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.