0653/1956 76/86 Blue Skies NE10/20 75%H.
DOGS 12810 114.20 1556 48.59. Libor 14. Vix 16.
Greetings from the Hill.
Another beautiful day in paradise,
quiet streets without illegals working,
homeowners saving in the drought,
water rationing...
the oldman hosed daily
and irrigated sunday and wednesday.
"Just like in the old days!"
Adjusting to life without help.
"So all the indices are up what does that mean,"
not waiting for an answer as usual,
"Airline passengers and auto traffic
up twenty per cent on the year,
rooms seventy five per cent
and two fifty a night...
'the highest in the state',
that is conflicting information."
"That is a lot of food and booze,"
laughed the painter barging in
smelling the printer's treat.
"I'm selling the 'Green Parrot'
for two thousand dollars,"
bragging again.
The painter and the printer disagreed.
"I've been checking out the scene
in Canada in particular Toronto...
something is peculiar in reportage,"
the fellow had a funny way
of talking.
"Well, it seems the party in power
pissed away the surplus and gave
the banks billions...american banks,
then loaned GM billions for the plants
and put Toronto in debt default,"
huffing and puffing the joint,
"What do you think of that...eh!"
He never played hockey.
Steve was a goalie, a Bruin fan.
The pageant of a Royal Wedding,
the future King of Debt Kingdom,
a product of a wasted generation,
when Grannie would rock him
in Buckingham Palace
and tell him frightful stories
of the Iron Lady.
His daddy taught him riding,
the hounds and polo...
Momma showed him to smile.
He partied with the sons
of Rothschild and Gadaffy,
studied derivative financing
and flew a fighter plane.
"Sell the Bankers the Crown Jewels,"
laughed the painter,
leaving for Faustos.
"Hey....do you know that guy...
Pritham Singh, who is he...
ask Bill.
He was a Facebook Freak,
stealing family pictures,
posting social shots...
assholes advertising their secrets
to the information network,
all slightly insane
for fame,
but mostly recognition
and a pat on the head
or holy horsefuck...
a hug!
Time passes and nothing happens,
events drag on and on and on...
"Perhaps there is a plan to this delay."
postured the one still there,
"If the Federal Reserve holds MBS
of Fanny and Freddy bought by Libya
and other sovereign central banks...
then they could redeem them at face
and save the Treasury...indeed, indeed!"
A student of 'The Dollar'.
One might think that the 'dollar minders'
of the education system might acquire
some sense of the cents and dollars
before spending money not theirs,
but 'they' are the same assholes
with underwater mortgages
and notes being called,
the arrangers of the 'deal'
who know how to steal,
"Eighty Million in the Pot
to drive and feed and educate
' these thrice blessed children of
the Isles of the Eternal Sun'...
yes, yes, yes, the future hope
to live the dream of a better life,"
agreed the parents considering
new sod for the soccer field.
"Close the Fed and tear down HOB,"
leaving to oil some old lady's hinge.
The Federal Reserve Apparatus
was an interesting beast to dissect
before considering destuction,
Money at Zero Percent Interest
would seem a beneficial thing
for refinancing something old,
enabling the debtor to reduce
the monthly payments
and 'grow the savings'
allowing banks to expand
with increased leverage.
"Fractional Banking is the greatest thing,
and nothing ever collapses...
'don't mortgage the house for stock'
said granny in the Thirties,
'its not what you own...
but how much you owe',
boasted the Merchants of Debt
during the Seventies,
'and how 'it' was insured
in the Nineties
when those pesky financial products,
credit default swaps,
derivatives of exotic order
in a Shadow Banking System
run by Bernie Madoff at The Nasdaq...
who would have imagined then,"
wondered the oldman
thirsty in the afternoon.
Asshole's little war seems in trouble,
the pathetic boob can't say 'no'
to the Pentagon Bullies
or the Wall Street Bankers,
Gas, Oil, Water and Gold
to be given to
'the Popular Empowerment'
led by the CIA 'fallalful man'...
funnier than fuck
and Leon is getting Gates' job.
Bill Gross is going to Europe
with an ETF in equities,
perhaps a bank
with a dark basement.
Allianze owns his ass!
"Hey...I just sold another painting,"
laughing and opening a coldone,
"And monday pay the rent,"
always the songwriter
and master of drama.
Another summer on the block,
maybe able to walk around
and photograph the buildings,
the old friends with their past,
taking imagination into memory,
"A funny cartoon TV household comedy,"
suggested the voice in the hallway
watching silently...
back from war.
"I brought you a present and more,"
flipping a five ounce Lybian gold dinar
on the bed beside his cane
and opening the painting.
Beyond the Reef.
Above the Horn.
Inside of Humour.
The painter and the printer disagreed.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Friday, April 22, 2011
Reflections after Winter.
0656/1954 76/86 Blue Skies E10/20 50%H.
DOGS 1248 112.32 1507 47.47. Libor 14. Vix 16.
Greetings from the Hill.
Springtime in paradise again,
absolutely gorgeous...
"And a vision to see
on the second week
with alcohol free eyes,"
laughs the oldman
enjoying the change.
Walking again with a cane,
the trusty seven iron,
the three iron when out and about...
"Longer and jaunty,"
muses the soberone,
hitting the sidewalks.
A different routine
when not lying in bed...
tending the balcony plants,
pampering Viola,
taking the sun,
doing dishes and watering gardens,
a notebook and rocking chair...
"And a view to the South,"
looking towards Cuba
and wondering when
the wiener in the White House
will engage another war.
The garden is a work of art
by another artist
of God's medium
and leftovers and abandoned treasures
of vacationers...
less transient than tourists,
a marvelous business
for someone who wanted.
"I can't stay here that long,"
lamented the gypsy,
ready to go golfing
while working on a course
opening in spring,
a bird that goes north.
The gardener didn't like the painter.
One was leaving Bone Island,
the other going to Dog Island,
"Ain't life a shame,"
shrugged the madone.
Life goes on.
Another is always at the door.
"When you got a shiny floor."
"Who wants to look after a Drunk...
unless you're in his will,"
cackled the painter,
snooping over the shoulder.
The oldman was watching hockey at eleven,
the painter was not working at night.
Alger visited each day with a treat
discussing the Financial Crisis,
opinioning on the culprits
responsible for the shortfall
in home ownership equity
while engineering the value of stocks
and the shorting of silver...
"You have to understand...Blah Blah,"
lecturing like like a commentator
with a canned speech
of soup bowl derivatives
and Bill Gross bonds.
"The Fed must be abolished!"
Leaving after a hot shower.
The Waterman was working at the Mosque,
installing a new system for the garden
of a business partner who operated
a sovereign fund for Gaddafi,
jetting about the world,
"I got paid in silver,"
bragged the entrepreneur,
recently opening his detective agency
to pursue the down and out,
the losers and victims of misfortune,
foreclosed but not forgotten...
Homestead his home,
the most hopeless city
in Florida.
The Wood Shoppe completed
the east bay end railing...
last year.
The fellow was diversifying his talents
to adapt to the times.
The rare book business was soft.
"America...the land of opportunities
for great ideas and another's work,"
squawked the rooster on the lathe
looking for his hen
hiding in the cement mixer.
"Funny how things don't work out,
like Deak always would say,
'some are productive,
most are non productive
and the worst...
are counter productive'..."
mused the oldman
listening to smooth jazz
at midnight
from Havana.
Something about being sober!
The oldman was hungry,
thinking about the chicken
the painter brought him last night...
then ate 'it' for lunch.
Dinner would no longer be
'four pounds of beer',
the thin man's diet.
The gardener watched TV without cigarettes,
the painter pecked on Facebook,
dreaming of juicy pussy
alone at home.
Reading the blog of a year ago to date,
"What a fucking collection of Assholes,
down the drainpipe of DEBT
into the storm sewer of BANKRUPTCY
then treated at the TOXIC WASTE plant
to 'Grow The Economy'...
all recycled shit of a liar's kit,"
and Obama smooth talking down
to his bewildered masses
stuck on their asses
becoming more comfortible
with less and less...
and a government
of more and more,
"The Employer of Last Resort
for military personell,
corrupt politicians,
crooked bureaucrats,
teachers and street sweepers,
fucking hopeless unions,"
growled the oldman
awake at one,
the west coast game in overtime.
Two painters in the house,
one staying,
one leaving.
"I'll be back...
if you're still alive,"
the smartass drunk,
street drinking pints,
the seven percent kind
of the 'little people',
his night fans.
"I don't know what the Doctor
sees in him, he's so loud
and full of himself,"
groaned the gardener
taking his last photographs,
not appreciating the fellow
who paid his flight
when escaping to LA
then wanting to come home.
Four months ago.
Before Obama's Little War.
When Silver was much cheaper.
And "the Market poised'....
Above the Reef.
Beyond the Horn.
Sober on the Hill.
DOGS 1248 112.32 1507 47.47. Libor 14. Vix 16.
Greetings from the Hill.
Springtime in paradise again,
absolutely gorgeous...
"And a vision to see
on the second week
with alcohol free eyes,"
laughs the oldman
enjoying the change.
Walking again with a cane,
the trusty seven iron,
the three iron when out and about...
"Longer and jaunty,"
muses the soberone,
hitting the sidewalks.
A different routine
when not lying in bed...
tending the balcony plants,
pampering Viola,
taking the sun,
doing dishes and watering gardens,
a notebook and rocking chair...
"And a view to the South,"
looking towards Cuba
and wondering when
the wiener in the White House
will engage another war.
The garden is a work of art
by another artist
of God's medium
and leftovers and abandoned treasures
of vacationers...
less transient than tourists,
a marvelous business
for someone who wanted.
"I can't stay here that long,"
lamented the gypsy,
ready to go golfing
while working on a course
opening in spring,
a bird that goes north.
The gardener didn't like the painter.
One was leaving Bone Island,
the other going to Dog Island,
"Ain't life a shame,"
shrugged the madone.
Life goes on.
Another is always at the door.
"When you got a shiny floor."
"Who wants to look after a Drunk...
unless you're in his will,"
cackled the painter,
snooping over the shoulder.
The oldman was watching hockey at eleven,
the painter was not working at night.
Alger visited each day with a treat
discussing the Financial Crisis,
opinioning on the culprits
responsible for the shortfall
in home ownership equity
while engineering the value of stocks
and the shorting of silver...
"You have to understand...Blah Blah,"
lecturing like like a commentator
with a canned speech
of soup bowl derivatives
and Bill Gross bonds.
"The Fed must be abolished!"
Leaving after a hot shower.
The Waterman was working at the Mosque,
installing a new system for the garden
of a business partner who operated
a sovereign fund for Gaddafi,
jetting about the world,
"I got paid in silver,"
bragged the entrepreneur,
recently opening his detective agency
to pursue the down and out,
the losers and victims of misfortune,
foreclosed but not forgotten...
Homestead his home,
the most hopeless city
in Florida.
The Wood Shoppe completed
the east bay end railing...
last year.
The fellow was diversifying his talents
to adapt to the times.
The rare book business was soft.
"America...the land of opportunities
for great ideas and another's work,"
squawked the rooster on the lathe
looking for his hen
hiding in the cement mixer.
"Funny how things don't work out,
like Deak always would say,
'some are productive,
most are non productive
and the worst...
are counter productive'..."
mused the oldman
listening to smooth jazz
at midnight
from Havana.
Something about being sober!
The oldman was hungry,
thinking about the chicken
the painter brought him last night...
then ate 'it' for lunch.
Dinner would no longer be
'four pounds of beer',
the thin man's diet.
The gardener watched TV without cigarettes,
the painter pecked on Facebook,
dreaming of juicy pussy
alone at home.
Reading the blog of a year ago to date,
"What a fucking collection of Assholes,
down the drainpipe of DEBT
into the storm sewer of BANKRUPTCY
then treated at the TOXIC WASTE plant
to 'Grow The Economy'...
all recycled shit of a liar's kit,"
and Obama smooth talking down
to his bewildered masses
stuck on their asses
becoming more comfortible
with less and less...
and a government
of more and more,
"The Employer of Last Resort
for military personell,
corrupt politicians,
crooked bureaucrats,
teachers and street sweepers,
fucking hopeless unions,"
growled the oldman
awake at one,
the west coast game in overtime.
Two painters in the house,
one staying,
one leaving.
"I'll be back...
if you're still alive,"
the smartass drunk,
street drinking pints,
the seven percent kind
of the 'little people',
his night fans.
"I don't know what the Doctor
sees in him, he's so loud
and full of himself,"
groaned the gardener
taking his last photographs,
not appreciating the fellow
who paid his flight
when escaping to LA
then wanting to come home.
Four months ago.
Before Obama's Little War.
When Silver was much cheaper.
And "the Market poised'....
Above the Reef.
Beyond the Horn.
Sober on the Hill.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Viewing Paradise...Alcohol free # Five!
0659/1952 77/87 Blue Skies E10/20 50%H.
DOGS 12481 1123 1507 47.47. Libor 14. Vix 16.
Greetings from the Hill.
A beautiful day in paradise,
ringing chimes and blue skies
with refreshing breezes....
classics from Havana,
idiots on CNBC
and back on The Mac.
The Financial Fuckup hits home
as the elected ones
spend borrowed money.
Bashinsky takes on the Assholes,
politicians and beauracrats
who lie, steal and cheat
but are never prosecuted
let alone persecuted.
FlaKey News.com.
"Imagine a brilliant lawyer
digging up the dirt of 'The Dirty',
The Monroe County Thirty,"
wondered the madone
watering the balcony plants
and the gardens below,
a three month drought...
the oldman had a five day thirst.
The deceit and conspiracy of Washington,
the fraud of Wall Street trickles down
to every greedy town
seeking Obama Funds...
"The Money is there, apply for 'it',"
schemes one of 'The Thirty',"
a school Superintendent,
a county Mayor,
a city Commissioner...
aided by a debtmaster
arranging a Bank of America bond
with a fishy lawyer.
"Teaching the locals to chum the waters
of an eighty million dollar pool
to educate the stupidist in history,
daycare for halfwits,"
growled the sober oldman
amazed at school boards
run by braindeads.
"All these Assholes are divers
in their underwater assets,
making deals with 'other money'
while bankrupt themselves,
ripping off school credit cards
and imaginary programs,
fuck the taxpayers..."
taking as much as 'they'can
before the shit hits the fan
and some grand jury
gets in a hurry.
"Hey, we're richer than a drug dealer,"
boasted the million dollar house owner
rearranging his mortgage
to acquire a rental in paradise,
upward mobility and gentrification
for the middle class masses
who wanted educated children
and pizza on a granite counter.
The Harris School still sits empty.
Twenty thousand people,
less every year
and more of the 'queer'...
"Really, less students as well,
maybe converting to private prep schools
for the young gay at mind
and ladies of another kind,"
laughed the painter
looking over the oldman's shoulder
"Hey, I'm going to paint these buildings
to preserve another time in history
when lead paint was great,"
still drunk from last night.
Staying until the summer,
then leaving 'Bone Island'
for 'Dog Island'
and new adventures.
Gold and Silver reach new highs,
the silly young men on CNBC
promote opportunities in wealth
and financial management,
drooling over the talking tits...
"Stupid, silly and tragic,
without any hope of magic,"
groaned the oldman
drinking coffee at four.
"Hardball is worse,"
snorted the madone.
"A hundred million for a new school,
new city offices and a fire station,
throw in a parking lot...
add a poor people park
with a mega yacht harbor
for the powers that be...
democracy is great,"
grumbles the soberone,
testing the 'Great Experiment'
as Obama fumbles without a teleprompter
attempting improvisation,
"We can do 'it' together,
we can grow the economy,
tomatoes, potatoes and pot
in a backyard plot...
hofuckingho!"
mocks the madone
ready for a rollup.
"Don't tell 'them' they are dumb...
'they' will hit their thumb
and bend the chinese nail
meant to hold the president's print.
Forty per cent support Obama...
seventy per cent question his birth,
Donald Trump stirs the shit.
"Blah blah blah," babbles the drunk
having slept 'it' off....
imagine identifying those mysterious 'its'.
"He has to find a way to put this to bed,"
frowns a short haired crosseyed cunt
with funny glasses...
a smartass from Politico.
"Fuck it all!"
Nobody seems to know how the school
grew so high so fast without the police,
the firemen or auto salesmen noticing
on their cigarette breaks...
"Those new fangled concrete slabs
trucked down by helicopters
to get 'it' up on time...
before a twenty million dollar fine,"
claimed a conch at 'Five Brothers',
family on the school board,
an aunt who drives a bus,
a sister in the cafeteria,
'following the money trail'.
"Great thieves come from Harvard and MIT,
maybe in time from HOB...
we grow our own,"
said the Superintendent of Schools
moving on to elsewhere
having done his job
increasing the school board debt
to a hundred million or so.
"Protected by Derivatives of course."
A breeze in the Keys,
Above the Reef.
Sober on the Hill.
the scum take while 'they' can
until the shit hits the fan.
DOGS 12481 1123 1507 47.47. Libor 14. Vix 16.
Greetings from the Hill.
A beautiful day in paradise,
ringing chimes and blue skies
with refreshing breezes....
classics from Havana,
idiots on CNBC
and back on The Mac.
The Financial Fuckup hits home
as the elected ones
spend borrowed money.
Bashinsky takes on the Assholes,
politicians and beauracrats
who lie, steal and cheat
but are never prosecuted
let alone persecuted.
FlaKey News.com.
"Imagine a brilliant lawyer
digging up the dirt of 'The Dirty',
The Monroe County Thirty,"
wondered the madone
watering the balcony plants
and the gardens below,
a three month drought...
the oldman had a five day thirst.
The deceit and conspiracy of Washington,
the fraud of Wall Street trickles down
to every greedy town
seeking Obama Funds...
"The Money is there, apply for 'it',"
schemes one of 'The Thirty',"
a school Superintendent,
a county Mayor,
a city Commissioner...
aided by a debtmaster
arranging a Bank of America bond
with a fishy lawyer.
"Teaching the locals to chum the waters
of an eighty million dollar pool
to educate the stupidist in history,
daycare for halfwits,"
growled the sober oldman
amazed at school boards
run by braindeads.
"All these Assholes are divers
in their underwater assets,
making deals with 'other money'
while bankrupt themselves,
ripping off school credit cards
and imaginary programs,
fuck the taxpayers..."
taking as much as 'they'can
before the shit hits the fan
and some grand jury
gets in a hurry.
"Hey, we're richer than a drug dealer,"
boasted the million dollar house owner
rearranging his mortgage
to acquire a rental in paradise,
upward mobility and gentrification
for the middle class masses
who wanted educated children
and pizza on a granite counter.
The Harris School still sits empty.
Twenty thousand people,
less every year
and more of the 'queer'...
"Really, less students as well,
maybe converting to private prep schools
for the young gay at mind
and ladies of another kind,"
laughed the painter
looking over the oldman's shoulder
"Hey, I'm going to paint these buildings
to preserve another time in history
when lead paint was great,"
still drunk from last night.
Staying until the summer,
then leaving 'Bone Island'
for 'Dog Island'
and new adventures.
Gold and Silver reach new highs,
the silly young men on CNBC
promote opportunities in wealth
and financial management,
drooling over the talking tits...
"Stupid, silly and tragic,
without any hope of magic,"
groaned the oldman
drinking coffee at four.
"Hardball is worse,"
snorted the madone.
"A hundred million for a new school,
new city offices and a fire station,
throw in a parking lot...
add a poor people park
with a mega yacht harbor
for the powers that be...
democracy is great,"
grumbles the soberone,
testing the 'Great Experiment'
as Obama fumbles without a teleprompter
attempting improvisation,
"We can do 'it' together,
we can grow the economy,
tomatoes, potatoes and pot
in a backyard plot...
hofuckingho!"
mocks the madone
ready for a rollup.
"Don't tell 'them' they are dumb...
'they' will hit their thumb
and bend the chinese nail
meant to hold the president's print.
Forty per cent support Obama...
seventy per cent question his birth,
Donald Trump stirs the shit.
"Blah blah blah," babbles the drunk
having slept 'it' off....
imagine identifying those mysterious 'its'.
"He has to find a way to put this to bed,"
frowns a short haired crosseyed cunt
with funny glasses...
a smartass from Politico.
"Fuck it all!"
Nobody seems to know how the school
grew so high so fast without the police,
the firemen or auto salesmen noticing
on their cigarette breaks...
"Those new fangled concrete slabs
trucked down by helicopters
to get 'it' up on time...
before a twenty million dollar fine,"
claimed a conch at 'Five Brothers',
family on the school board,
an aunt who drives a bus,
a sister in the cafeteria,
'following the money trail'.
"Great thieves come from Harvard and MIT,
maybe in time from HOB...
we grow our own,"
said the Superintendent of Schools
moving on to elsewhere
having done his job
increasing the school board debt
to a hundred million or so.
"Protected by Derivatives of course."
A breeze in the Keys,
Above the Reef.
Sober on the Hill.
the scum take while 'they' can
until the shit hits the fan.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
"Seventy one....And good for another year," she smiled.
0708 1948 76/86 Blue Skies E5/10 50%H.
DOGS 12268 10820 147430 4188 LIBOR 14 VIX 16.
Greetings from the Hill.
""A beautiful day in paradise to you sir"....
a greeting from the generation that
partied with the Kennedy's,
and there was music
in the Key West air,
the people were slightly square,
not a type of financial derivative.
Joe Bageamt stopped writing...
Death does that, but his way
exposing truth through unique
phrases in rants of national love.
hilarious improvisations of
the country redneck view of politics,
perhaps the greatest treasure of all...
"Finding common thought with one
who writes 'it' better!"
.
"Never ends, does 'it',
always another clue , and then
another and another...for what...
'There is no God in Mason Houses',
give 'it' up and raise ducks,"
said Jon Voight in National Treasure...
a plank in the policy of the party
of 'The Great Society'
The floorboards are rotten
because the fridge leaks
no hot water 'cause the shower leaks',
but the cable works fine...
sitting in the A/C
waiting for the Maintenance Man.
"One day, you wait and see,
he ain't never gonna come again",
warned the gardener acting cryptic
in another of his spoiled fits
when facing the truth of his class...
he would have to work
for money...the owner of time.
CooCoo Farm days are over.
The oldman survived his birthday
and his present to the house...
paying off the Tax Certicate,
and four thousand dollars poorer,
"Good for another year",laughed
the county conch clerk
who witnessed this annual routine
for over twenty
of the forty years....
"Always made birthdays memorable,"
laughed the oldman
typing without glasses
to avoid the pain of an infected molar.
The last April of his life was half over,
a canopy of green burgeoned on Solaris Hill,
bare branches shooting buds of Poinciana
soon to emblazon the island in reds and oranges,
more subject for weekend painters,
another fantasy fulfilled in paradise
"For a big spender Tourist,"
shrugged the madone,
popping a pint
for the dying one.
"You just walk away from things...
gone... ,out of the mind... ignored..
no longer entertaining BORING
interest level in band waves only..."
invents the oldman,
getting faster, seeing clearer,
life without glasses
or a golf club cane.
The Blogist quit for a month
and more Lies got passed,
Panneta installed a revolutionary general,
a naturalized American citizen,
catering at Langley
"The Falafal Man....
bumboy for Frank Wisner Jr,
ramrodding Citi operations from Egypt,
Pretty Boy Barry barking hope for CHANGE...
enough to make a healthy man barf.
"And all the queen's men from England and France
couldn't make the 'Madman dance,"
roared the painter hungry at noon,
in a very good mood
despite being...
"Financially embarassed,"
his line that always worked
on rich older women,
but he had not been laid
since adopting celibacy at home.
"The Recession is Over!"
proclaimed the President at noon.
"Real Estate has Bottomed,"
announced the Vice President during lunch.
"All Troops are coming Home,"
ordered Gates gone mad.
"My Husband shall Return,"
cackled the Crazy Hillary,
sweeping the White House steps.
Barry Dunham sows seeds of dissent
because his daddy was a polygimist
not lawful in Hawaii...
a bastard born.....
"My father never came home
and Momma traveled the world,
Gramma laundered money
and Gramps taught me to surf,"
conceding the Carter Times,
when Momma between missions
encouraged his jump shot
and dreams of the NBA
while she with the CIA.
"Hey, oldman, I got you new glasses,"
laughed the painter
offering help
to read the bank statement
uncovering more mendacity
and lies from mocking eyes,
singing another's song.
"Welllll.. the Season's Over,"
dismisses the MADONE,
another pretender in paradise.
"Who the fuck cares...
a gang of thieves
encouraged to cheat
on tax returns...
"Corporations pay no taxes
nor half the citizenry,
just the betteroff.
Above the Reef...
High on the Hill!
DOGS 12268 10820 147430 4188 LIBOR 14 VIX 16.
Greetings from the Hill.
""A beautiful day in paradise to you sir"....
a greeting from the generation that
partied with the Kennedy's,
and there was music
in the Key West air,
the people were slightly square,
not a type of financial derivative.
Joe Bageamt stopped writing...
Death does that, but his way
exposing truth through unique
phrases in rants of national love.
hilarious improvisations of
the country redneck view of politics,
perhaps the greatest treasure of all...
"Finding common thought with one
who writes 'it' better!"
.
"Never ends, does 'it',
always another clue , and then
another and another...for what...
'There is no God in Mason Houses',
give 'it' up and raise ducks,"
said Jon Voight in National Treasure...
a plank in the policy of the party
of 'The Great Society'
The floorboards are rotten
because the fridge leaks
no hot water 'cause the shower leaks',
but the cable works fine...
sitting in the A/C
waiting for the Maintenance Man.
"One day, you wait and see,
he ain't never gonna come again",
warned the gardener acting cryptic
in another of his spoiled fits
when facing the truth of his class...
he would have to work
for money...the owner of time.
CooCoo Farm days are over.
The oldman survived his birthday
and his present to the house...
paying off the Tax Certicate,
and four thousand dollars poorer,
"Good for another year",laughed
the county conch clerk
who witnessed this annual routine
for over twenty
of the forty years....
"Always made birthdays memorable,"
laughed the oldman
typing without glasses
to avoid the pain of an infected molar.
The last April of his life was half over,
a canopy of green burgeoned on Solaris Hill,
bare branches shooting buds of Poinciana
soon to emblazon the island in reds and oranges,
more subject for weekend painters,
another fantasy fulfilled in paradise
"For a big spender Tourist,"
shrugged the madone,
popping a pint
for the dying one.
"You just walk away from things...
gone... ,out of the mind... ignored..
no longer entertaining BORING
interest level in band waves only..."
invents the oldman,
getting faster, seeing clearer,
life without glasses
or a golf club cane.
The Blogist quit for a month
and more Lies got passed,
Panneta installed a revolutionary general,
a naturalized American citizen,
catering at Langley
"The Falafal Man....
bumboy for Frank Wisner Jr,
ramrodding Citi operations from Egypt,
Pretty Boy Barry barking hope for CHANGE...
enough to make a healthy man barf.
"And all the queen's men from England and France
couldn't make the 'Madman dance,"
roared the painter hungry at noon,
in a very good mood
despite being...
"Financially embarassed,"
his line that always worked
on rich older women,
but he had not been laid
since adopting celibacy at home.
"The Recession is Over!"
proclaimed the President at noon.
"Real Estate has Bottomed,"
announced the Vice President during lunch.
"All Troops are coming Home,"
ordered Gates gone mad.
"My Husband shall Return,"
cackled the Crazy Hillary,
sweeping the White House steps.
Barry Dunham sows seeds of dissent
because his daddy was a polygimist
not lawful in Hawaii...
a bastard born.....
"My father never came home
and Momma traveled the world,
Gramma laundered money
and Gramps taught me to surf,"
conceding the Carter Times,
when Momma between missions
encouraged his jump shot
and dreams of the NBA
while she with the CIA.
"Hey, oldman, I got you new glasses,"
laughed the painter
offering help
to read the bank statement
uncovering more mendacity
and lies from mocking eyes,
singing another's song.
"Welllll.. the Season's Over,"
dismisses the MADONE,
another pretender in paradise.
"Who the fuck cares...
a gang of thieves
encouraged to cheat
on tax returns...
"Corporations pay no taxes
nor half the citizenry,
just the betteroff.
Above the Reef...
High on the Hill!
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