Friday, September 4

mack-hand strong.

i know a guy.
i do.
he's a damned good guy.
and he is also a professional listener by trade.
i go and talk to him about real life once a week.
i think it helps a whole bunch to have an un-involved, unbiased, detached duder
who can see issues from a far better and more open-minded vantage point
than the view that my tunnel-vision, frayed from the fray, fried from the fracas,
and besmirched in unadmiring mired underground sludge, will oftentimes allow.
it's hard to look up and see light when you're feeling buried.
for the record-
it's hard to have a decent dialogue open up when your conversations always devolve
into adversarial accounts of conflicting opinions.
and when your conversation seem to consistently become adversarial,
it helps to look at why.
and when you look at why you feel beset and besieged, ambushed and assaulted,
and you have the recognition of insistent complicity by consent-
it's hard to feel good when talking to someone who wants you to agree with them,
so that they'll feel better about doing the wrong thing.
if you don't say it's wrong, then maybe it isn't?
i don't think that's how it goes,
and that's where the trouble starts, every time.
luckily, my weekly appointment with the guy isn't like that.
it's good to talk to someone who doesn't agree or disagree.
he just absorbs all the details...
it's super great to speak with a duder who won't get upset or offended
or indignant or combative when i resolutely refuse to say a thing that is NOT a thing.
y'know what it is called when you say something that isn't?
a.k.a. a handjob in the back of dirk's mom's jaguar.
a.k.a. a F*ing lie.
truth tellers can never stop.
i learned that a long time ago.
when asked to agree with the disagreeable
that's when the compulsion to say What Is puts me in a worse position
that i reallllly appreciate that it won't ever stop happening.
the part where i'd feel worse saying i agree with big, bad, dumb, detrimental ideas
than i will ever feel about the consequences and collateral hard-styles and hard-eyed stares,
and ever-hardening harder feelings i accrue by telling the truth is what i talk about with
that guy i know.
i think he understands, intuitively, and fundamentally,
that without him as a sounding board i'd really be flying without instruments into
an abyssal triangle of battle-beastly bard business.
you get it.
folks keep telling me they' admire that i'm the guy who 'tells it like it is',
but that just makes me so sad that they're more used to telling it like it isn't.
what in the actual F* is the point of that?
i honestly just don't know,
...and that's what i talk to my professional listener about.
most people i've met only really like it when you're telling it like it is
about someone ELSE.
now that's a thing
....have you ever had someone do something superlatively dressed up as aiding the greater good?
or make unilateral decisions after calling a commitee?
something that will categorically help them, and hurt you,
and then try to convince you that you LIKE coming out worse for wear?
or maybe that they're doing you a favor by effing up your scene?
i wouldn't actually mind the part where the hard-pounding of my overall well-being happens.
i mean,
it sure sucks a whole bunch,
but that's the way the world works sometimes.
what frosts my butthole is when the CLEARLY sh!tty deal is presented as a pretty picture.
i'm not that dumb, and i've never been accused of naivety.
i know what sh! smells like,
so don't try to put a garland on it and call it a reward.
how does a worthy warrior poet conduct and compose himself and his saga
when he's adrift in a sea of insistent obfusticators
and artfully arranged delicately calibrated dishonesty?
that's where the impartial assessor activates his experience,
and takes all the information,
and then interjects some wisdom into what i'm wallowing in.
i can't imagine it's an easy job-
drawing up new battle-plans and tactics for a world-weary, war-torn,
willful but worried pessimistic paladin.
i wouldn't want that job, that's for sure.
i'm grateful for a qualified friend to help me become the best possible involved,
evolved, invested version of myself.
i mean,
if that is't what we should all be striving for,
what the heck are we even doing here?
that's no fun.
not one little teeny tiny bit.
and because i'm regularly blasting this helpful helper with a lambasted loudmouth
rattletrap prattling paean to the poor performance of my part in the pageant,
i often try to hook a dude up with a little somethin' special for his face.
gratitude and generosity are reciprocated between really real people.
that's no joke.
i get a glimpse of my world through calmer eyes in a cooler head,
and as a special thank-you,
i fire up some flippin' treats for the guy to enjoy while i turn on my wordy weekly purge
of all the vitriol and vehemence and abhorrence
and decidedly dour doings of the previous seven days.
nobody like that,
but everybody likes cookies.
unless they're an A*-hole, obvi.
after all these words,
whether you've managed to either legitimately read 'em,
or just scroll down to here....
there are cookies to be enjoyed.
check the therapy-on-therapy-on-therapy-type teleport:
mackin' macaroons, my friends.
baking is meditation for me.
like medicine that i make myself.
home-remedy jauns with sweet nutrients and sh!t like that.
it helps to back that up with real-world real-time face-to-face problem-solving
and troublemaker-shooting,
and all the rest of that, too.
the thing of it is,
these cookies wren't working out at first.
maybe there's an allegory in there somewhere?
i added coconut oil to coconut sugar,
and then i fired in some flaky coconut shreds,
and some coconut flour,
and they were toooooo dry,
so i blended in some crema de coco syrup,
which helped, but not quite enough to make the dough all the way wet.
so i went with a splash of full-fat sexy coconut milk, too.
that did the trick.
once the mix-up was lookin' correct,
i knew i needed a little something exxxtra to really make sure that all that coconut was
doing all the good things i wanted it to.
what goes great with everything coconut?
MORE coconut.
toasted coconut sprankles,
and every hand-tossed cookie circle pressed right into 'em.
crawnchy outsides, fluffy, chewy, expert insides.
wordimus prime.
that's how we make sure that we're doing enough.
because what is enough?
too much.
that's it.
you know it, you like it, and i doo-doo that freaky sh!t,
that's the way i work.
every time, all the time.
it's all really happening.
the facts are the facts,
the truth sounds like the truth,
and anything else is a big dumb pile of crap,
even when it's wearing a wreath to make it seem nicer;
never quiet, never soft..... 

Thursday, September 3


apples and almonds.
fruit and nuts.
those mutha-effers just go together so well.
i didn't really know what to do about my treats situation yesterday.
i mean,
i like to fire up a little something, since i've got the day to myself
to do with as i see fit.
i started outside, getting enraged and exhausted, first thing out of the gates,
and by the time i got back inside, and settled down, and ready to get into it....
i didn't really know what i even wanted.
and that's just pure bullsh!t, neighbors.
happily for all of us,
i still had apples on hand.
a half peck of crisp shiny red jauns, begging to be chopped up.
i peeled 'em, i coarsely cut 'em up, and i fired them into a pot,
where they simmered slowly in a sauce of vanilla and brown sugar and butter,
until they made enough juice to soak themselves silly in.
while that was going on,
i creamed together some almond flour, slivered almonds, almond extract,
butterish, and brown sugar, with a little liquid to make it stick,
and i pressed that perfect blend into a deep tart tin.
y'gotta get the crust right, kids.
otherwise, the whole thing sucks.
that's real talk.
i par-baked the almond crumble crawnch,
and it made the whole house smell like a happy home and hearth.
olfactory familiarity is stronger than eyesight.
the kitchen looked like a huge mess,
but it had the time-traveling scent of a quaint new england sanctuary in full effect.
what do we get when we combine those two elements?
almond joy and apple overjoy?
we get a pretty flippin' elite treat.
check the tarted-type teleport:
the topping.
of course.
that's brown sugar candied, cinnamon and vanilla activated,
almond-oil infused sliced almond sprankles.
you know that's that sexxxy sh!t.
i make the treats.
that's the thing i do when i don't know what else to do.
it's the way i make things go rtight when they're going wrong.
treats is how i fix my fevered brain-
when i'm scared, when i'm pushed, when i'm worried,
another treat, another tart, so what's the hurry?
and since that's my outlet to exorcise,
and the reason why i exercise,
i certainly don't skimp out on them.
too much is the right amount.
i want that super-fancy unnecessary new hottness,
and i want a lot of it.
rules is rules, friends.
a fact which remains non-negotiable;
never quiet, never soft.....


half-finished projects.
looking out into my mysterious mess of a yard,
where i sweat my A* off;
and pulled my meager muscles to their limits;
and stomped through poisonous rash-thrashing vines;
and dug up root after rootball of well-entrenched oft-cut saplings;
and powered out a few hundred pounds of granite from the soil
in this summery septembery granite state.
damn, neighbors.
i uncovered more problems than i solved,
and i barely made a dent in the messed-up fix-up process.
that's a hard style, and one i did not enjoy in the slightest.
i spanned a few early morning hours pulling stumps
and raking away shrapnel and scrub brush shrubbery,
as my actual next-door neighbor looked on from her window,
furtively peeking out, index finger undoubtedly just itching to dial any authorities,
from any department,
for any perceived infraction or invasion any and all personal space-
hers, theirs, or maybe even mine.
i didn't expect an audience, let alone a hostile one-
i'm at home, not at work.
it's supposed to be different here within the protective shield
of the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
then again...
wherever i am, wherever i go, whatever i'm doing,
there's just got to be SOMEone who takes exception
to the things that i'm involved in,
even when i'm doing my dirt, in the dirt, all by my lonesome self.
you'd almost think i exude a secret chemical compound, huh?
a ferocious pheromonal fuming attractant/repellent that cultivates
the opposite of happy accidents,
and instead draws in those folks who act more like tragic accidents.
i mowed most of my lawn, too.
the newly upturned dirt around the recently ruined hillside made doing any more
a journey into a self-stirred sandstorm of dry earth and airborne irritants.
not cool.
i started a project i'll need a ladder twice as tall for.
i had such high hopes for the day off,
and instead, i completed only half of what i wanted.
i even called all the laboring laborers who'll be needed to finish
some of the tasks i'm unsuited or under-equipped to complete to around here.
..... and i left messages.
nothing got done, but a lot got started.
i dunno, duders.
that's not a rewarding feeling at all.
do you know what IS a rewarding feeling?
fancy dinner.
with the rest of the day diving deep into the doodiehole of disappointment,
and therefore to be jettisoned into oblivion as another 'nother day off disappeared,
with amber coming over after work for mutual cheering-up
after an all-day-long span of weak sauce and shallow gains-
it was time to bring a little more hottness to the already scorching afternoon.
fancy dinner is good for you,
and that's no joke.
and for the record, from what i understand,
real men don't eat quiche, unless you leave off the crust, and call it a frittata.
then it's cool.
word up.
check the rally-around-suppertime-type teleport:
one fresh-baked burly vegan jauns, sliced in a wedge,
loaded with nootch, and g.p.o.p., and sauteed garlic, onions, herbs,
tofu, tapioca, a pinch of flour, and a lot of olive oil.
i stirred in some scallions after the big food processor crushing combination,
and before baking, i fired a few more on top, too.
scallions are good.
really good, and i want more of the in my life.
once that bad mama-jamma thickened up and popped out, ready and willing
from the hot hot HOT oven,
i gave it the ol' too much is the right amount treatment-
what was great on it's own got activated even MORE
with caramelized sweet onions, and pan-seared brussels sprouts.
with oregano flowers as a garnish?
fancy is what's up.
how about that beige business on the right?
quinoa, red lentils, brown rice, acini de pepe pasta, celery, onions, garlic, and chick peas.
is that elite pilaf?
i guess it is.
boiled in broth, and stirred up with a little green leafy garnish!
starches are delicious, guys.
i needed a heavy dose of hearty food.
i didn't even realize how hungry i was, or how cranky that made me,
until i got the first forkful into my mouth.
then, like a berserker shark-gluttonous fattie-o,
i devoured almost all of it with a minimum of breaths in between.
it's september.
that means apples.
i sliced up a few paula reds. (really.)
and i browned 'em up,
and hit 'em with fried rosemary sprouts,
and then finished 'em with white balsamic and black pepper.
that's right.
i get nice with it.
i get nicey-nice with it.
i get nicey-nice very nicely with it.
i love food,
and i hate yard work.
i don't like watching my weight,
and i love a lovely garden.
it figures.
everything costs something, kids.
eating treats and raking up big ol' piles of sh!t?
i s'pose that's the best deal going around these parts.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, September 1


'see you in september', they said.
and i was all like-
'not if i see your b!tch-A* first!'
you guys aren't about to glimpse me anytime soon, either.
i stayed up late, as usual.
steady creepin' the clock, keeping my sleepy peepers peeled for
the satellite-linked digital touch-screen display to strike twelve,
and for the date to transition into a whole other 'nother new month.
that's real.
i want to make sure i said it, neighbors.
that's right.
first thing out on the first minute in.
magic words.
sorcerous summonings.
cultivating coincidences.
super-duper-stitions of good luck, good fortune, and good news.
(you'd almost think i'd have learned better by now, huh?)
so here it is.
the first day.
the premier of a sunny, salty, slippery september, even.
i waited and waited,
and with a whisper, and then again with a yell,
and with all the focused intentions of conjuration i called down the
favorable outlooks and bountiful blessings and boons
of an otherwise-indifferent secret universal plan.
y'gotta get it's attention, friends.
i said what needed saying, again and again,
and again when i opened my eyes after only a few hours of sealing them shut.
you know the lyrics by heart, i hope:
rabbit, rabbit!
i want all the good stuff,
and i'm drawing attention to myself through the foggy, misty messiness of
the interconnected overlapping smoke rings and ghost circles of spirit and memory.
that's what's up.
i made a treat.
nobody should show up to a new month empty handed.
i mean, c'mon-
that's what poor people do.
don't get me wrong,
i want good fortunes, for sure,
but i'm working for 'em, and i'm working hard, at that.
plus, i brought cake.
seasonally-appropriate. site-specific, seasonally-seasoned sweetness,
for all the other other worthy warrior poets and funny homey bunnies
in this wild woodsly goodness.
check the september-type teleport:
it's upside-down cake.
i know, right?
super expert.
caramelized local early red apples layered on the bottom of the cake pan,
so when we flip it for real,
the top is loaded with brown-sugary cinnamon sexxxiness.
the remainder of 'em went right in the raw sugar and molasses batter,
so even the spice cake crumb has apple magic mashed up throughout!
ginger, and nutmeg, and all the goodness of a septemberical
super-official 'splosion of hottness all right here, ready and waiting for us
to munch up on a little tiny bit.
i got that swirly frame of cinnamaplecreme frosting,
because that's the right way to doo-doo that freaky sh!t.
believe it.
i love a bunch of buttery goobieblops,
especially when they're activated even more,
with real maple syrup an' that.
i know what's really real,
and i know about what's good.
i've got spat-rabbits coming out of my mouth,
and apples rolling in.
it's all really happening,
and there's likely to be more of it before nightfall;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, August 31

bye bye, august.

just like that-
in a flash, in a moment,
in an overnight cool-off....
august is suddenly in it's last throes of summer sweet heat and light.
on it's way into history, this last day,
a monday no less,
is the harbinger of a fallow fall of equal parts autumnal awesomess
and transitional trepidation.
it looks good,
but not much happens therein that might be construed as good news.
it all really happens, and it all really ends,
with or without happy in attendance.
august disappears too quickly,
but it sure always seems to take an eternity before we see the finish.
i'm just sayin'-
it sure felt like it was way more than 31 days,
that's real.
now that it's over and out, though?
i think i could've used another 'nother week or so.
it's been a long month in the mired muck of a morass of small means
and mean-spirited motives.
oddly enough,
and to my great disappointment,
morasses aren't what they sound like,
nor are they at all what i wish they were.
muddy puzzles and boggy bogglers are what i've been unraveling all august long.
that's right.
and what are the answers i've uncovered?
there's only one, really, but it's correct-
try hard(er).
real life is not fair play nor fairy tale endings
and almost no one gets what they deserve.
they might, just maybe, get what they earn.
if there's a suitable investment of enough blood, sweat, and quietly wiped-away tears.
try harder.
^that's all there is to do.
too much is the right amount, after all,
so, with that in mind,
enough cannot be nearly enough, now can it?
no way, neighbors.
whether by ill-gotten, misbegotten, or fairly-gotten methods,
the objective objective is MORE.
that's no way to say goodbye, is it?
there should be something nicer involved with a sendoff.
not just the dismal concave upside-down dystopia of my daily doings.
i'm aware of that,
and i certainly didn't slack-A* my way into the final episode of hot, sunny,
august activation by being underprepared to power up something sweet.
don't be dumb.
i made us a treat.
what else would i do?
check the teleport:
that's right, kids.
it's thinned-out and bulked up cookie dough, transformed into cake batter.
gluten-free vanilla rice flour flavor, with a little oaten hottness,
and some extra tapioca-type loft and chew,
so that i wasn't serving up some weak dry doo-doo.
i know better.
it's good,
but what makes it expert is that custom creamchee'-moistened
chocolate oatmeal granola jauns on top.
crumbly chunks of streusel sprankles are what y'all need.
and they are also what we've got.
i wouldn't sell anyone short,
and i sure wouldn't wreck a treat i'm gonna eat, too.
oh, yeah, and one more thing-
hot chocolate sauce on the bottom of that plate?
so dope.
just the right touch to complete the profile.
a little under-drizz' is good for you,
if there's cookie-cake and granola spranx already ready for your face.
real talk.
real talk is all i've got.
i don't have it in me to pretend that things aren't things.
A is A.
and anyone who says otherwise is selling something;
never quiet, never soft..... 

Sunday, August 30

newly minted.

that's what happens when your diaper-babyish bellyhole can't handle the truth.
i mean,
c'mon, neighbors-
bread and flour and dough are all expert,
and wheat is what is on my mind most of the time.
i'm sort of about that all-purpose jauns.
i'm sayin',
i love hard red winter, soft red winter, straight-up durable durum,
hard spring, hard white, AND that soft white.
i never met a wheat i wouldn't eat.
sometimes you meet a worthy warrior who has dietary restrictions,
and maybe you don't be a total d!ckturd about 'em.
(like, for example, being a lightning-striking viking vegan, perhaps)
i've got a buddy that i've gotten to know and respect and admire over the last year,
and if everything works out the way it's supposed to-
today is the day.
the last day.
we'll wrap up his sleeve,
he'll wrap up his stay in new hampshire,
and i won't see him around anymore.
which is great news....for him.
y'know what is even better news?
i made up some mother'ucking magical gluten-free treats
for a fresh-to-death fond farewell for his wheatless face.
i'm NOT actually an A*-hole.
i appreciate his commitment to getting tattooed,
and he travels a ways within this remote mountain state to doo-doo that freaky sh!t,
and he's been an all-around top-five client since the first sitting,
so, honestly, if i didn't try to make a little magic happen,
it would almost be disrespectful to both of us.
treats are a required addition to our final hours in the studio,
and they are surely in full effect right this very minute.
what kind of glutenlessness have i prepared?
minty ones.
because mint tastes really F*ing FRESH, kids.
that sensation of chilled out tingling tundra sorcery is what we need, i think.
he's headed to sunny new mexico,
which i think is always as swelteringly hot as sunny old mexico,
so maybe one last early winter-style cold snap,
in soft, spongy, minty brown & white rice tapioca oatmeal briquettes is in order.
i hope so.
check the wreckable-rectangle-type teleport:
mint chocolate chip blondie bites,
with mint chocolate mint ganache,
and shaved chocolate curl sprankles.
y'feelin' it?
for really real,
if it isn't expert,
it isn't what i'm interested in.
this is it.
today is the day, again.
a sense of completion,
another 'nother ending.
every time the time we've been given reaches it's final countdown,
the other person in the exchange is the one who leaves,
and moreover inevitable goes on to bigger and better things...
in the woodsly goodness,
sequestered in the shadow of a forest,
shuttered up in the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress,
squirreled away in the roots  of a mountain,
i'm still right here.
that's probably the hardest style there is.
nothing bigger,
nothing better,
but always MORE of it.
i'm always right here,
at the event horizon of a black hole,
watching time slow down, and pressure pull me in place.
it's heavy, this temporal tempest,
and it isn't temporary.
in fact,
it seems somewhat inescapable.
i guess that makes a lot of sense when you really add it all up-
the gravity of a lifetime of getting it wrong,
imploding in one focused location,
but only the location is fixed,
and everything else stays pretty broken,
just in precisely the same spot.
try that on for a while and see how it suits YOU.
despite the deepening divide between the infinite purgatorial plunge of my
daily happenings,
i still wish for success for myself and my peoples,
and i'm glad that whatever X-rays escape from the portal
of this plummeting anomaly that seems analogous to my everyday life
have reached those i care enough about to spend energy thinking about.
maybe the problem is that X-rays aren't enough to cultivate coincidence
in the dense dolorous doldrums of my deep dark chasm.
in fact, i'm sure that if any new mode of thinking is going to elevate
and alleviate and allocate some new expert excellence into the abyss of
the secret universal ether,
it's certainly not going to settle for X.
what i need is some XI-rays,
and as soon as they answer my call,
bigger and better are bound to follow.
i'll just be in the kitchen in the interim,
baking up a little extra something for the road;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, August 29

out come the wolves.

holy full flippin' moon, neighbors!
can you feel it?
have you seen it?
it's big,
it's bright,
and it's bringing all the wild blood from all over the wilderness,
every pulsing, thrumming bass-boosted blast of barbarian big action
directly to the doorstep of my fair forest realm.
the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress is aglow with the beams,
and the blue light from that silver circle is bathing every inch of my reflective rooftop
in heavenly reverberations.
the push and pull, the tidal wavelengths,
the hazy skies and bleary eyes that give way to full blown supermoon
werewolfen berserker battle-beastly fury.
that's what's up.
and when the sky is alight with the shiny round animal magnetism,
i feel it's only right to start up a convivial conflagration of my own.
it's raging gypsy fuego time!!!
the world is my tinderbox, and i've got heaps of fuel.
guys, check the towering-inferno-type teleport:
i'm burning EVERYTHING.
that's no joke.
i've got crackling logs and flammable extras,
and all of it is getting blazed to bits...
the fire got so crazy tonight,
it starting shooting out sideways.
i got that side fire jauns spraying leftwards,
and upwards.
the light is orange,
the heat is heartwarming, and everywhere else warming, too.
the smoky scent of campfire has me missing my peoples this evening.
having company could've made the whole night more expert,
the nightcrawling, churning, roiling animal frenzy of a wilding wolf moon
maybe is best to be enjoyed all alone,
the thing is-
i've got bristling hairs, snarling teeth, and clenched fists,
and nobody else needs to watch me writhe around in the grass,
howling and barking mad,
but loving every last second of the embers and sparks that're being carried towards
the big orbiting satellite overhead.
it's all really happening, kids.
the inferno is just the right amount of extra hottness in every way.
i'm grateful for the time i have been given here,.
and the absence of others around the stones only makes it easier to be myself.
there're treats in the oven,
and plans in the making.
my drawing board has sketches,
the night is young,
and the lights are on in the heavens above.
i'm missing my ladies, big and small,
and i'm looking up, even if i'm not looking forward....
right now is when i'm supposed to be;
never quiet, never soft.....

tart, but not.

flour, butter, creamchee', sugar, vanilla, salt.
all together, creamed and crushed and squished and pressed into
a dense doughy ball of pre-pastry preparedness.
i have a tart shaper.
i do.
it looks like the smallest wooden dumbbell,
but it's the smartest tool in my tiny tartlet arsenal.
that's a real thing, neighbors.
my mini muffin pan, and a well-floured tart shaper,
and that dough, after a short stint in the refrigerator,
for the basis of an adorable miniaure tart cup creation.
i mean it.
puff pastry cups to hold all the new hottness are what i'm all about today.
check the tart-but-actually-very-sweet-type teleport:
you'd better believe that's expert!
crispy-edged buttery creamchee' cups,
and silky chocolate pastry creme occupying all the empty space in each one-
it's richer and firmer than pudding,
it's softer than fudge,
it's better than either,
and it lives very happily in the middle of all of that cutesy cuppiness.
did i roll 'em all in shredded unsweetened flaky coconut?
use your eyes, for goodness' sake, kids.
of COURSE i did.
because i'm not a complete A*-hole, for starters,
and because i'm about that complimentary complementary coconut cooperation, too.
i mean,
chocolate and coconut are pretty much best friends...
well, whenever peanut butter isn't there to vie for all the attention, anyway.
right now, though-
it's chocolate and coconut, and activated flavors in full effect.
crema de coco?
it's coconut sugar syrup!
that's rad.
coconut flour, and crushed-up coconut, and coconut oil, and coconut milk,
all whipped and spun and whisked and whirled into a no-joke burly
swirly heavily-laced pasty batch of frosty frosting freshness,
made possible in part by the crema de coco blops that smoothed the whole thing out,
and sugared the whole thing up,
and made some minor magic start poppin' off in the kitchen.
that's good, right?
i thought so, too-
good is not enough-
too much is the right amount.
there's also ground chocolate fairy dust drifting down on each one,
for a final exxxtra extra component in the new new hotter hottness.
they're tarts,
they're sweet.
you get it.
there sure is a whole lot of night to fight through,
and it doesn't get easier the more of them you make it past.
with the seasons getting ready to transition,
and the woodsly goodness always running faster towards fall,
the dark is showing up earlier, and staying longer, too.
it's getting a whole lot more noticeable these days.
i wonder if the full moon casting long shadows on tall trees
is making me see more deepening dark tidings,
or if that's just the unfolding plot of a secret universal plan getting illuminated
by blue spotlight floods in the night-terrorizing recesses of the evening's creases and cracks.
i don't know for sure,
but i am well and fully aware of the duration that each black patch extends along,
and spans in expressive ever-expanding expanses as the searchlight in the sky travels
an arc across horizon to horizon.
it's sneaky, the darkness.
it moves.
and while i'm baking away the hours,
it's plotting and planning new ways to take up more time and space,
and even the magnetic rays of lunar luminescence have no effective means
of preventing it.
those beams have got some power.
i mean,
they tug and tear at the fabric of iron-filled flesh,
and draw out the slivers of savagery and ferocious furious battle-beastliness...
...but the dark?
it just waits.
and when the waning is underway,
it comes back sooner, and stays a minute more,
and will for months yet.
there are circles that overlap,
and as the year moves away from summer,
the interconnected rings of spirit and memory
spiral away from light and heat,
and from a coiled counterclockwise corkscrew,
gloom, doom, cold, and dark all rotate their way into the inner circles
of time and place like an augur digging down
and dredging up whatever should've stayed buried. damn.
that's the way it goes.
because nature wins,
and the winner does what she wants.
i'm just over here baking treats,
trying to mix coconut and chocolate in a way that seems bright, light, and warm.
i'm creating my own counterpoints to the decline of this year.
i'm also eating them.
which, in turn, contributes to the decline of my counter offers.
it's a continual circle, a slow-motion cycle,
not so much vicious as languid,
but totally inevitable for all the speed it lacks.
the year is ending,
the treats are getting eaten,
and all of it is exhausting in all the ways that word implies.
this is What Is,
and the daylight isn't revealing anything different;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, August 28


i like it.
a whole bunch.
and i want a little bit of it in the cakes i'm baking.
you do.
when i say i want a little bit of coconut in my cakes,
i actually mean i want a TON of coconut in my cakes.
and i just happen to have so many kinds of coconut at my disposal.
sometimes, though,
coconut needs a little help.
i'm helpful.
at least,
when it's time to take a cake to eleven
i'll lend a hand or two to make the magic happen.
to that end,
me, my cakey batter-blasting bakery skills, and a bunch of tiny chocolate chips
all arrived to help coconut complete it's mission.
and seriously, all that effort, and all that coconut, 
and that little bit of chocolaty activation really brought the whole bowl of awesome
to a whole new tier on that expert scale.
when the timer dinged on the oven,
we had a little somethin' special to show off,
and i'd like for you guys to see it...
check the dalmatian-spotted-coconutty-nicey-nice-type teleport:
the cake is so soft and squishable.
coconut has all that good oil and fat and richness,
so coconut flour, and coconut shreds, and coconut sugar,
with a little vegan creamchee' and a pat or seven of butterish,
mixed up with some other stuff,
including, but not limited to, tapioca and regular flour and vanilla,
made a perfect coffee cake batter base.
then the chocolate chips made it even better.
the crumbly crumbles on top are pretty great on their own,
and when a bite of this sweet baby-b!tch goes into your face,
the tandem hottness of moist cake and crankley coconut and confectioners sugar,
coupled with coconut oil and coconut flour, 
for that dusty white-sand sexxxiness will make you pee your pants in pleasure.
rules is rules,
and the rules say that too much is the right amount.....
which is why there are even MORE tiny chocolate chips being sprankles on top!
what's up? 
how about being super-expert all the time?
and what about creating treats that are delicious and decadent and doooooope ?
yes, again.
keeping it real, and keeping it vegan, 
and still bringing the house down with superior skills, elite ingredients, 
and a healthy dose of overdoing it?
you know it's always yes to all of that, every single time.
i create my own rewards,
and then i eat them/.
hard styles and soft cakes,
long nights, and quick snacks.
the challenges increase, and the treats do, too.
there's a proportionate ratio of circumstantial difficulty to consciously-chosen reactions.
the treats get more delicious, the worse the rest of the day tastes.
that's no joke.
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft..... 

Thursday, August 27

the pits.

i've got three weird concrete pits.
i mean,
i've got a surprise cache of them in my yard,
at the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
where i make things, bake things, break things,
and take things to be tossed, turned and transformed....
in the previously woodsly swath i recently had a mulchy monster truck
come and grind up and spit out as ripped roots and mouldy messiness,
there are three separate concrete pits.
...and i'm pretty sure at least one of them has water welling up inside it.
if that's not ground water,
it could very well be some sort of leachy sh!t-soup from genuine human buttholes.
ummmm, yeah.
so now, before any continuing efforts to improve my lands and holding can be resumed,
i've gotta go dig down, and fiddle around with a shovel,
to try to upturn the leafy, sap-smeared, moss-covered, spiderfull soil,
and unearth the answers to this muddy, root-covered, concrete-lidded riddle
moonlighting as a crap-cavern in my yard.
i just wanted to put up a fresh, folksly, vine-covered (eventually),
fence-type enclosure, to create a proper and appropriate site-specific
safe romping realm for my impending dog situation.
simple enough, right?
if you're someone else.
twenty feet in the wrong direction to start,
with exposed roots from ancient trees as a chaser,
and now,
vaults, or dry-wells, or wet wells, and i'm unwell with wearied worry
about whatever has to happen next.
it is going to be a doom-and-gloom domino-effect of cascading catches,
glitches, hiccups, stumbling blocks, and of course, money.
neighbors, what do we call this?
money pits.
literally, without any winky stink-eye glibness,
money pits are presently what i'm spelunking.
it was to be expected, although still hoped against...
old and busted is the name of the game with an aged manor in the mountains.
this isn't anything new.
it's just another 'nother wrench in the works,
which is, of course, to say it was predictably the only choice, really...
after all,
this is warrior poetry,
and that's not indicative of mortal peril and physical combat-
it's an all-out battle, daily, against the elements that compose the easy way:
the well-traveled properly-marked well-maintained path;
the smooth-sailing and/or calm seas...we simply don't DO that sort of thing.
i'm just sayin'-
the rosy prose and taxi-metered standard stanzas of sunny-sides-up and upbeat outlooks
aren't what we write about over here.
don't misunderstand me, though-
i'm not hopeless, helpless, heartless, or even hapless.
i'm just better equipped to persevere and endure through prolonged exposure
to hard styles and long nights, heavy days and tough times.
quitting isn't how i get busy with my business.
when the secret universal plan has more strength-training exercises
to work out on my force of will with an opposing force of worsening weighty waiting,
what can i do?
i gotta do the things i'm designed to.
dig in, figuratively,
and dig in, with a real shovel,
to get to the bottom of the mystery of what the F* is really really wrong here.
i mean,
it's SOMEthin', that's for sure.
deeper, and maybe a little darker,
and every bit as dirty as the buried doo-doo butterholes i'm excavating.
nothing stays buried forever,
and not much of what surfaces is treasure...
i'm getting much better at shouldering the load.
i guess you can't keep carrying it all by yourself
and not get at least a little bit stronger.
to whatever plots and twists and parcels of problems happen to heap up
and hunch my back with straw after straw after straw.
baleful bales, stacks on stacks on haystacks of time-taking day-draining blocks
of interwoven needful needlings,
with that last straw never ever really quite landing on my shoulders.
i don't get crushed by it.
i just stay kinda tired.
no breaks, no brakes,
just bad breaks and full-throttle progression into whatever future comes from carrying on.
is that weird?
the thing is-
there's never not work to do somewhere,
and doing nothing costs a whole lot more than spending money or wasting time.
i can't hang out with standing still,
even when i'm spinning myself into a dervish tornado just to gain an inch or two.
it's all really happening.
we're moving even when we think we aren't getting anywhere;
never quiet, never soft.....

Tuesday, August 25


it felt like luxury.
last night, guys.
we went out for pizza.
which we already know is ALWAYS expert-
with fancy salads with terrible, stoopid beat-tasting gross beets,
and exxxtra-large pies,
covered by all the elite toppings (potatoes, zukes, sungold 'matoes)
before we returned to the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
and that sort of homecoming never ever ever gets old.
i can't say enough good things about how i feel when i'm home.
i can be surrounded and beset and beseiged on all sides by sh!t-salad suckiness,
and as a matter of course,
i often find myself in a penned-in, pent up poke of perceived peril....
but once i'm cocooned in the big, old, busted, woodsly, goodsly, warm wrapping arms
of my strapping mismatched manor?
i'm safe.
i'm on base.
i've got the force fields and wildflower fields of my chosen path,
and my appointed, anointed place to protect my more delicate bits,
and shelter my small, secret sensitive sensibilities from the perpetual pugilism
of the wider waking world of working and wreaking and wrighting and writing...
good thing i've got this old house, isn't it?
you bet it is.
and last night, for about an hour,
it really felt like luxury.
sitting on a blanket, on the super-sexy walk-out deck,
watching the clouds roll in, and get progressively darker,
even more than the fading light would normally let on,
as rain threatened to douse our spirits,
and our citronella tea lights,
but held off until the lounging was exhausted,
and all the rest was well-rested.
all i'm sayin' is-
for the first time in a long time,
i spent an evening looking upwards, instead of inwards,
and it really made a huge difference in how i saw the big picture.
i might've been really feeding my idea of unnecessary decadence,
with a fattie-boombattie exxxtra-stinky exxxtra-smoky stumpy molto-italiano cigar.
adding clouds to the clouds,
and letting the candlelight illuminate the immediate area,
while the skies layered silver and grey in patchwork patterns.
check the teleport:
i can't say if i'm ready to believe that i'm embodying the sentiment of
stay ugly, stay dope,
if it's something more akin to look bad, and smell worse.
hard to say,
and maybe too late to make a difference....
that's kind of the way i doo-doo that freaky sh!t.
how about those flappy earholes, though, huh?
womp womp.
i took out my plugs when i got home,
but i think it's worth noting that when it comes to full immersion
in the hard styles and personal styles of my specific lifestyle,
too much is the right amount.
to that end,
these are the new hottness i'm reppin' in my lobes, kids-
expert recognize expert,
and that's no joke.
so if you aren't about these fresh new jauns,
you aren't invited over, at all,
let alone to the elite and exclusive upper deck of foresty freshness.
there's time in places i haven't looked for things i'd like to do.
i'll just have to keep my eyes open,
and stay good-lookin'.
not on the outside,
but with my outlook.
upwards, onwards, and outwards are all directions i'm facing,
from the valuable vantage point of the vanguard of my virtuous valhalla in the intervale.
i'm here, and i can see the forest for the trees,
the mountains for the rocks,
the fields for the grass,
and the goodness for the woods.
decked out and dressed down, and things are looking up;
never quiet, never soft.....