at?
y'know?
i know.
neighbors,
THIS is what november looks and feels like:

indeed.
here in the woodsly goodness of new hampshire's
northeastern borderland-style mountainous climes,
it's a cold hard landscape.
the only thing that helps?
color-coordinated baked greats for our mutha-lickin' faces.
i started with a basic barbarian blondie-type thick-set cakey batter,
and i spiced it up with lots of cinnamon.
once all the brown sugar, and i mean all the brown sugar,
was dissolved into the warmed soymilky/butterish vanilla'd wetness,
there were a few oats, a tiny bit of coconut, and pureed pecans added in.
i mean,
sometimes you need a little extra rib-stickin' delicious density
all up inside your already expert treats.
that's a thing.
mapled-up diced walnuts and chopped dried cranberries also
feature prominently within the crumb of that beige and fudgy freshness.
yeah.
i'm not actually an A*-hole, after all,
so i make sure to put too much stuff into too small of a square of fanciness.
like,
how i added some super-creamy white frosting,
and a pinch or eleven of even more dried cranberries,
and a splash of silver-style sprankles on top.
that's right, friends.
if it doesn't go too far,
it's like i'm not actually even trying.
i'm only interested in everything elite,
everything over-the-top,
and everything that makes sure that all y'all know,
without a doubt,
that i'm showboating and big-timing and grandstanding in front of my oven.
uh-huh.
that's the only way.
***********
aaaaaaaand,
that's november for you.
the worst month?
i think so.
there's been neil young nonstop on the stereo for a week.
there's been lazy mornings and lazier nighttimes.
there's been colder beds and dirty kitchens,
and layers and layers and layers of fabric in every direction.
there's been freestyle hard styles inventing new ways
to break hearts, burn bridges, and beat ourselves up.
it's all really happening, after all-
still,
even in november,
there are bright and sweet spots.
it's never really all that easy,
but it's never really all THAT bad.
real talk?
really;
never quiet, never soft.....

some small comfort.

it's cold.
like,
the grey skies,
and the grey trees,
and the bare branches,
and the bitter wind,
and the spite of a hard and long night or two,
all at once,
in my face,
making my fingers tingle,
my nose run,
my cheeks flush,
and my throat hurt with every sharp intake of november air.
jeez,
neighbors.
it's so nice,
comparatively,
inside the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
y'know what helps, a whole helluva lot?
uh-huh.
a cast-iron hotbox,
filled with a roaring, blazing, raging self-contained fire.
check the teleport:

mmmmmm.
duders,
it's just what i need.
a superheated red-hot  maker of all things warm.
it's the season for it;
it's the weather for it;
it's the time and the place for site-specific serious sh!t.
it's so good, too.
there's a spot by the fire for all of y'all.
it's a big room in a big house,
and there're enough chairs for everybody.
a little extra body heat is just an added bonus, really.
warmth,
in a time where everything is cooling down considerably.
that's the order of the day,
and the priority for the night;
never quiet, never soft.....

eleven eleven.

yuuuuuuuuuuup.
today goes to eleven.
twice.
that means it's time to let go of those checks and balances,
take our feet off the brakes, and the steering wheel,
and let ourselves go on one blistery blustery windy wild ride.
uh-huh.
what's for breakfast?
Tea'N'Toast, obvi.
and also,
peanut-buttery, coconutty, oaty, chocolate dipped
mutha-flippin' Rock Bloxxx.
yuuuuuuuuuuuup.
because too much is not even close to enough today.
check the crunchy sprankles-type teleport:

c'mon.
extra expert hottness,
as an added little early morning treat?
you know that today is that day, duders.
*
neighbors,
it's eleven eleven, tho.
all damn day long.
that's a twenty four hour window for making wishes,
with two especially double 'nother other 11:11's,
to add extra importance to that focused fantasy fulfillment.
and that's probably pretty good for you.
right?
mmhmm.
i think it is probably a real thing.
i'm making a lot of wishes today,
with full expectations that most of them are gonna come true.
or else.
i mean it,
on a day where eleven is the starting point,
my wildest dreams are gonna seem commonplace.
y'heard?
today IS the day,
because it has to be.
real coffee?
yeah.
louder, fresher, and harder styles?
of course.
cannonball brutality and berserker fury
and all kinds of really real Folk Life,
and the pursuit of elitist activation and pure-being participation
from the break-a'break-a' dawn to the slammed-shut
nighttime nightlights and starbrights.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

the last scraps.

well,
that's that then.
huh?
oh.
well, it's here, already.
beauty and burden in the same precipitous precipitation,
and this propitious powdercoat has been both
dreaded and anticipated for weeks now.
check the teleport:

yeah, neighbors-
this is the weather we all knew was coming.
and it got here before i could get done with all that needed doing, too.
awwwwww.
the last sticks of firewood,
the last pass across the yard,
to collect those late-fall oak leaves that seem to linger on the trees forever.
the season caught up quicker,
my pace proved insufficient to stay ahead of it.
big surprise, kids-
nature wins,
and all my slow and steady work towards winter is
now a last mad dash to the finish line.
that's what happens when you aren't going to eleven all the time.
lesson learned.
***********
dwelling and dwelling in my dwelling?
i doo-doo that inhabiting and mulling in a house-type sh!t.
mmhmm.
the Fortress is empty,
save for all the thoughts swirling over my head like
one of those cartoon rainclouds.
yeah.
black moods and white snow and hard F*ing styles.
there're ghosts in my memories,
there're demons in my past,
there're devils advocating on both my shoulders,
and they're all haunted houseguests keeping me company this morning.
jeez.
what to do?
i dunno.
maybe i just a little bit try harder to loosen the strangler's grip
my monstrous hands have on the spirits of seasons past, i suppose.
but that's always easier said than done.
letting go is easy,
it's forgetting that seems impossible.
the labyrinth of my memory is full of one-way-mirrored oubliettes,
tiny pockets and cells of secreted-away but see-through small walls
full of all the things the rest of us try to bury down deep, y'know?
oubliette means 'a little forget'.....
and don't i wish.
they say those who don't remember the past are doomed to repeat it,
but maybe those of us who can't remove the superimposed afterimages
of overlapped times and time-agains are just as doomed...
to relive it contemporaneously?
i'm just sayin',
it's like watching three drafts of the same play being performed
side by side by side,
so the otherwise subtle shifts in dialogue and staging,
are all noticeable all at once.
...and then go ahead and try NOT to rewrite a final draft,
flawless and fluid, built on the base of those foiled folios.
yikes.
you should try it sometime.
it really sucks all the balls.
that's real life, when you're doing it my way-
and it's all really happening-
all at once, and in a row, and back and forth,
forever;
never quiet, never soft.....

potatopotamus

oh, right.
because most friends give you a
'thanks for being the last visitor before we move' present.
right?
oh, well, neighbors,
my friends are all so much better than yours.
check the parting-gift-type teleport:

hahaha.
my bedroom now has one more pair of eyes to watch
how little magic and mayhem get conjured within those walls.
even a nonplussed potato headed hippo lump face
will be bored to tears by the empty bed and loud snores
that echo outwards from under so so so many covers and blankets.
yeah.
a little piece of louderhorn accoutrement,
proudly hung in the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress,
because expert recognize expert,
forever and ever and always an' that.
***********
we went to the bare bones puppet thing last week.

it was the twentieth anniversary of those hippies getting rad
in some park in st. paul.
it was also my first time.
and it was also also the biggest turnout that they ever even heard of,
according to the outraged left-leaning line-standers waiting to get in.
and lastly,
it was also dope.
they said a cool thing to recap the overall theme.
check it out if you know how to click links:
barebones carry on jauns!!!!
^^right?
sometimes,
hippies get it right.
other times,
you freeze your whole A* off in a crowded-up
clove, patchouli, and armpit scented park.
runny noses from gelid temperatures make it impossible to absorb
any but the most offensive aromas, tho,
so there was that to be grateful for.
*
...the thing of it is,
i'm prepared to do a lot of things.
but,
to relive the unrelieved and unbelievable past,
in paraphrased overlaps and eerie similarities?
yeah.
oh, i'll do it, for sure;
but only because i have to know if there's even a chance
to change the ending if you know what the outcome was last time?
uh-huh.
some styles are so hard,
i can't even imagine how it they could happen in the first place,
let alone more than once.
the circles of spirit and memory,
the cycles of cultivated coincidence,
and unresolved word problems masquerading as logic traps
and
ugh.
harder and harder styles must just set in and set out
to see me through some sort of unlearned lessons about
life and love and lust and blood.
damn, duders.
that's some serious sh!t.
but,
i mean, c'mon,
it's called real-life documentarianism
because it's all really happening....
there're no idealized idle idylls here,
it's warrior poetry, after all.
all savage, furious, fraught with perils and pitfalls.
and it's always stormswept,
all raging winds and high tides and full moons,
gypsy camps and minor keys,
false lights, false doors, and false dawns,
there's a lot of not-quites,
a few more almosts,
and scores of tied-up knots and not-even-closes.
the battle is joined,
the frey is frayed and the fringes are all loose-ended
and up for grabs.
that means nothing is F*ed,
and everything is.
i'm fighting for something,
and i'm maneuvering into position at all times.
i've got 'em all surrounded,
and i, in turn, am surrounded.
concentric circles keep echoing outwards.
that's a thing;
never quiet, never soft.....