The Color of Title...perhaps clouded!

0730/1853 75/85 Light Clouds E 15/25 75%H.
DOGS 11132 8169 1328 2338. Libor 23. Vix 19.

Greetings from the Hill.

The oldman had another overnight treasure,
dreaming of a thirty year love
who hadn't aged a year...
"Just like Marilyn Monroe,"
laughed the madone
feeding Viola.

Absolutely amazing the mind
that travels and remembers
those voyages at night
and indulges the imagination
at first light...
alone.

Then plays 'Sunday in New York'
by Libby York.

Fantasies of a jazz pianist,
now an old blogist.

"Nero fiddled while Rome burned,
Obama cycled as the dollar is spurned,"
cackled Bill looking for a beer,
delivering salt to purify
the island's water
and do some fiddling
with his new love.

He was a Bush Ranger...
for two thousand dollars,
when a dollar was eighty five cents.

When houses were a million bucks.

"Soros is cornering the silver,"
going downstairs to turn on machines
in his woodworking studio
and agitate the oldman.

"Some people are counter productive,"
said Deak the Freak.

The breeze in the Keys
was now an afternoon wind,
full white clouds
speeding west
beyond the reef.

The afternoon opera from Havana.

"I have a gift,"
said Obama...
from Malcolm X and Jesse Jackson,
Farrakhan and Wright,
packaged by Harry Reid
for the Jackass Lead.

Pin the tail on the donkey,
the Comrader in Chief.

And Aines lives on the same block.

Lyndon La Rouche tells 'it' straight.

Imagine if there was a scheme
to destroy the american dream,
an elitist plot to enslave
the middle class,
those dreamers of something better
than what was before
black and white TV,
after Mustangs and Faxes,
then the cocaine age
and crack became the rage
for all the punks
underage...
big Pharma, the Dharma
pigging off MEDICARE, MEDICADE,
prescribing pills for the sick,
the weak of mind,
those caught
in the wrought
of DEBT.

"Build a better parade...
and they will come."

"It will be the best ever Fantasy Fest."

"Dream on Assholes!"

Sunday afternoon quiet streets.

The oldman was converting his cash,
protected by the Bank of America
into canadian silver,
keeping it safe
in his grannies' outhouse.

The big battle was about to begin,
the senile old fuck who caused 'it',
pimping for Bill Gross and PIMCO,
gaming against Bernanke,
shit talking for toxic bonds,
sequestered by Tiny Tim,
Mister Mandarin Man
going against the currency,
playing with the yuang
while shorting the yen,
not a fucking clue,
belongs in a zoo...
with pandas
eating kiwis.

"Change the Signs, Fuckers!"

Larry Fink has a bitchy wife,
so has Obama,
Larry looks after 3 Trillion private,
Obama 20 Trillion public,
then imagine the problems left
by black brother Raines
and MERS and MOM,
Country Wide and suicide,
the phony scheme of cash flow
when the Model was 2006,
follow Zillow
and sob...
Blackrock is the major shareholder
of Fucking BP.

Ride your bicycle.

Save corn.

Drink beer.

On the Road to Recovery!

0726/1859 74/82 Blue Skies NE10/15 65%H.
DOGS 11105 8256 1371 2439. Libor 22. Vix 19.

Greetings from the Hill.

Swaying palm trees and blue skies,
classics and talking tits,
the oldman on day four...
alcohol free.

The visit yesterday from Stephen
put imagination back in the brain,
planning a blog.

"Hey, oldman, how's the head,"
mocking the old pothead.

"Our luck is about to run out
in the financial markets
because of a gamblers' curse...
'We have won this long,
keep the money on the table',
the long term costs of a bubble
to the economy and society
are potentially great...
a reduction in savings,
a redistribution of wealth,
the diversion of financial
and human capital
into wealth acquisition...
I think it better to burst the bubble
before rising to stratospheric heights,"
Larry Lindsey FOMC '96.

"On that note, we can go for coffee,"
Alan Greenspan.

'The Creature from Jekyll Island'
G. Edward Griffin,
one of those books
like Quigleys'.

The strange thing about this SCAM
is the replays every decade
by the same players...
FED, IMF, WB, BIS
and investment bank agents.

A license to kill the prosperity
of a developed nation,
Asia, Brazil, Mexico, South Korea,
Ireland, Greece, Italy, Spain...
take your pick
of the pricks
who engineer currency derivatives,
raping and debasing countries
and now cannibalizing
it's own country...
Things that Vote.

A Corporation is a living Thing.

Does Obama really know
or is he a stand up comic!

"A Trillion is a thousand Billions,
a hundred Buffets and Gates,
don't ask Hedge Hogs,
'bill the middle class',
put 'it' on Uncle Sam's tab.

Maybe he's cute and dumb.

"Does anyone really know...
will anyone ever tell,
before the U$ goes to Hell!"
laughs the madone
feeding the cats Fancy Fest
and watering the oregano.

The curious thing about the predicament
is the absence of answers,
to the most simple of questions...
"Where was the flag on the Peak?"

Eight hundred thousand dollars
for a fixup dream in Key West
should have put a snap in the flag,
some barf in the bag,
an old cunt on the rag...
a bit beyond belief
even inside the reef.

The Bank loans the County
thirty Million dollars
for a new school for dunces
and payola lunches.

"What bank was that?"

"A Trick for a Treat!"

"Ahhh, you can't stop 'it',
the bureaucrats have the keys
to all the desk drawers,
politicians come and go,
an insiders game,"
snorts the madone,
ready for a walkabout...
the sky was feeling damp.

A backhoe and a gravel truck,
hard hats holding shovels,
blue hats on cellphones,
Toppino sucking off the city,
"New curbs for protection
of lawsuits," cackles the cuban
doing work the city should,
taking charges off balance sheet,
from Charlie to Eddie.

"Everybody works for Government,
city, county, state and federal,
pensions, healthcare, insurance,
benefits to bury the nation,
leaching from the system
that created government employees' unions,
scumsuckers of the earth,"
growled the madone,
he hated parasites.

"Now, that's noise,"
chuckled the oldman
as the cement saw
prepared with cuts
to remove a century old sidewalk.

Silence and Gustav Mahler from Havana.

The Conch Train talked to cruise shippers.

A break in the action.

Not yet midterm elections
and Obama lost his staff,
those brilliant minds
who would rectify
the 'Great Recession',
the Chicago Economic School
who couldn't figure out 'Flash Crash',
HFT's and Riskmetrics VaR,
MSCI and Morgan Stanley,
CME, hedge funds and counterparties,
Gregg Berman advises Geithner,
Madeoff is consulting,
Larry Fink is managing the Trust.

Beer sales are down.

Joe Fourpack has a frown.

Hillary Clinton made a nice speech,
at a Washington CFR meeting,
the powers that be arranging
for a new ticket as Biden retires,
Clinton moves from State,
Obama was always a one termer
and will go back to the Senate.

"The Clintons back on the Hill!"

Does anyone really know?

"What does a buck buy
for seventy five cents?"

The Debt, the Debt, the Fucking Debt.

It's only money, funny money,
simply an export commodity
that rots in the vaults
of exporting nations
so stupid to believe
in the american dream.

"Ha haha, laughs the Mandarin Man,
conversational educated in China,
Obama can't speak nigger jive,
nor Hillary russian,
that basic pragmatic mind
of one world order,
according to the Military Complex,
those Pentagon cubicles
with Microsoft programs
through Bloomberg terminals.

Plastic cards and no cash.

Food stamps and Visa.

"What about the drug dealers?"
and Mexican Wamu money
and Wal Mart transfers.

One might imagine an underlying plot
to this mystery of missing wealth,
this disappearance of asset value,
the avoidance of risk management
through the magic of derivatives,
an idea untried in money mathematics,
until the currency scam of arbitrage,
"Well, if the memory serves,
Japan was the point man in cheap money,
currency leveraged into MBS's,
and their banks went comatose
with their economy...
ZIRP with no burp,"
seeing the future.

The dump saps are falling
into the traps.

Above the Horn.

Within the Reef.

Partly belief.

MERS, MOM and 3808.

0723/1905 75/83 Blue Skies N 10/15 65%H.
DOGS 11006 8266 1347 2322. Libor 26/29. Vix 20.71.

Greetings from the Hill.
"
Another beautiful day on the Rock,
classics and Fox News,
blue skies and a breeze,
surfing in the Keys.

Dumbness seems to have infected
the blogging minds as nothing
new or original surfaces
above the political slime slick.

Curiosity seems at room temperature IQ.

The Obama Coverup with a Wall Street blanket.

"You gotta have white teeth
and talk while you're smiling,"
laughs the madone
mocking the media
and silly fat children.

"Summers has yellow teeth
and won't smile,
Timmy speaks mandarin
and loves Peking duck,
Bernanke is giving everyone a fuck,"
talking silly
on the balcony.

Barry is holding out on 3808,
putting 'it' in his pocket,
such a deceptive little twit,
pretending to the public,
sucking ass to Congress.

While corrupt congressmen
Cede to Mers and the DTCC.

Lying to the middle class masses.

"Elliot Spitzer knows the truth
and took Rick Sanchez's job,"
funny considering Rick's remarks,
mused the oldman always a fan
of his 'Miami man'.

Obfuscation, bifurcation
and fornication.

"That means your title is fucked,"
laughed the oldman opening a pint,
ruminating on past blogs,
Above Solaris Hill, the original,
Bush and the Bailout to
Obama and the Failout,
Fanny and Freddy
and Barney makes Three,
smarty pants Raines
with his derivatives brains
creating a market for MBS
branching with tranching,
inventing the clearing house
for refinancing.

"Who the fuck knows
who owns what,"
as the traitors traded
the newest innovative product
in financial engineering,
punks in suits with cellphones,
pimping for commissions.

"Real Estate will always go up."

Insured by death taxes.

An innovative form of derivatives.

Greenspan was crazier than Ayn Rand
and talked Objectivism,
or something like that...
confused the CFR.

America exported armaments
agricultural foodstuffs
and entertainment.

Wars, Toofu and TV reruns,
Rock and Roll died with records.

American made is a charade.

More kids die in a stupid war,
more middle aged are unemployed,
children are stupider and fatter,
heroes are zeroes.

No leaders in sight,
no brave souls to stop the flight
of equity theft by scoundrels
who have raped the symbol
of liberty.

Time to take the garden,
too much inside the head,
more american lies,
Columbus Day...

Sir John Gunn discovered America
in the thirteen hundreds
with his Templar mates.

Above the Horn.

Within the Reef.

Perhaps Belief.

"Put in another Parking Lot!"

0721/1908 74/83 Blue Skies NE 10/20 65%H.
DOGS 10942 8393 1358 2357. Libor 23. Vix 21.

Greetings from the Hill.

A beautiful day in paradise,
the oldman survived another battle
with the end of living...

"Fucking near fell over the balcony,
telling drunk tales all afternoon
and smoking the funny stuff,"
laughed the madone
always watching over.

The lady writer across the street
brought 'the brews'...
the painter the funny stuff,
Tony and Jake entertained,
hard to do but laugh
when the oldman was showing off.

That marvelous time of the year
when summer nights end,
"Assholes with airconditioning
would never know, will never."

Awakening at two for a blanket,
seventy five degrees
and a chill wind
from the north...
gusting trees
and noisy leaves
watching stars
from the balcony.

Hard to be distressed
in Key West.

Even Bill was smiling
finding a woman
to tolerate him.

Love at that age gives hope
and the promise of dreams
to long neglected
almost forgotten
"But 'it's' still
like bicycle,"
laughed Tony
off to photograph
a time in history.

Something very strange
was happening down deeper
in that current of subterfuge,
that flow of finance
that feeds the greedy sharks
and provides clean sheets for tourists.

"Who cranked up the Dream Machine,
then fucked the 'Golden Duck,"
laughed the oldman,
watched 'it' all,
the boom and fall,
each and every crooked lawyer,
all the phony politicians,
and promising developers
facilitated by the scum...
lying conniving bureaucrats
who hate and cheat the system
for a buck or a fuck...

Clerks and secretaries
who keep the secrets.

"Until the Mango is Ripe!"

"Key West is a forgiving town!"

"But everyone knows."

"Everyone in Key West is a believer...
they're always going to be leaving!"

The oldman had on his Adidas sneakers
and a custom golf shirt,
classics static from the wind,
tits talking on CNBC,
seventy five degrees at ten,
ideal weather.

A good day to make up stories.

The Hyatt, the Galleon, the Westin,
Jabours Trailer Park, the Vet's Club,
Schooner Wharf, the Half Shell,
the Mascot, the Big Fleet,
and Swinging Doors...
shrimp boats on Elizabeth Street.

"And some say that cocaine
is as easy to buy...
as Key Lime pie."

Broadcasted on all networks,
when Manny, Manuel and Bum
were all arrested.

Nose candy for queers.

Cheap flights to New York
and a bag to go!

Gentrify a conch house
and call 'it' a guest home,
pay 'it' off in a year,
as long as Cass is watching,
protecting, collecting.

Crooked, sleezy little town.

Three hundred petrified fruits
on an Eastern jet praying
to land safely...
no high rises yet.

Wolkowsky sold out on the beach,
the Cowboys bought Casa Marina,
great plans for Stock Island,
vacant islands in the harbor.

High school kids drove cadilacs
sported gold necklaces,
daddy had a shrimp boat,
then ChooChoo made hulls
for faster transport.

The Monster was the place.

Two Million Tourists
taking home a souvenir.

Operation Sunburn...
operation this, the fucking feds
wouldn't let be.

Outsiders snitched.

Protection went to jail.

The curse killed the fun.

Gays wanted a garden,
a granite table,
and a marriage certificate.

Monogamy without polygamy.

Smuggling slowly died.

Old houses got gentrified
and flipped every two years,
conchs were millionaires
on paper and at the bank.

MERS, MOM and Fat Fanny.

"Who the fuck is C Jae Heinberg,
one might ask of Capt H Hunt,
partaking at Dantes,
wondering about the parking lot,
Kings Point, Cortex, Keys Caribbean,
and thirty other fronts of
Feldman, Koenig and Highsmith,"
laughs the madone on the balcony.

Above the Horn.

Playing the flute.

Summer's Over and Summers' gone!

0718/1916 78/85 Light Clouds SW 10/20 90%H.
DOGS 10821 7725 1309 2185. LIBOR 23/29. VIX 23/31.

Greetings from the Hill.

A gusty day in paradise,
the oldman taking a stroll
up Love Lane.

"Well, we dodged that one,"
smiles Peter washing the Audi,
the Rolls Wraith gleaming,
restored by artisans,
coachwork and a paint job,
"New bumpers too and tyres,"
of English African descent.

"How about that funny swinger,"
his wife played golf...
he always remarked.

A rather ostentatious form of travel.

"He has a ten thousand dollar bicycle,"
commented Tony always amazed
at the lifestyle of renters.

Sometimes owning a home is unwise.

"The new budget is coming out...
likely four trillion,"
not a fan of Obama,
nor Internet,
read only the WSJ,
the down under subversive.

"That bloody jew will be Mayor of Chicago,
'it's' all in derivative debt,
they privatized parking meters
to bloody Goldman Sachs,"
he had a funny way of talking.

The Rolls smelled new...
that expensive leather aroma,
his one eyed cat jumped
on the wife's covered car
and winked at the oldman...
she liked the lane.

"They are all leaving him,
'it' couldn't work out,
Clinton's misfits from Harvard,
MIT pretenders from Goldman,
and his Acorn Club,"
snorting on the stones.

All that from one newspaper.

The oldman was overwhelmed
and headed for his sanctity,
classics and cornbread.

Maybe Tony's spaghetti

And a couple of pints.

What could the masses be thinking
who watched talking tits
and believed Glenn Beck.

Could the Crisis have ended,
the Recession recovered,
all factories hiring.

The economy booming.

"Don't quit your night job."

"You might want to sing for supper."

The illegal aliens were busy again,
taking the neighbors storm shutters down,
fancying the gardens,
preparing for Fantasy Fest.

Absent homeowners renting for fortunes
to pay for property taxes,
the month of Gay love and lust
and fantasies of the past,
for the survivors
of the dreaded curse.

"La Te Da is for sale,"
shrugged the photographer,
capturing history,
perhaps the last great party
for those who can remember.

"Some guy named Walsh bought
the Porter House
for eight million,"
frowning and taking a pint,
"He operated that stand."

And eight other joints.

Always a Prol Perry,
a Bobbie Mongelli,
a horse on the course.

"Hey, you fucked up...
where's the other Spottswood,"
laughs the madone,
filling the cat bowls.

"John says Sloan is too bold
for an old man without a license
and no permit to preach,
not even a sunday tent
with fritters and grits,"
always amazed...

At the breeze in the Keys
that blew away the rain.

Above the Horn.

Beyond the Reef.

Gullible's Belief.

Ten year thoughts on the Two Year Crisis.

0717/1920 80/88 Light Clouds E10/20 85%H.
DOGS 10860 7649 1297 2146. Libor 26/47.

Greetings from the Hill.

Blue skies in the morning,
showers in the afternoon,
a gardeners delight
but not a golfer's pleasure.

Strange to imagine that two years
have passed and things are worse,
far from the projections of recovery,
the promises of hope and change
from the cowboy on the open range.

A decade and back to where Bill left us,
fantasies by Treasury Secretary Summers
to eliminate the deficit in ten years,
a nation of prosperity and wealth.

"And look at us now," growled the madone.

"Dow down ten per cent, real estate twenty percent,
oil up one hundred and twenty five per cent,
Gold up five times from 275 to 1295,
silver almost four times to 21.20...
guess who got rich,"counting
his silver and gold.

In eight years Clinton left a deficit
of near six trillion dollars.

In eight years Bush left a deficit
of close to ten trillion dollars.

In two years the Obama Debt
will exceed fourteen trillion dollars.

With tax cash flow down twenty percent
and non working the same.

"Smoke another booger, Barry,
stay high in the highest office,
keep the brothers agitated,
but keep the benefits coming,"
growls the madone
disgusted with the hippie fairy.

Imagine if the fairy barry
had listened to his mother
rather than pretending in the underground,
Moma Tut worked for Geithner's dad,
studying micro economies...
something the both sons
are making America.

"It's all over, Asshole...
fucking finished, never a leader,
no World Champion rings,
an also ran falling each year,
to last place, the basement,
dragged down by incompetence
and corruption, the crooked bets
that lost the franchise,"
ranted the oldman
enjoying the Rays
and a new style of play.

Too many mysteries not uncovered,
a mother pregnant by a foreign national,
and not nineteen, too precocious and
a radical miscegenation fuckabout...
pissing off her parents,
"She never dated the white crew cut boys,"
confided a classmate.

So the half black barry fluent in muslim prayer
is ignored by the bad black bigamist dad,
who as an athiest marxist had high hopes
from the ministry of finance
to the PM's chair.

Once an Asshole...
always an Asshole.

Dies drunk in a ditch.

Could American Black Muslims
be whispering in Barack's ear.

"Renounce America and claim
your rights from a Kenyan father,
build a new nation,"
agitated Farrakhan at Daddy's funeral.

Guess what squirrel has the Acorns.

"Practice revolution in the neighborhood,"
suggested the white jewish instigators
who influenced the boy
who could never be black.

He lived in a mansion in Hyde Park,
walking distance to mentors,
Farrakhan and Ayers,
thanks to Resko.

Most african family blood is arab.

"But, who the fuck cares!"

"The land of Opportunity."

"Equal Lenders."

"How.s your score?"

Things seem to be great on the Rock,
beds filled, bars packed,
restaurants booming,
bed tax highest ever,
funds wasted on advertising
and executive reimbursements,
same scumshits skimming
and cooking the books.

The Spottswood family trying
to con the city by funding
their mega yacht harbor proposal,
"Hit the road, Jack."

Royally fucking up the Beachside
and 'the other side'.

Kiss your bank goodbye, bros....

The photographer was keeping the rounds,
capturing the denouement of waste
and collective bad taste.

Ironically Key West will survive
as a higher level of minds
will choose the weather and charm,
the familiarity of Lanes,
the treat of walking and cycling
without worry and fear.

More empty houses will become homes.

If the country is going to Hell,
one might best find heaven
in paradise.

How to penetrate the minds
of bureaucratic buffoons
who mismanage the city finances
seems an impossible dream.

Idiots who want to spend what isn't.

A 22 Million Dollar city hall
that will double by finishing,
a Memorial to Duncedom.

Living beneath one's means.

Soup and sandwich
in the garden
with a good book.

Above the Horn.

Inside the Reef.

And sometimes
within belief.

Who really is Barry Dunham?

0715/1926 80/88 Blue Skies E 10/20 80%H
DOGS 10607,7366,1275,2074. LIBOR .26 VIX 22.

Greetings from the Hill.

A lovely morning in paradise,
house empty and quiet,
but for classics and chimes.

The wood turner romancing his new love.

"With stories of unearned glories,"
laughed the madone watching
the painter across the street.

The oldman was studying the mystery
of the mystery of the President's Past.

"Such obvious connections but no thread,
the color of the cloth is red,
the fabric madras,
with no button holes,"
musing on the photos of a boy
who was destined to be different.

"Barry likes blue,"
suggested Stanley to Uncle George,
before leaving on another tour
of the microeconomics of Asia,
researching the future
of socialist capitalism.

Rumors of Momma's sexual propensities
drifted through the State Department,
but was fluent in Farsi
as well as mandarin,
"But a 'fellow traveler',"
accepted those in the 'know',
she was always free to go,
whenever...where ever.

"Now, Barry, I have to leave,
Gramps will take you to Washington,
promise me you won't take
any stolen watches from 'him',
I've told you how he 'is',"
leaving the boy on his own.

Jake, who just returned from Hawaii,
offered an insight...
"You know the rays are different,
they alter the pigment and change
a black man to yellow,
kind of...
and their pot thins out
baby fat!"

Looking at the photos,
little fatso lost weight
and got a color tint.

"And won the state championship
with a basketball scholarship
to Occidental College,
a hotbed of insurgents,"
growled the madone
who studied secrets.

"The problem is 'The Freedom of Information Act'
does not apply to Dunham Obama Sorieto,
more bizarre than 'The Manchurian Candidate'
and much more mysterious,
asshole and his 'executive order',"
grumbles the madone watching,
as the painter leaves at noon.

Twenty years of 'Law and Order'
invites curiosity to even the old,
a good mystery better with a body,
like the Clinton White House,
this grinning Jackass creates
economic genocide
and social chaos.

"Well, what about the time gap,
those years after a 'C' average
at Columbia between Harvard,
some say Momma knew Ollie North
and sent the sissy on a mission
to learn to be a man...
learn to hold a gun
rather than his pecker,"
always making up stories.

"Those who cannot build
become lawyers and bureaucrats,
counterproductive to growth,
creating loopholes of laws,"
mused the oldman wondering
about the Kingdom of Duncedom,
two years into the 'Crisis',
trillions of dollars lost,
on paper of course,
numbers on a rating report,
an index of an indice,
the value of the market
for a salable object,
a thing to pick up and hold,
a structure to rest one's head,
or a contract to trade
to the next sucker,
pixels typed on a tube
by a boob in a cube,
a trading traitor
where money is a number,
but the word is dollar.

"Holey Horse Fuck, take a walk
or buy a pickup truck,"
laughed the oldman,
his mood spoiled
with the return
of 'Lover Boy'.

A morning walkabout after church,
a stroll from the Atlantic
to the Gulf...
peaceful with the bars closed,
even the Poker Run bikers
not roaring the streets,
sunday morning in bed
with breakfast.

"A nation of sissies."

"Not Fancy Nancies."

"Straight Men who need Viagra."

Jeffrey's lady friend from
'Coral Gables' not 'Miami',
a social consciousness,
says the 'Beach'
and the 'Grove'
are dying
from lack of attention,
too many dark empty condos
not even rented,
the locals are fucked
having borrowed on equity
that no longer exists
and taxes increasing
increasing increasing.

Fat Randy's now very fat wife
took the walk finally,
big time in the Big House
for her crimes against children
and the school system
while hubby works for Bubba Swift
planning how to keep Ed
from bankruptcy
and the collapse of his empire,
thirty years in the making
'Daring to be Great'
emulating the man with the lisp,
Ed talked funny
and wore bracelets
when in Fire Island.

Two marvelous old ladies
went to heaven at eighty five.

A grand age to leave paradise.

"Silly but not senile,
sarcastic and witty,
but never cruel...
always demanding of something
'better than the last time',
an inspiration to strive,"
commented Amy who herself
has joined the club
of grey haired artists.

A painting is such a lovely gift
to pass on to the future,
the gift of teaching to those
talented enough to learn,
hands creating from sight
or the vision within.

Imagine if paradise had artists
solving problems and troubles
rather than corrupt politicians
and crooked cops...
judges making deals
for meals on wheels.

Above the Horn.

Inside the Reef.

Nothing Beyond Belief.