likenesses.

adios, enero.
word up, duderonis-
it's done.
over. kaput. finished.
january is gone away.
and the B.H.M. is rollin' in.
so deep, dark, and dope
that a whole heckuva lot of bass-boosted super-thump
is headed down the hollowed out tubes and amps
of the woofers and tweeters in my speaker system.
yep.
Black History Month, my ninjas.
on it's way to the white mountains.
if you aren't 'bout it (and i doubt it) then you'd better get 'bout it.
because 28 days later,
it'll just be march.
and not the million man one, either.
boo-ya!
black like ink, black like holes, black like night-time new moon skies.
beautiful, bountiful.
really real and happening really.
on the ones.
***********
guess what i got today?
no, for serious...
guess.
nope.
try again.
huh?
nope.
give up?
good.
check the elevenometer, neighbors:

tom savini is the man.
and now,
i will be too.
grande illusions, kids.
f/x makeup an' that.
for your face-
...and speaking of-
i need faces to F* up, too, y'all.
volunteers?
anyone?
c'mon.
you know that the more you do,
the more you get to do.
our boy tom says that sh!t.
wise words from a movie-makin' move maker.
participate w/ me, kids;
never quiet, never soft.....

good evening.

sometimes,
i see my friends.
sometimes,
 i make new friends.
and sometimes,
clients become friends.
that's the weird one.
especially when it's go-out-to-dinner time,
and the guest of honor is a former weirdie.
yep.
the weirdies, a trio of bizarre, yet regular tattoo clients,
has been defunct for a few years.
one stayed super-weird,
one went and got married,
and one kept it really real,
and kept making the sojourn to our crummy, crumby
white mountainous woodsly tatzap town.
and now, at long last, the quarantine is over.
our friend amanda has made the grade,
and been promoted to meal-sharing status.
that's right.
so take heart, lurky jerks;
if you doo-doo what you doo-doo for long enough,
you too can hang out with the warrior poets.
i know.
believe me, i know.
dreams really can come true.
especially if they're suckie ones.
word.
brown blops of indian goodness,
with spicy curry crushing it's way to my face,
via my throat,
via my stomach,
and vice versa.
yeah!
ferocious is the perfect adjective
for everything going on gastrically at the moment.
***********
lightning striking viking.
uh-huh.
january is pretty much done.
already.
the dregs are crowding up the bottom of the barrel,
and the crap is coalescing at the cusp of the cask.
silt, soot, and slag, y'all.
that's what's left after a barbarian blitzkrieg blows by.
the wind is blowing,
the skies are moving.
heaven is crashing closer to the ground.
electricity, ninjas.
static and dynamic simultaneously.
rubbin', thrummin',
throbbin', movin'.
this is the time we have,
these are the places we go,
and we are all together.
on est ensemble;
never quiet, never soft.....

oh no, oni!

jamie is a good client.
and he gets good tattoos.
and that means that today didn't start off suckie.
at all.
i got to start my saturday about 11x more awesome
in form and function, than i did on friday.
duders,
my day didn't doo-doo the deep dopeness after the deluxe hottness
of the demonic dome of doom.
oni head,
bubble-bobble purple and green,
w/ pom-poms, b!tches.
teleport.....engage:

woooooooooord.
every once in a while,
something good happens.
really;
never quiet, never soft.....

lost.

dear the clock,
you win.
love,
albie
*
i lost time like a mutha-lickin' misplaced sundial today.
i lost wages,
whilst wasting away waiting on some wall-playing fence-sitting wafflers.
maybes and maybe-nots,
and assprted 'shoulda/coulda/woulda' weak-saucery.
i lost patience with my patients,
and in turn, they lost consciousness.
that's no joke.
passer-outers,
out like lights,
like over and over and in a row...
low blood sugar?
nerves?
squeamishness?
t.k.o., neighbors.
all of the above and then some, my ninjas.
pale, peaked, pasty, and pallid,
sweaty, wan, weak-kneed and waterbabied-
that's right.....
i lost to induced semi-coma escapism,
and to the lengthy lapses of awake, aware, and amazingness.
dumple-bum floor-kissin' was what kept poppin'.
and that's a hard style on the very best of days.
word.
tiiiiiiiiiiiiiim-ber!
i had duders droppin' down like sequoias an' sh!t, son!
and staying at work three hours late?
c'mon.
time takes time,
and taken time takes the cake.
lame cake, that is.
today was not a top ten calendar marky-marker at all.
i mean it, y'all;
like at all at all.
bedtime is the best time.
know when to fold 'em, ninjas.
the covers, i mean.
lost and found and lost again.
time out;
never quiet, never soft.....

pipe game.

why is the cucch my ace homeboy?
because he listens,
and he delivers the goods.
claro que si, my ninjas.
belated berday briar, b!tchbags...
now check the teleport, mutha-lickas:

what-whaaaaaat!
that's make and model kinsale XL17.
the cucchie knows peterson pipes are my jammie-jam, y'all.
real talk.
for machine-started production pipes,
those jauns have got the business.
and the patented p-lip.
rusticated red finish,
and oversized bowl for burnable burley and bright virginias?
c'mon.
there's also some other 'nother treats bringing the heat over here too.
but they're on that next-level covert ops-type action.
even that cod/mw/black-ops appropriate sh!z.
liberte y viva la revolucion.
stumps are in the house.
habanarama on the ones, twos, threes, and fours...
for real.
generosity is one of my favorite qualities.
gratitude ranks up there too.
i hold to the honorable wordsmith warrior poetic ways
that's viking value-system life-living thats goes to eleven.
folk life is louder than ten, duders.
***********
so.
i'm reading a book of fairy tales, retold.
by forty different modern duders,
lettin' loose on olde-timey stories,
with new perspectives.
40 stories, one book?
you already know the object is MORE,
so you already know i'm 'bout it.
my mother she killed me, my father she ate me.
now that's a mutha-F*n title, innit?
wordimus prime.
thought you'd like to know what writing i'm reading,
when i'm not writing.
***********
broke, broken, ugly, and dope.
new hampshire is where it's at,
and what it's all about.
real life is unfolding all around me,
and it becomes illuminated according to
the super-secret decoder magic of the universal plan, my man.
this is where that wizardly woodsly goodness gets started;
never quiet, never soft.....

panning out...

so light and fluffy, mutha-'uckas.
when it's a woodsly wood haulin' day,
the only way to kick-start it is with a short stack.
jumpin' lumber flaps, my ninjas-

panniecakes!
c'mon.
griddle-battered and buttery, b!tches.
that's how a morning gets it poppin' in this house.
and it was a good jump-off, too.
fire needs wood,
and firewood is what's up.
check it out:
4 cords of wood were blockin' my driveway for months,
because i needed a shed,
and the wood for the shed (the one that isn't built) is in my garage.
what?
well, since you asked;
it means that the lumber,
to make the shed,
to keep the rain and snow off of the firewood,
is nice and dry.
and the wood to feed the fire is under a tarp out in the rain and snow.
huh?
yeah, actually, i DO recognize how backwards that is.
don't worry, though,
whilst i was powered by panniecakes,
i brought in the last sticks and logs of combustible fiber fuel.
yep.
all those cords, cleared, carted, and completely done.
uh-huh-
i know.
it's not even february yet.
no need to mention that it's cold up here until may.
which means that the object,
which is to say: MORE,
is not even remotely related to how it is.
more of this.
that's what's happening.
statistically, it's two days later than the most depressing day of the year.
the 24th holds the title, duders,
but i think i'm reppin' the runner-up for sure.
awwwwwwwwwww, man.
hard-styles and cold nights.
long, cold, hard ones.
made fresh daily,
for your face.
i wouldn't have it any other way...
a better fate than death awaits us anywhere, right?
right;
never quiet, never soft.....

soup is good food.

word up.
feast your face on this fresh bowlful of bangin' broth an' that:

c'mon.
a steaming, stout, stick-to-your-ribs heaped-up helping
of gnarly nutrition and burly roots.
root down?
i kick it, i put it, i got it, i get ya-
golden sweet and red pontiac baby potatoes.
onions, carrots, celery,
great northern white beans (that's a thing)
herbs, spices, brothy wet hottness,
and some t.v.p.
t.v.p.?
yep.
textured vegetable protein!
beige brownish brickle-blops of barabarian brutishness.
duders,
it's what's happening.
really.
***********
the whole world is frozen up here.
waking up to snow,
going to sleep in clothes.
and not because i crash out from hard-style partying;
it's because i'm freezing my A* off up here.
ka-pow!
this morning,
we had a bright-eyed warm and fuzzy friend stop by
for a tasty treat and breakfasty goodness-
tea, and toast, and cyle.
homeboys help keep it heated, y'hear?
that's how we start days off right up,
in the woodsly wrathful winter wonderlands an' that.
peoples, y'all.
i got 'em, too.
i'm grateful for those who rock out with the warriors,
and the poetry,
and the stormswept, raging Folk Life world i live in.
spanning time with the lightning,
and bringing the thunder,
and all of that happy-crappy horsesh!t-salad
that rolls downhill and down mountains
in the mount washington realm.
time keeps gettin' taken,
moves keep gettin' made,
and futures keep unfolding along the ley-lines
and blueprints of the secret universal planagram.
happening, ninjas.
it all really is;
and there is strong soup fueling the furnace this evening.
nutrients like eagle's eggs, neighbors;
never quiet, never soft.....

eyebrows and other lower places...

i ween!
and,
i win!
huh?
yeah.
The Weiner Guy, y'all.
you can't handle the truth.
was i climbing up into the crevices, cracks, and creases
of an upper, inner, almost-potatoes patch of groin/crotch/thigh?
i sure was.
that's how monday gets done in the woodsly goodness, ninjas.
real talk.
a manga nurse w/ monster milk mounds,
AND
a mega-thick, girthy, veiny, glistening rage-rocketing bone-a-roni?
c'mon.
why would i make that up?
our hard styles are harder than yours.
and more stylish,
and more boner-poppingly excellent.
to recap:
a busty nurse sporting a bustin'-out banana,
underneath and alongside a real-life banana-rama-lama-dingdong.
no joke.
what a day to leave the camera on the counter!
awwwww, man.
all you lascivious lurkers will have to wait to get a good glimpse
of the sausage-fest we represented on today.
good things come to those who doo-doo that, i guess...
i also did some eyebrows, too.
face-making upper visage improvement-type action.
highs and lows, y'all.
that's how it goes.
*
you got twitter?
@zeroheavyind
do it.
be a part of something awesome.
or be lame.
your call.
*
i need a break, duders.
it's gonna snow again,
and i had a faceful of full frontal franfurter all day.
the sleepytimes are callin',
and i am answering;
never quiet, never soft.....

coarse, of course.

just get yourself a little bit of this anti-fine art.

coarse ground cork nubs,
pressed and etched and blocked and printed.
for where?
for your mutha-b!tchin' face, son!
c'mon.
and the shiny bits?
yep.
that's ink that's still wet.
fresh, my ninjas....
teleport?
checked!

woodsly, goodsly, kind kindling collector.
smokey, knit-capped, and laden with sticks.
really.
that's what's poppin'.
folk art,
folk lore,
folk life.
yes.
never quiet, never soft.....

saturn.

after a bold week of weak sauce,
and a stay at work late hard-style weekend evening,
this is what's really happening right now:

ka-pow!
art makey-ness for your face.
and for my hands.
scraping and gouging,
chiseling and scooping.
blocks of golden linoleum,
speedball carvers,
and a #2 pencil.
22 is double eleven, after all....
staurday night, live,
from the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress,
in F*ing full effect;
never quiet, never soft.....

snow days, revisited.

i love it when i fall asleep sorta late,
and load up the woodstove the instant before
i knock myself out for the night...
that means i'm not getting up out of a roasty-toasty bed at 4 a.m.
to prevent the preposterpous temperatures from plummeting
down around the see-your-breath range of indoor livin'.
we keep it as warm as the heat-leeching seeping of dropping digits
and severe stormy thermometers permit.
but when the hot box gets filled later in the darkness?
a. that's what she said;
b. i get to stay asleep until at least 6, instead.
and that is, in fact, the best part of a chill winter evening.
i can't imagine how cold and busted the ice season must've
been back in the stormswept savage gypsy snow times.
i mean it.
staying warm under dead animal skins?
busted.
not having a lick of insulation besides mud and logs?
c'mon, neighbors...that's flippin' sucky.
and what about the lack of hot water, and baths in general?
those jauns are the most gross..
i'm sayin',
vikings used to all cram into the great hall during the most
brutal winter freezes, and just hang out in there for days.
days!
that's a lot of poop and pee and body and mouth smells.
c'mon.
i may want to nestle up by the hearth with my peoples,
but i sure as sh!t make sure i shower first.
and paste-up and brush my equine-sized choppers, too.
no doo-doo butter is gonna get spread around here
while i have the wits to wash and wipe.
real talk.
still, my ninjas,
it's getting colder than the cast iron crucible can keep up with,
and that makes sweaters and blankets seem very valuable indeed.
thank goodness for the twin miracles of washing machines and toilet paper.
***********
it's friday.
again.
and it snowed like magic overnight.
voila!
went to bed late with clear skies overhead.
woke up at six to stoke the embers,
and there was the lightest dusting of frozen water
all up and over the place.
a fresh topcoat of perfect pearly white,
pasted on all the pines and perches
of the woodsly goodness.
by 9 a.m. there was half a foot of frosty fury,
and the wind started kicking up a fit.
the fray was afoot,
and freya was flinging thunderbolt blizzard blasts
directly at my face.
we're under seige by the cold.
good thing about all that hard-hearted blast furnace blazing
inside my chest an' that, huh?
lava in my veins,
and hot fire spit in my mouth.
a regular viking volcano, this one;
never quiet, never soft.....