eleven.

i went back to the fair,
in the dark,
all by myself.
again.
it really becomes a deep dark pit of despair
when you do it like that.
i mean,
even the filthiest fattie mutants have a whole other
'nother fattie mutant at their side,
gorging at whatever fried food trough they've set out
for their greased-up dim-witted dead-eyed faces.
and i'm the one flying solo through the stalls?
F*!
harder and harder go the styles i rep, neighbors.
that's a thing.
but i'm not gonna let a little bit of that
everything-feels-worse-when-you're-all-alone derail my plans,
am i?
no way.
not once, not never-
so,
i lightning-strike activated a berserker ball-out barbarian dash
through the press of obese monsters and their offspring,
and made a single-pass through the gates,
to the fancy soda-pop spot, around the expositions,
and to the sweet sweet dinnertime magic zone.
yeah.
check the falafel-to-eleven-type teleport:

that's the only way i'm prepared to get busy,
even if i have to swallow sadness in every other mouthful.
small joys and the fullest bellyhole all derive
from those deep pockets right there.
uh-huh.
the outsides of the bread have that flame-grilled blackness burnt on!
the outsides of the individual mini falafel nugs are so crispy,
and the insides melt into hot chicky peepee baby bean butter.
it's good for you, y'all.
like those eagle's eggs-style nutrients jauns an' all that.
trust me.
eleven falafels is a good gosh-damned number.
it made sitting under a dim worklamp, surrounded by moths,
at a lonesome table, out of the way, chewing softly,
and taking big bites all seem not so bad.
***********
i do this thing, duders.
yeah.
it's real.
once in a great while,
somebody catches my attention.
it's never just any old average everyday individual, either.
therefore,
it almost never happens.
so when it does?
ugh.
i get dumb,
and go heavy on the sweet-hearted feelings.
awwwwwwwww.
uh huh.
hot ears and wild hands and squinty stares and all that.
real talk,
i am derailed by the rarity of genuine real life hottness-
and that's not a thing that almost anybody actually has.
i guess,
when it comes to girls,
i'm only interested in the best ones.
which is another way of saying that i don't really get it.
i mean,
it can't always be competent communication and worthy warrior poetry.
otherwise,
i'd probably be better at it.
no?
yes.
words are great, but actions speak louder....
so stopping short of shutting up,
and going along on the up-and-up instead of giving in
is the way it goes.
instead of exalting in activated synchronicity,
along the overlaps of circles and lips and hips and hands and hearts,
long nights and empty beds are what i reap from my abject affections.
true story.
c'mon.
i'm a professional hard-stylist, after all.
just sayin'-
what would hank F*ing rearden do?
duh...
he'd hold on,
and let the grip lose him before he loses his grip.
strong hands hold it together.
damn.
-
i can find the loveliest, intricate, most excellent,
gracious, and graceful, and grateful one.
yep.
without question,
i know what to look for.
the thing is,
i just don't know what happens next.
more of all of this, most likely.
that's the way it goes.
the secret universal plans unfold, slowly,
and it takes forever to see what the big picture is supposed to look like;
never quiet, never soft.....

still better.

duders,
out of nowhere,
just because she loves me,
my dear sweet friend amanda activated some treats!
well, specifically,
one super turbo expert treat,
in the form of the only choice there ever is.
no,
but  for real though.
check the my-friends-are-better-than-yours-type teleport:

the wrench, neighbors!
c'mon!
my peoples really know me.
and that gets me right in the heart-parts.
awwwwwww.
huh?
yes.
it's custom engraved with my secret bestie name.
yeah,
i'd prefer to be called kingsley.
is that wrong?
oh, well, i don't care, actually.
when somebody knows enough to hit you up with the inside jokes,
on the outside of a publicly-fawned over piece of simple machinery?
yeah.
you're lucky;
in this instance, i'm lucky.
and i like that a whole lot.
i am grateful for the time i have been given. kids,
and for the worthiest group of really real friends a guy could ever ask for.
it's all really happening,
and i've got all the good ones around me;
never quiet, never soft.....

bread.

duders,
i get into the spirit of the season.
i mean,
it's october.
and that's the best month, really.
and if it's really the best one,
then breakfast in october should be expert every day.
y'know?
and can you guess what makes for a great Tea 'N' Toast situation?
yuuuuuuuup.
a couple of massive slabs of the moistest squares of
oven-browned fancy orange-colored F*ing bread.
that's a thing.
like, for realsies,
it's a brick of burly heavy-duty autumn heartiness.
and i'm pretty much certain that's gotta be good for you.
neighbors,
check the bananas-are-for-other-months-type teleport:

pumpkin bread!
with toasted pecans, mixed in with the ginger and nutmeg and
cinnamon and maple syrup,
and stirred thick and rich with a couple cups of home-ground oat flour,
and topped with pumpkin seeds and those big sugar sprankles.
damn.
i make so many treats.
seriously,
who the hell am i baking for?
i think it's you, actually.
except you don't come over;
which just means more mutha-flippin' fancy pumpkin bread for me.
thanks.
sorta.
*
it's perfect outside.
huh?
okay, fine.
it's actually kinda hot outside.
like, unseasonably warm, even.
confusing?
ummmm, yeah, a little.
the leaves and the sky and the darkness say otherwise,
but the heat makes it feel like it's still summer.
fall is a tricky F*er.
it makes the fair harder to deal with, too.
sweaty monster-sized creature/people shouldn't be exposed
to the buttery heat waves that cause them to melt into stinkmeat puddles.
hard styles are the way it's done.
but,
what am i gonna do?
NOT eat falafel?
no way.
i'm not gonna let the hot hot wasp-infested greasy garbage heaps
of fall fairground fatness stop me from doing what my infinite nature
demands of me.
proof?
teleport:

yeah, kids.
two more for my fat facehole to devour.
extra tabouleh and tahini and tomatoes.
i doo-doo that fatty boombattie business-type sh!t, too.
it's just what has to be done.
rain nor shine nor heat nor cold,
it is What Is.
that's all there is;
never quiet, never soft.....

six and seven.....

falafels.
yeah. yeah. yeah.
i keep eating them y'all.
i went to the fair for thirty minutes yesterday.
alone.
no jokes.
just long enough to make sure i did what i needed to.
first off,
i eat falafels,
and then,
i don't give a F*,
and lastly,
i leave.
that's it.
i've got very achievable goals, neighbors.
check the pickled-carrots-are-very-good-type teleport:

chick peas know how to make a man happy.
uh-huh. i go gonzo over garbanzo beans,
and i eat them with a lot of enthusiasm.
i am serious, friends.
sitting by myself,
at a weird old park bench,
near a petting zoo,
sucking down a gooey, tahini-slathered fried bean bomb,
or maybe even two in a row, is a great way to be the creepiest one.
and that's in a far-ranging field of full-blown rural gut-weirdies.
yep.
that's it.
get in,
hit hard,
get out.
i do what i do, duders.
each and every beige spiteful biteful.
real shark-gluttons don't let all-aloneliness stop 'em.
we channel that feeling,
and we fill the hole in with amassed mountains of falafel.
i rep a hard style,
and i love the fair.
you'd do well to recognize my grind and yours aren't the same kind;
never quiet, never soft..... 

pumpkins.

tart tuesday doesn't stop because it's fair week.
i mean, rules are rules after all, y'all.
thing is,
it's october.
uh-huh.
that means it HAD to be pumpkin, y'know?
i'm just sayin', what else could it be?
right?
that's a thing.
so,
i did what needed doing, duders.
check the pumpkin-spice-type teleport:

gingersnap and graham crumbs on top,
gingersnap cookie coconut crust on the bottom.
pumpkin creme is how we activated the filling.
tapioca, cream chee', pump's, spices, brown sugar, powdered sugar,
maple syrup, corn starch, and flax seeds.
yep.
neighbors,
it's good.
i know i know i KNOW.
of course it is.
but really, though.
it's totally muthaflippin' delicious in my mouth.
i even baked it a bit, to get that flaxen thickness activated.
(it worked)
friends,
i'm gonna keep getting busy with this baking business.
it has to happen.
all of it really is, anyway,
so i might as well get some treats out of it.
no?
yeah!
getting molto expert in the kitchen is good for you.
eating is necessary;
eating like this is super fancy and unnecessary,
but also so much more elite.
and being elite is what worthy warrior poets do.
i'm taking bakery times to eleven,
because anything else is for doo-doo buttery diaperbabyism.
and, well, F* that, friends.
regular average everyday life is not invited to my makeout party.
i want every day to be exceptional,
without exceptions.
huh?
oh,
you know what i mean.
every day is a new opportunity to just be dope.
i doo-doo that bakery fresh site-specific seasonally-appropriate sh!t.
i mean,
it's not like i wasn't the one who made the damn rules.
real talk.
i like treats, and i like letting all of y'all know about 'em.
you're welcome;
never quiet, never soft.....

RRAAAAAAABBBBBITTRRRRABBBBIIITTTTTT

today is the day.
the first of october.
the best beginning to the best month,
and you'd best believe i said the words
that start it off the way it's supposed to go.
F*ing right, neighbors.
i mean,
what am i?
an A*-hole?
yeah,
that's probably a thing, i'll bet...
but anyway,
i said what needed to be said,
the first words as the clock chimed in the middle night,
and the calendar page turned one leaf closer to the finish line.
duders,
i say it when i wake up too, just in case.
i'd rather not be sorry i was lazy and overconfident
in my ability to conjure cultivated coincidences.
uh-huh.
at any rate,
the thing got spoken, a couple times,
over and over,
because i doo-doo that get-lucky-right-off on the right foot-type sh!t.
and there were visual aids involved, too.
teleport:

RABBIT, RABBIT!.
yeah.
i'm about that sort of thing.
**********
oh,
and i also did what i came to do, too.
check the fours-and-fives-type teleport:

yuuuuup.
more and more falafel, b!tches.
i do what i do because it's just what is done.
i really love them.
hard.
that's what happens.
i find something good,
and i overdo it-
because too much is never not the right amount.
october the first means there will be falafel today, too.
of course.
anything else would be the opposite of hurting myself,
and we all already know that if there is a wrench laying around,
waiting to be thrown in the works,
i'm obligated to choose it for the work i'm about to do.
the right tool for every job, y'know?
hard styles and tight nuts,
wrenches are the way we make the magic happen up here.
it has to hurt before it can heal,
and every injury comes with added insults,
just to take being a big, fat, fried F*ing pig to eleven.
the other option would be to take it easy,
but if i was gonna do that,
i wouldn't have said my rabbit-rabbit-y
spell-spat secret insurance policy.
right?
c'mon.
i plan ahead to self-destruct.
smart.
*
ummmm,
i've got nothing else for y'all.
there's no secret wisdom,
no special message.
today really is the day, though.
introductory octoberism.
it's gonna be an expert day,
unless you decide to F* it up.
a word of advice?
don't.
yeah, you're welcome;
never quiet, never soft.....

the other OTHER F word.

neighbors,
it's time.
uh-huh.
no escaping it, y'know?
word up,
rules is rules after all.
check the heavy-on-the-chick-peas-type-teleport:

yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
oh, MAN!
how i've missed these chunky fried blops!
FALAFEL, y'all.
ecstasy inside my mouth,
courtesy of all those fried hippie brown magic jauns.
i ate a whole other 'nother one too.
somebody couldn't finish theirs, after just two weak-sauce baby bites,
so i had to munch up on it a little bit.
pickled farmland fresh vegetables all over 'em, too?
yeah.
pretty much pure farts in a flame grilled bread diaper.
and also totally worth it.
pictures of falafels,?
that's it- straight up expert.
delivered with fervor and fury to you jealous jerks,
so you can know for sure that you're definitely missing out.
the best part of the fair.
the best part of the whole week.
the best, tastiest, thick hummus,
and the crunchy/crispy/smooth smooshed balls of hottness.
this is what is.
too much is the right amount,
and that's just right for the whole of the next weeklong no-chewing
shark-glutton smorgasbord of activated participation.
word;
never quiet, never soft.....

it's tough, but it's fair.

maine's blue ribbon classic, b!tches!
huh?
oh.
right.
duders,
the muthaF*ing fryeburg fair is in F*ing full effect!
yeah.
animals, and animal sh!t,
and fried delicious sh!t, and fried gross sh!t,
and more animal sh!t.
it's my yearly overdose of getting expert and keeping it that way.
like a booster shot of just be dopeness for body and mind,
and also for my ever-lovin', midway walkin', exhibition-lookin' face.
yeah.
the press and crush of peoples,
and those mostly in full 'necktard regalia,
all camouflage and work boots and what-all,
overweight blarps and illiterate mendicants and hungry hungry hippos-
i'm part of it, neighbors.
i love it.
i want to soak it all up all week long.
but,
there's just so much of all of it, all happening at once,
that it makes me feel a little bit like this:

ugh.
tense.
but,
the idea that everybody gets it together to play nice and be psyched?
that makes me feel a whole lot more like this:

awwwwwwwwwwww.
no.
you can't hate on the snugs, friends.
it feels sorta nice to know they've all got each other.
although,
the jerks in the next stall were smashing their heads together the whole time.
nature wins, i guess.
*
it's just that i love this fair so dang much.
it's like concentrated new englandy hottness,
distilled, infused, and implanted into a few acres of pure awesomeness.
eight days of northern charm, and Folk Life activation.
there are things, and then there are things.
and this right here, right now, is SO a thing.
there's sh!t everywhere,
and that's somehow a good thing.
i think it means we're doing it right;
never quiet, never soft.....

the middle button.

my chest is a fragile frame that holds in the full force

of a great big infernally furious blazing raging barbarian bonfire.

that's real.

the size of my body is unequal to the furnaces that fuel it.

i'm powered by more light and heat than the shallow, sallow, 

fallow cage i call my body could ever even hope to possibly contain.

no jokes.

keeping it under wraps and holding it together requires careful monitoring,

constant attention, and conscientious tending-to.

otherwise,

the true nature of the infinite spills out into eternity.

yeah, neighbors, that's a thing...

the bursting, beating, brutal beast-mode blood and lava 

of warrior poetry and ragnarok-ing romanticism;

tandem tag-team threads of expanding, unfolding, 

ever-increasing energy,

racing towards a finish line that never gets any closer.

y'know?

what i mean is-

there's a lot going on,

and i've got a heart that was made to handle it all, 

.....and then some.

but what it needs, what i need, 

hell,

what we all F*ing need , 

is somebody worth a sh!t to keep an eye on it.

i can feel it pulsing around in the hollows.

i can feel it coursing, of course, 

along the vascular racetracks and backroads of my veins.

the pressure is constantly building, 

without an available outlet for it to ease up. 

it's ALL really happening, no doubt about it;

never quiet, never soft.....

burn it down.

FIRE!
yeah.
it's good for you, neighbors.
prime elemental barbarian nature sh!t,
for your mutha-F*ing faces.
hmm?
yeah.
the sounds and smells and sights of burning
are all totally and completely expert.
believe me-
we are all always all about that up here.
teleport:

mmmhmmm.
a radder-than-ever pillar of square-stacked kindling,
freshly split, and piled high.
it started life in the late afternoon like this:

word.
i got it ready early,
because doing it in the dark isn't as much fun.
(ummmmmm, sometimes, anyway)
i like to see the pregame process in the natural light of the daytimes.
is that weird?
probably not,
since being ready is better than looking stoopid.
and also,
i thought there'd be girls around.
i was predictably pretty flippin' incorrect about that.
still,
building a doo-doo buttery nighttime stack just isn't as sexy
as a prepared in advance got-my-sh!t-together-type jauns.
obviously.
it's not easy always being expert.
or is it?
that's hard to say,
especially when hard styles and long nights are combined
with good people and special events.
y'know?
yeah.
of course you do, duders.
because expert recognize expert.
that's how we found each other, after all.
duh.
i think that's just a thing.
but, eventually, it all burns up and fades away.
awwwwwwwwww.
teleport again for me:

nighttime ends softly.
it always does.
dawn cracks, and breaks,
but night slips off silently before that.
the height of good manners is knowing when to leave, after all.
somewhere between the deepest dark and the rosiest glow of today,
we made it all really happen the very best that we could.
i'm grateful for the time i've been given.
it's never unfolding the way i think it's gonna,
but it's all certainly a whole heck of a lot better than it should be.
this is it;
never quiet, never soft.....

best.

some nights are better than others.
a saturday night,
in the woodsly goodness,
outside the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress,
smoking stumps,
talking noise,
and warming up next to some hot fire,
on the crunchy cold dried-up fallen leaves,
with no girls in sight anywhere?
yeah.
we doo-doo that rustic mountain manly-type sh!t.
check the teleport:

me and the cucch, neighbors-
we do what we do, wherever we are.
mostly, that means we stay ugly, and stay dope.
and that's easier than it sounds, too.
two times the work, twenty times the results-
that's synergy, son.
still,
we made sure we were keeping it expert in the darkness.
that means making ourselves useful,
and making it seem useless to resist the lure of keeping it simple
with your best friend in the whole wide F*ing world.
that's a thing.
some nights are better than others;
never quiet, never soft.....