Sunday, July 27

communications.

it isn't that nothing is happening,
its that all the same stuff is all that's happening.
over and over and over.
yep.
rainy sleep hypnotism at night;
tattbombs all damned day;
maybe a cigar here and there,
just to make my face taste worse in the event of kisses.
some weeks are harder than others,
and some days are longer than most.
bad news,
big hellos,
small goodbyes,
too much food,
and sprankles.
teleport:
yup.
sweets for my face,
after overeating everything else.
and a little romance here and there:
and bread baked twice as toast for breakfast:
uh-huh.
it's all just the same ol' things, neighbors...
oh.
right-
i did tattoo the twentieth penis of my career yesterday.
words on a ween.
that's what the week could be summarized as.
limp, bloody, and disappointing.
that's it;
never quiet, never soft.....

Friday, July 25

blueberries everywhere...

it is just a  real thing, neighbors-
too much is the right amount.
y'know?
i'm just sayin',
if i were to bake a treat,
(and i am always gonna doo-doo that oveny sh!t)
then it needs to have a whole lot of activation going on.
that's how it has got to be.
so,
if it just so happens to be blueberry season,
and there are all kinds of ripe purple-fleshed azure circles on
all the bushes both high and low across the depth and \breadth of the woodsly goodness,
how many blueberries should i use?
i mean, c'mon, kids, there's only one answer.
ALL of them,
obvi.
don't be dumb.
don't worry, duders.
i did just that.
check the square of antioxidant-overreaction-type teleport:
blue.
so dang blue.
there's a layer of buttery oats on the bottom, to hold everything in place.
i poured a little bit of blueberry juice down into it, to hold it together.
expert.
there's blueberry cake, with blueber's swirled around in there in large quantities.
after all, why have all those treats if they aren't getting used?
there's lemon zest and lots of vanilla and oatmeal and a hint of coconutty hottness
all added into that crumb, so that each and every bite
is the big business we've come to expect from the thinktanks and mixing bowls
of the Folk life & Liberty Fortress's test kitchen treat factory.
yeah.
that's it.
then, jjust to make sure you'll get all there is to get gotten,
i dumped a hot batch of lemon-juiced blueberry compote all over the damned thing, too.
uh-huh.
lemon juice and powedered sugar and a little extra blueberry jam, and some vanilla,
all simmered and thickened and added on,
just so that there was more than enough of all that we did.
that's good for you, i think.
anyway,
i drizzled the remaining blueberry sauce onto more whole oats and butterishness,
and made a granola-style crumbly streusel topping,
purple and powerful and sprankled to the tippity-toppity topmost coat.
too much, guys.
because we aren't A*-holes when it comes to baking.
we're more overindulgent decadent gluttons.
mmmmmmmmm.
***********
i also F*ed up a pound cake.
awwwwwwww.
true story.
i made a greasy sugar-tube instead.
pretty much a tasty yet inedible bundt slug of slime and berries,
with a half-hearted attempt at blueberry glaze trying ot save the day.
teleport:
it didn't work.
maybe i should've used more flour?
probably.
whatever i did wrong,
its not a sexy-looking treat.
more like a deceptive punishment in a pan.
yuck.
*
these days are full.
and these nights are cold.
the fruit is ripe and the season is completely underway.
there's not much left of any of it,
but i s'pose that is how it always is.
you take as much as you can,
and you destroy the rest.
i think that's it;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, July 24

awwww, man.

being terrible at girls doesn't mean not having a good woman around.
it means doing and saying things that make it harder and harder and harder
for them to stay around.
damn.
that's a rough situation.
i mean,
i might be a real bastard.
but i can't ever all-the-way-tell.
i worry, neighbors,
that i am gonna F* it up again.
the thing of it is,
i don't believe in getting comfortable.
i only believe in getting UNcomfortable.
like,
doing more, and trying harder, and not letting myself slack.
i doubt i'm the best version on myself
check the truth-in-pictures-type teleport:
ugh.
damn.
i think i've said that about ALL of them.
i mean,
over a long enough span of time,
it always becomes true.
i guess i've got a knack for looking at the downside of everything.
but for realsies,
i'm pretty flippin' bad at girls.
that's no joke.
mothers, daughters, sisters, wives-
all of 'em,
in plural amounts, even, with really realness...
i've lost touch, lost my grip, lost the knack,
and been unable to find my way back.
it's possible that our paths only crossed because of a brief overlap
of shared experiences along the way,
weird venn diagrams of spirit and memory that contain only a little bit
of simultaneously spanned time together.
that's a hard style, too, kids.
but,
i think i'm expanding the ellipses into eclipses
of completely encompassed circles of spirit and memory.
word up.
it could be maybe i'm actually getting better at it?
damn, i hope so.
i s'pose that staying in place has it's merits.
it's easier to get left behind,
but you're always able to be found.
right?
anyways-
i'm spanning time in the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress,
and i'm NOT alone.
so,
i'm looking towards less lost,
and more found;
never quiet, never soft.....

overlaps.

duders,
the cucch is here.
steady creepin', even.
sneaking over for first breakfasts,
before his fiance awakens.
i guess i'm more like a dirty little secret?
an early morning wake-up call?
a breakfast barbarian from the future?
jeez.
i dunno.
but,
 i'll take what i can get.
that's no joke.
check the secret-ninja-creeper-type teleport:
awwwwwwwwww.
-
but,
when it's first breakfast time,
and my cucchie is here?
yep.
check the championship-type teleport:
panniecakes!
with cherries and coconut and chocolate chips and real maple syrup.
hurting ourselves is how we enjoy ourselves.
if it doesn't hurt,
it can't possibly be any good.
i'm serious.
and this time,
knowing all the big changes a-coming our way?
yes.
that kinda hurts.
awwwwwwww.
whatever comes next,
wherever it takes us,
i am grateful for this little extra bit of time we have been given.
the future is unfolding all kinds of extra fast,
and we're hangin' on tight,
and hangin' extra loose,
and hangin' 'em high,
all at once.
....and we're eating treats,
because obviously, we aren't A*-holes.
c'mon;
never quiet, never soft.....

Monday, July 21

us.

bread & puppet theater.
the nothing is not ready circus.
and us.
check the stolen-from-instagram-hashtag-search-type teleport:
yeah.
all of us.
a great big blanket,
waaaaaay too many snacks,
and lots of hats.
we know what we're doing, neighbors.
after all,.
the cucch and i are old hands at those sorts of hippie jauns,
so we treated our peoples to the benefit of our veteran expertise.
nobody likes wandering around not knowing what's up, do they?
no way.
that's what i'm sayin'.
we like positive shared experiences,
but NOT sharing our snacks with all the grit-grimy 'garious beggarfaces in attendance.
our purple quilt was sovereign and liberated territory,
both for and by the Folk Life & Liberty Fusiliers.
we had some times in the hot sun,
and i'm sure grateful for the friends and the opportunity that made it happen.
yeah.
***********
the pageant was mostly butt.
like,
old, sad, confusing, hard-to-see butt.
and that's no good.
too much running through the woods,
and not enough viewing of what was happening.
what a bummer.
it got better towards the end,
but whether that was due to the increased viewing potential,
or the proximity of fancy slices of fancy bread,
i can't really say with certainty.
i can say that the old man retired his stilts after fifty years,
and that really hit me in the heart.
time heals all wounds, they say...
but i've noticed it seems to cause more of them than it fixes.
jeez.
hard styles and hot days and long afternoons in vermont.
we doo-doo that fabulous furry freak sh!t,
and it just so happens we do it together.
good things and bad things and tough ones and easy ones,
all in one place, all day long;
never quiet, never soft.....

maturity.

neighbors,
i can't help it.
i just think some things are always funny,
no matter how old i get.
check the teleport:

oh, MAN!
is that a fourth leg, or a fifth?
oh, c'mon.
even if you call a tail a leg, its still a tail,
but what about that?
i mean,
i knew they were dirty hippies,
but i didn't think they were filthy dirty hippies.
modern times and juvenile laughs;
never quiet, never soft.....

Saturday, July 19

moving on.

the thing of it is, friends, that growing older and growing up aren't the same.
in fact,
i know some young ones who're very adult,
and some elderlies who remain juvenile delinquents.
really.
the problem, more often than not,
is that growing up has come to mean the same as turning sucky.
yeah.
ouch.
responsibilities, and families, and roots, and obligations are all sure signs of growing up....
...and of turning super sucky, too.
all the same ingredients, in the exact same proportions,
together have a very irritating tendency to quickly evaporate all the good stuff
right out of the fun-loving freewheeling core of a person,
and turn what's left into a pretty bleak husk.
dang.
that's a harder style than you'll ever wanna handle.
believe me when i say that, neighbors-
because i feel like a sucky grown-up most of the time.
i'm just sayin'-
actually,
i don't have a single good thing to say today.
so, before i continue being sh!tty,
here's a peek at a cute fuzzy fat chipmunk butt:
awwwwwwww.
rodents who eat things and sit down while they do it?
yeah.
SO CUTE!...?
you're welcome, friends.
that's as good as its gonna get,
and it isn't gonna get that good again.
*
here's the thing-
i just don't ever want less of anything.
it feels like i'm getting a demotion at life when i downsize.
and as a result i don't have any time for new things,
because i'm too busy running harder just to keep staying still.
keeping what i have, and not adding more, over extended periods of time?
sucky, and very grown-up, for sure.
clearly,
i'm doing it wrong.
too much is the right amount,
but of equally important value is the addition of more.
that's a thing.
i suppose it is a sort of hoarder mentality-
tactile, tangible, greedy, all that,
because sometimes things represent prosperity.
y'know?
maybe you don't.
but i do, duders.
and when you know about how lame it is to have had very little,
and then you have a lot?
yeah.
some is better than none, and all is way better than some.
so when you have half as much as you did when it was all at its best?
losing is no good, unless you're losing weight or wait.
i mean it.
and when i lose something, i do feel diminished by its absence;
and motivated to replace it with twice as much new and better hottness.
and that's basically the way i became so sucky.
when you can't recover what is gone,
you suffer the affects of attrition, subtly, over time,
and end sorta sour and salty from all the sweat equity you wasted.
lame!
*
however,
i know i can and will live without all the stuff.
i just won't/don't like it.
i can deal with losing anything and everything.
...except for people.
awwwwwww, sh!t.
and i hemorrhage human contacts like catastrophic injuries.
that's no joke.
what's worse,
every one of them leaves a permanent hole when they're gone.
i think i'm more missing pieces than person nowadays.
over a long enough period of time,
i think i might be mandatorily outgrown by both grown-ups and perpetual youths.
goddammit!
hmmm...
maybe that's why i have a F*ing ramshackle mansion
chock full of superfancy unnecessary sh!t,
in all the places that don't have people in them, just things.
the thing about that is-
stuff can't leave me by itself,
and not unless i let it go;
but people still keep disappearing no matter how hard i hold on.
it's all really happening.
that's the whole point.
it's not all bad, not by a country mile, kids.
i mean it.
but,
the last bits of the old days are wrapping up,
and i'm super-sorry to see 'em go.
less is not more,
not ever;
never quiet, never soft.....

Thursday, July 17

looks like summer.

raspberries.
blueberries.
blackberries.
strawberries.
that's right, kids.
ALL the good ones, all at once,
in the same place at the same time.
that's real,
and it's happening riiiiiiight now.
check the teleport:

wu-TANG, neighbors!!
there's lemon zest and lemon extract,
and two kinds of vanilla in the pastry creme.
that's no joke.
i needed it to be super-expert.
why?
oh.
because that middle filling also has a scoople of raspberry jam,
and a scoople of strawberry jam,
aand a scoople of blueberry jam,
aaand a scoope of blackberry jammie-jam,
for a four jam jamboree of succulent pectin and creamy sweetness.
all the ingredients had to work together for maximum activation.
no foolin'.
and that crust?
yeah.
a little melted butterishness and a splash of vanilla moistened
a magical mash-up of all sorts of crunchy jauns.
uh-huh.
almonds and walnuts and pecans and oats and graham crackery goodness,
stacked up thick and tall in a springform pan?
i know about some things kids.
and one of those things is building treats.
you need a shield of crawnchy curtainwall fortress-type sh!t to hole in all that
soft jammed-up puddin', and all those berries on top.
that's a serious topcoat of sugared fruity all-american dominance up there, duders.
lemon juice, and zest, and vanilla, and so many berries,
and powdered sugar dissolved down to syrup, soaked down to the seeds,
and spread all over that fattie-boombattie bomb of summery expertism.
yes.
yes.
YES.
if it ain't expert, it certainly wasn't made over here.
that's real talk for all the doubters, shouters, and pouters who don't believe in
ultimate vegan bakery Folk Life active participation.
because, seriously, we GOT they.
that's a thing.
i'm reppin' berries on berries on berries on berries,
and if you aren't on board with that sort of summery display of dopeness.
you definitely gotta F* right off.
*
busy days.
i'm on that grind.
a full schedule of time-consumption,
and tart consumption,
and consummate warrior poetry.
the styles are hard,
the treats are soft,
and the days are long.
there's plenty more of all of it,
but not enough time for anything at all;
never quiet, never soft.....

northern dirty comfort cookin'.

gravy, neighbors.
that's what's up.
because homemade gravy is good for you like nutrients an' that.
for realsies.
and i know what's good for us,
and i'm gonna give it to you in big greasy gouts.
whoa!
that's a thing.
sometimes,
fat chunky comfort and calamitous carbohydrates are all you want.
yesterday was one of those days, duders.
and when it's time for comfort in my bellyhole,
that means unrest and discomfort in my kitchen.
yep.
three burners simmering and stewing and sauteing for hours,
and dough chillin' in the refrigerator to avoid getting too soft on the counter,
and pots bubbling over and caramelization browning all sorts of beige stuff
into darker shades of sexy vegan hottness.....
all of it, all at once, all afternoon.
that's how i doo-doo that freaky sh!t.
and what did i have to show for it?
check the teleport:
so much heavy duty dopeness in F*ing full effect.
expert.
bacon garlic'd gravy greens?!
yup.
vegan roast simmered in a slurry of bacony broth until it got all-the-way activated,
added into some oil-seared garlic, and steamed alongside those collard jauns.
...and then you give it the gravy.
and what's up with mushroom pie?!
ummmm,
it's delicious. that's what's up.
two pounds of sliced button babies,
fried up with onions,
and nootch, and g.p.o.p., and sage, and thyme, and rosemary, and mustard powder,
and salt, pepper, red wine vinegar, and olive oil,
patty-caked into a tart pan lined with cream-chee' puff pastry dough.
c'mon.
that's some big burly buttoncap business for grown men to handle roughly.
right?
yeah.
and right before it gets baked?
gravy,
and a sprankle of parsley for appearances' sake.
but, friends, on the ones, though-
those mini shepherd jammers over there?
uh-huh.
that's the big action from the oven area, for certain.
baby-sized pie pans with puff pastry,
a punch of kale and spinach and chard-oh my!
and then a chunky chubby chutney of finely minced and firmly seasoned
onions and garlic and carrots and celery and parsley and oil.
that's the base coat we're building on.
homemade seitan, crisped up in herbs and spices and tamari and smoke,
nootch-blasted and g.p.o.p.'d, too, obvi,
and added into the mix on the heavy side of enough.
(which is to say, too much is the right amount.)
and then the no-milk garlic mashed potato jauns on top.
i made 'em a little lumpy so you know that i do it right, y'all.
anybody?
...anyway,
that topcoat of heavy potato hottness made my day,
and a little baby bit of scallions topped it off.
mmhmm.
and then more gravy.
i mean, c'mon.
after all,
what am i?
an A*-hole??
nope.
i'm a big fat hole,
getting filled up with starch all damned day.
that's real.
i had company,
which helped a whole bunch, too.
getting fat with amber and beau is better than just
drowning in gravy all by myself.
the buddy system exists for a reason.
***********
heavy duty foodstuffs for me.
that's the best way to weigh down the rest of my body.
y'feel me?
if you've got a heavy head and a heavy heart,
usually,
its all the arms and legs that are moving around too much.
this way,
i'm leaden,
and laden,
and loaded with ingredients that might put me to sleep.
yeah.
a good night of overweight zzzz's is so nice.
food-induced coma time is a good time to regroup and reassess,
and wake up for more of all the rest of it.
i mean,
while i was sleeping off the gravy,
it all kept really happening.
i'll catch up, i'm sure, on all that's passed while i was passed out.
i'm not feeling well,
but i'm feeling well-rested, and well-fed;  
never quiet, never soft.....

Wednesday, July 16

blacker.

blackberries.
uh-huh.
big bubbly balloon-group black circles in a stack.
turns out, they're expert.
but,
not really when they're all by their lonesome selves.
once they get all kinds of cooked up,
crushed up,
and mashed to bits, though?
yeah.
super radness, for your face.
the blacker they get, the sweeter they get, or so i've heard.
and for what its worth?
i believe it, and what's more, i like it.
i took a great big ol' batch of 'em-
fat $tack$$ were spent to accumulate an acceptable stockpile.
i mean,
too much IS the right amount,
and skimping out is never invited to our makeout party.
i'm just sayin'-
taking it easy and pretending that a little bitty baby-sized hint of something
is somehow gonna be good enough?
no way.
that's what poor people do.
yuck.
i took my big black bowl of big black berries,
and i lemon zested and jammie-jam dolloped, and powdered sugared,
and sauteed in lemony juicy juice and thickened a whole potful....
and i poured that poultice over a pan of sour creamy coffeecake batter.
and i plated up a second platter of batter, too,
with slightly cinnamon'd streusel sprankles on top.
i baked 'em both like a barbarian of berry brutality.
i should tell you, too, that i added all sorts of smooshed berries directly into the mix.
why?
because expert is as expert does,
and it's blackberry coffeecake, not blackberry-filled coffeecake.
don't be dumb.
after they cooled a little,
i stacked the set into one sexy mutha-'ucking circle.
check the black-on-black-on-blackberry-type teleport:
woooooooooord.
a little gooey goodness underneath that heavy-duty berry middle,
a little crawnchy in the crumbly topping spots,
and all kinds of creaminess in the crumb of that sunovab!tch.
that's how we make mornings better in the woodsly goodness, neighbors.
bad weather calls for more cake.
that's a thing.
***********
i've got tarts on tarts on tarts over here.
because it's summertime,
and that means summery treats are a must-have addition to the menu.
no?
yeah.
that's right.
ive got nerd books stacked and queued up for reading,
i've got bird poop stacked up for sweeping,
i've got things that need doing,
and all of it is underway, in varying degrees,
under the eaves and awnings of my Fortress.
today is likely to remain a rained-out day,
but it's already been a baked-up morning.
the oven is hot,
even when the rain is taking the heat out of summer.
this is it;
never quiet, never soft.....

empty nest, filthy porch.

so,
my baby phoebes took flight last night.
in fact,
they dive-bombarded my flippin' face as i walked up to my front door.
i guess they were tentative about leaping and flapping and that,
right up until my hairy scarecrow action figure form showed up.
they jumped down at me,
and i think they were super surprised to be flying,
because this was no junior league maiden voyage, neighbors-
it was a surprise immersion in aerial acrobatic activation.
they didn't know where to go,
so they just flitted all over the place,
and eventually mama phoebe came and shepherded them to treetop safety.
awwwwww.
cute.
however,
for every new beginning and growth and adventure that they'll be having?
yeah.
real life still means a great big ugly pile of sh!t got left behind.
teleport:
ugh.
gross.
empty nest AND empty buttholes.
that's how it goes, and how they left it.
one cute nest,
one disgusting stoop full of poop.
the Folk Life & Liberty Toilet?
that doesn't really sound quite as good, does it?
no way.
plus,
this  rain is just making it into paste.
that's even worse than doo-doo butter, friends-
it's more like feces pate.
yes.
the styles are hard,
and nature is still maintaining an undefeated record....
what can i tell you?
it's ALL really happening.
less birds, more messes, more rain, less time;
never quiet, never soft.....