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.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
"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.
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.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Some are born leaders, others are what they are.
0710/1940 78/88 Grey Skies ESE 10/15 90%H
DOGS The same.
Greetings from the Hill.
Another damp day in paradise,
the wood turner noising below,
the oldman writing in bed,
watching CNBC documentaries.
The gardener out with the camera.
Alger in the Rockies.
Does anyone care about the President?
His father was on his way to Harvard,
his mother a radical anti=establishmentarian,
a teenager and bigamist,
breeding without marriage,
condoned by Grannie,
the only white woman banker
in Hawaii.
Stanley, a funny name for a mother,
who had ideas herself of greatness,
not African bound for Muslim wives
of the mean little man
who died drunk in a ditch,
like Billy Blythe's daddy...
"Never sit on the fence, son,
learn to dribble a ball...
I'm pregnant and you have another daddy,
you'll meet new friends,"
preparing the path of change.
Strange the history of Democrats,
leaders who had never served.
Grade school with nuns ringing in his ears
and that ommmmmming from the rug,
Daddy Sorieta was in the oil business for BP,
and Stanley was a spy with the Ford Foundation,
learning different paths to nirvana,
teachings of the Buddha,
ethics of the atheists,
"Maybe Momma was in the CIA!"
A little muslim had to drift into
a head preoccupied with greatness...
he would be the best
dribbler in the NBA.
He loved his rice and vegetables
with pinapples and spam...
he wanted to go home and dribble.
"Son, Momma has work to do in Asia,
grampa and grandma will look after you,
you will go to the best schools,
you have a gift with talking,
now learn the jump shot."
And Momma was gone.
His bad black Daddy never visited.
His yellow stepdaddy never appeared,
not even when he won the state title
with his jump shot...
Mom was working on her doctorate
somewhere in Indonesia.
No family, no friends, no lovers,
living in New York at Columbia,
the voices of Keroauc and Ginsberg
ringing through the halls
and onto the basketball court.
Like Jack, an injury ended a dream,
another road to travel, alone as always,
but Grandma was Vice President of 'The Bank',
following his bad black bigamist Dad to Harvard,
not in Economics but Law...imagine if both.
Grandpa and grandpa were so proud at graduation.
That all black girl in Chicago had plans of her own.
Momma didn't like black girls
but she took her coffee black.
She became a Doctor in Micro Economics
and saved the future for Asian nations,
found God and adopted a black baby girl.
Barry is not kind to his sisters
from his Momma but brags
about his brothers and sisters
bred by his bad black bigamist dad in Africa.
Maybe being half white in The White House
alters one's view of life.
Above the Horn.
Beyond the Reef.
Within believe.
DOGS The same.
Greetings from the Hill.
Another damp day in paradise,
the wood turner noising below,
the oldman writing in bed,
watching CNBC documentaries.
The gardener out with the camera.
Alger in the Rockies.
Does anyone care about the President?
His father was on his way to Harvard,
his mother a radical anti=establishmentarian,
a teenager and bigamist,
breeding without marriage,
condoned by Grannie,
the only white woman banker
in Hawaii.
Stanley, a funny name for a mother,
who had ideas herself of greatness,
not African bound for Muslim wives
of the mean little man
who died drunk in a ditch,
like Billy Blythe's daddy...
"Never sit on the fence, son,
learn to dribble a ball...
I'm pregnant and you have another daddy,
you'll meet new friends,"
preparing the path of change.
Strange the history of Democrats,
leaders who had never served.
Grade school with nuns ringing in his ears
and that ommmmmming from the rug,
Daddy Sorieta was in the oil business for BP,
and Stanley was a spy with the Ford Foundation,
learning different paths to nirvana,
teachings of the Buddha,
ethics of the atheists,
"Maybe Momma was in the CIA!"
A little muslim had to drift into
a head preoccupied with greatness...
he would be the best
dribbler in the NBA.
He loved his rice and vegetables
with pinapples and spam...
he wanted to go home and dribble.
"Son, Momma has work to do in Asia,
grampa and grandma will look after you,
you will go to the best schools,
you have a gift with talking,
now learn the jump shot."
And Momma was gone.
His bad black Daddy never visited.
His yellow stepdaddy never appeared,
not even when he won the state title
with his jump shot...
Mom was working on her doctorate
somewhere in Indonesia.
No family, no friends, no lovers,
living in New York at Columbia,
the voices of Keroauc and Ginsberg
ringing through the halls
and onto the basketball court.
Like Jack, an injury ended a dream,
another road to travel, alone as always,
but Grandma was Vice President of 'The Bank',
following his bad black bigamist Dad to Harvard,
not in Economics but Law...imagine if both.
Grandpa and grandpa were so proud at graduation.
That all black girl in Chicago had plans of her own.
Momma didn't like black girls
but she took her coffee black.
She became a Doctor in Micro Economics
and saved the future for Asian nations,
found God and adopted a black baby girl.
Barry is not kind to his sisters
from his Momma but brags
about his brothers and sisters
bred by his bad black bigamist dad in Africa.
Maybe being half white in The White House
alters one's view of life.
Above the Horn.
Beyond the Reef.
Within believe.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Empty homes and forgotten dreams.
0708/1945 78/86 Cloudy and Rain SSW 10/20 90%H.
DOGS 10447 7460 1246 1985. LIBOR 21/31.
Greetings from the Hill.
Grey skies and a misty rain,
classics from Havana,
the Weather Channel in the bedroom,
the oldman with coffee and Big Mac,
tires slicking up the street,
Viola in the window sill.
An imaginary morning walk,
down Southard Street to Five Brothers
then a stroll up Love Lane
and wondering...
Nine houses across the block,
two rented and two for sale,
seven empty homeless structures.
Nine house on this side,
two owner occupants...amazing,
the oldman and Maria,
thirty seven years of memories
without arguement!
Two rented and two for sale,
five empty homeless houses.
The 'fellows' next door got screwed
by House Flipper Joe and his 'Hot Toddy',
that phony live in for two years bill,
both are down half a million or more.
"More your ass, you old goat,
'me and my Zillow.com....
next you will go after Irwin Higgs",
laughs the madone making toast.
Mister Moody's dreamhouse rented
to cover the juice
before the Big Arm falls,
teasing whores now want payment,
this one did a back flip.
Across the street at Seven Twelve,
enjoying life on the porch,
sunrise to sunset,
Jerry enjoys an extended vacation,
retired early, his job outsourced,
"Those fucking insurance companies
all buying into India",
growls the madone,
disgusted with globalization.
"Hey, pal 'it' ain't all that great
on millionaire hill...Love Lane,
address address location location,
realtor whore sweet talk",
hated the sluts
and their pimp brokers.
Certainly an interesting ride
on the Ferris Wheel of Gentrification.
In the Carnival of Real Estate.
Some were not speculators
and had found a home...
in paradise.
"Doesn't take too many fucking brains
to discover the comfort and ease
of living in the Keys",
that asshole was fixated
on rhymes.
Some people actually rent.
"But with a Rolls Royce and Audi",
wondered the snoopy gardener.
Picture postcards in paradise
usually came from the house hustlers.
"Ten Thousand dollars in property taxes,
mortgage interest insurance, three dogs
barking for their food first,
and never forget the gardener
to keep the dream beautiful",
chuckles the oldman
wondering about 'it' all.
Time, that rarest of commodities,
without the urgency of obligation,
no time share of the mind,
freedom to be oneself
whenever.
"Yeah, yeah, dream on you old fart,
most people don't spend days on the Internet,
listening to classics and CNBC,
playing with cats and plants,
smoking and drinking,
paying the bills
on Six Hundred a Month...
imfuckingpossible...hohoho",
chortles the voice on the balcony.
Always the sound of doubt,
those souls who cannot be without
the adverbial phrases,
the advertising persuaders
who pander to the insecure,
those pathetic withouts
who want beauty and wealth,
trading in their health
for the Devil's Dream.
Obama speaks with a forked tail.
With Bernanke and Frank...
Three Sputtering Fools
in dark financial pools,
the unwitting tools
of the powers that be.
Beyond you and me.
Above the Horn.
Beyond the Reef.
Goodbye Earl...
"Hello Who?"
DOGS 10447 7460 1246 1985. LIBOR 21/31.
Greetings from the Hill.
Grey skies and a misty rain,
classics from Havana,
the Weather Channel in the bedroom,
the oldman with coffee and Big Mac,
tires slicking up the street,
Viola in the window sill.
An imaginary morning walk,
down Southard Street to Five Brothers
then a stroll up Love Lane
and wondering...
Nine houses across the block,
two rented and two for sale,
seven empty homeless structures.
Nine house on this side,
two owner occupants...amazing,
the oldman and Maria,
thirty seven years of memories
without arguement!
Two rented and two for sale,
five empty homeless houses.
The 'fellows' next door got screwed
by House Flipper Joe and his 'Hot Toddy',
that phony live in for two years bill,
both are down half a million or more.
"More your ass, you old goat,
'me and my Zillow.com....
next you will go after Irwin Higgs",
laughs the madone making toast.
Mister Moody's dreamhouse rented
to cover the juice
before the Big Arm falls,
teasing whores now want payment,
this one did a back flip.
Across the street at Seven Twelve,
enjoying life on the porch,
sunrise to sunset,
Jerry enjoys an extended vacation,
retired early, his job outsourced,
"Those fucking insurance companies
all buying into India",
growls the madone,
disgusted with globalization.
"Hey, pal 'it' ain't all that great
on millionaire hill...Love Lane,
address address location location,
realtor whore sweet talk",
hated the sluts
and their pimp brokers.
Certainly an interesting ride
on the Ferris Wheel of Gentrification.
In the Carnival of Real Estate.
Some were not speculators
and had found a home...
in paradise.
"Doesn't take too many fucking brains
to discover the comfort and ease
of living in the Keys",
that asshole was fixated
on rhymes.
Some people actually rent.
"But with a Rolls Royce and Audi",
wondered the snoopy gardener.
Picture postcards in paradise
usually came from the house hustlers.
"Ten Thousand dollars in property taxes,
mortgage interest insurance, three dogs
barking for their food first,
and never forget the gardener
to keep the dream beautiful",
chuckles the oldman
wondering about 'it' all.
Time, that rarest of commodities,
without the urgency of obligation,
no time share of the mind,
freedom to be oneself
whenever.
"Yeah, yeah, dream on you old fart,
most people don't spend days on the Internet,
listening to classics and CNBC,
playing with cats and plants,
smoking and drinking,
paying the bills
on Six Hundred a Month...
imfuckingpossible...hohoho",
chortles the voice on the balcony.
Always the sound of doubt,
those souls who cannot be without
the adverbial phrases,
the advertising persuaders
who pander to the insecure,
those pathetic withouts
who want beauty and wealth,
trading in their health
for the Devil's Dream.
Obama speaks with a forked tail.
With Bernanke and Frank...
Three Sputtering Fools
in dark financial pools,
the unwitting tools
of the powers that be.
Beyond you and me.
Above the Horn.
Beyond the Reef.
Goodbye Earl...
"Hello Who?"
Sunday, August 29, 2010
A Sunday Rideabout Downtown.
0707/1947 82/90 Blue Skies E 10/15 75%H
DOGS...10150 7312 1238 1911.
Greetings from the Hill.
A beautiful day in paradise,
the opera from Havana,
no other sounds...
quiet streets.
The painter gardener photographer
went out and about downtown
for a morning ride before noon,
no alcohol until then...
imagine this wicked town
having a 'Lords Morning Act',
very very peculiar.
"Sleep in late at the 'Eden House',
the bikes seem to have,
a business much the same
except of course the rates,
amazing what tourists pay
for a bed in paradise.
The waterfront unchanged but for
million dollar boats sitting idle,
a mortgage payment on a slip...
"That's enough to take the fun
from fishing..."
speculators have ruined the town.
"Eat it raw, there's no gas
for the grill!"
The oldman printed the first
Raw Bar tshirts, 'keep on shucking',
pretty clever at the time,
thirty five years ago.
And a few years later, Diamant,
to become the 'Schooner Wharf',
Evalina certainly ages well.
The grand old City Hall,
restored and fighting closure,
mould is a congenital disease
to only the Conchs,
"They be gone soon,
sooner or later."
"Let be and just wait,"
but sleezy streets
have sleezy lawyers.
The era of Wrecking and auctions
at the Customs House.
Key West was the largest
and richest city
in Florida,
pirates and wreckers,
cuban cigars and a war base.
"Prohibition and a Depression
could turn a good man to smuggling,"
smiled the oldman thinking
of the later exploits of Capt. Tony,
who's inventions would become
'The Cuban Crossing'...
a very very enjoyable movie,
the oldman wondered why Joe
didn't run it every day...
"I'll take a gross, Mad Jack,"
the man had style,
the very first order for both,
and the printing began.
And then the 'Monster' opened
and Key West was never the same,
without a doubt the classiest,
the most outrageous and exciting,
south of Fire Island...
Mad Jack got rich printing those,
had more funny money
than the drug dealers.
Key West was the Best.
Until Aids.
And the best all died.
Some survived
and lied
about the past.
The pirates returned
and build houses
to sell to the Gullible.
"Keeping up with Gays,
much more taste than the Jones."
Fag hags and granite table tops.
Ann at the 'Top' hosting
smugglers and politicians,
Manny and Sonny,
the view and the talk.
Then but a short walk
to the Green Parrot,
crazy Judy's Sub Shop.
"Those were the days..."
Mad Jack printed those shirts,
all originals of course.
A fine breeze in the Keys,
inside the Reef.
DOGS...10150 7312 1238 1911.
Greetings from the Hill.
A beautiful day in paradise,
the opera from Havana,
no other sounds...
quiet streets.
The painter gardener photographer
went out and about downtown
for a morning ride before noon,
no alcohol until then...
imagine this wicked town
having a 'Lords Morning Act',
very very peculiar.
"Sleep in late at the 'Eden House',
the bikes seem to have,
a business much the same
except of course the rates,
amazing what tourists pay
for a bed in paradise.
The waterfront unchanged but for
million dollar boats sitting idle,
a mortgage payment on a slip...
"That's enough to take the fun
from fishing..."
speculators have ruined the town.
"Eat it raw, there's no gas
for the grill!"
The oldman printed the first
Raw Bar tshirts, 'keep on shucking',
pretty clever at the time,
thirty five years ago.
And a few years later, Diamant,
to become the 'Schooner Wharf',
Evalina certainly ages well.
The grand old City Hall,
restored and fighting closure,
mould is a congenital disease
to only the Conchs,
"They be gone soon,
sooner or later."
"Let be and just wait,"
but sleezy streets
have sleezy lawyers.
The era of Wrecking and auctions
at the Customs House.
Key West was the largest
and richest city
in Florida,
pirates and wreckers,
cuban cigars and a war base.
"Prohibition and a Depression
could turn a good man to smuggling,"
smiled the oldman thinking
of the later exploits of Capt. Tony,
who's inventions would become
'The Cuban Crossing'...
a very very enjoyable movie,
the oldman wondered why Joe
didn't run it every day...
"I'll take a gross, Mad Jack,"
the man had style,
the very first order for both,
and the printing began.
And then the 'Monster' opened
and Key West was never the same,
without a doubt the classiest,
the most outrageous and exciting,
south of Fire Island...
Mad Jack got rich printing those,
had more funny money
than the drug dealers.
Key West was the Best.
Until Aids.
And the best all died.
Some survived
and lied
about the past.
The pirates returned
and build houses
to sell to the Gullible.
"Keeping up with Gays,
much more taste than the Jones."
Fag hags and granite table tops.
Ann at the 'Top' hosting
smugglers and politicians,
Manny and Sonny,
the view and the talk.
Then but a short walk
to the Green Parrot,
crazy Judy's Sub Shop.
"Those were the days..."
Mad Jack printed those shirts,
all originals of course.
A fine breeze in the Keys,
inside the Reef.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
2010 Proposed Property Taxes.
0706/1948 82/90 Scattered Clouds ESE 10/15 70%H.
DOGS 10150 7312 1238 1911.LIBOR 23/31.
Greetings from the Hill.
A rideabout for groceries,
blue skies and beautiful,
the town not exactly booming...
pissing about on Big Mac,
the depressing economic news enough
to spoil the classics from Havana,
the chili simmering on the balcony,
a view through clean windows.
"Who fucked Fannie and Freddie",
wonder over and over the fools
who know the Truth but ignore
to expose the criminals...
"Blame 'it' on a black man
who's dad was a janitor in Seattle,
this boy goes to Harvard
and on to Oxford, a stint at Cambridge,
learns about derivatives...
OMB under Carter, then to Lazard Freres,
becoming partner then OMB director
under Slick Willy and then...
the first black CEO of a Fortune 500,
'FanniefuckingMae', my oh my!",
marvels the oldman thinking
that Franklin Delano Raines
might have got set up.
Who's bright idea to package
and bundle into pools these products,
not ten or twenty thousand dollar notes,
one hundred thousand times a thousand,
MBS's, CDO's, CDS's, the big market,
"Fucking A One, the Mortgage Market,
100 Million Suckers to bleed dry,
at 200 thousand minimum, plus fees,
then the World..."
and so the Main Street banker
pedaled his trust to Lehman and Citi,
then the Vultures took over.
Always protected by insurance,
recreated as derivatives,
without a license...
Maybe IT was cowboy economics,
a shotgun marriage by Ranger Bush.
"And we are back to Bill,"
groans the oldman reading
the property tax assessment,
down 200 thousand from last year
and taxes up 1200 dollars,
just the beginning of rage
as witless governments
must face incomes of 2000,
a decade of Fraud and Cheating
talking shit beyond one's means.
"Are you better off this year
than last year...."
a pitch in the forgotten past,
poor fucks poorer,
rich pricks richer,
one percent is a million
elitist families
ignoring middle class suffering.
A thirty year ride up from seventy-five
to the peak in 2005,
any dipstick can remember thirty
maybe forty thousand for a house,
right here in paradise,
the national three hundred thousand
and Key West eight hundred thousand,
pretty fast down the hill
paying for that big fat mortgage.
"So how does Fat Mac ex Key West mayor
cover his million dollar mortgage
on a four hundred thousand dollar house",
wondered the curious Zillow.com reader.
How disappointing to know there is no Hope,
all Obama bullshit without Change.
"Hey, old man, you will wear out your eyes",
laughing and passing for another bowl,
the oldman was ready for a pint.
Life was a breeze
in the Florida Keys.
DOGS 10150 7312 1238 1911.LIBOR 23/31.
Greetings from the Hill.
A rideabout for groceries,
blue skies and beautiful,
the town not exactly booming...
pissing about on Big Mac,
the depressing economic news enough
to spoil the classics from Havana,
the chili simmering on the balcony,
a view through clean windows.
"Who fucked Fannie and Freddie",
wonder over and over the fools
who know the Truth but ignore
to expose the criminals...
"Blame 'it' on a black man
who's dad was a janitor in Seattle,
this boy goes to Harvard
and on to Oxford, a stint at Cambridge,
learns about derivatives...
OMB under Carter, then to Lazard Freres,
becoming partner then OMB director
under Slick Willy and then...
the first black CEO of a Fortune 500,
'FanniefuckingMae', my oh my!",
marvels the oldman thinking
that Franklin Delano Raines
might have got set up.
Who's bright idea to package
and bundle into pools these products,
not ten or twenty thousand dollar notes,
one hundred thousand times a thousand,
MBS's, CDO's, CDS's, the big market,
"Fucking A One, the Mortgage Market,
100 Million Suckers to bleed dry,
at 200 thousand minimum, plus fees,
then the World..."
and so the Main Street banker
pedaled his trust to Lehman and Citi,
then the Vultures took over.
Always protected by insurance,
recreated as derivatives,
without a license...
Maybe IT was cowboy economics,
a shotgun marriage by Ranger Bush.
"And we are back to Bill,"
groans the oldman reading
the property tax assessment,
down 200 thousand from last year
and taxes up 1200 dollars,
just the beginning of rage
as witless governments
must face incomes of 2000,
a decade of Fraud and Cheating
talking shit beyond one's means.
"Are you better off this year
than last year...."
a pitch in the forgotten past,
poor fucks poorer,
rich pricks richer,
one percent is a million
elitist families
ignoring middle class suffering.
A thirty year ride up from seventy-five
to the peak in 2005,
any dipstick can remember thirty
maybe forty thousand for a house,
right here in paradise,
the national three hundred thousand
and Key West eight hundred thousand,
pretty fast down the hill
paying for that big fat mortgage.
"So how does Fat Mac ex Key West mayor
cover his million dollar mortgage
on a four hundred thousand dollar house",
wondered the curious Zillow.com reader.
How disappointing to know there is no Hope,
all Obama bullshit without Change.
"Hey, old man, you will wear out your eyes",
laughing and passing for another bowl,
the oldman was ready for a pint.
Life was a breeze
in the Florida Keys.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Staying Alive and Hoping to Survive!
0705/1955 82/88 Cloudy SW 5/10 90%H.
DOGS 10206,7345,1228,1806. LIBOR 23/31.
Greetings from the Hill.
A heavy hot humid day,
a week of torrential rains
have the mosquitoes swarming
but the gardens lush.
A morning ride off the rock
to improve the attitude
and remember where we are
and why we are here.
"Those barefoot dropouts!"
In the beautiful Florida Keys.
Cafe con leche in the garden
scanning the talking tits,
flirting with the viewers,
pathetic pretenders all posers,
the ham and the jam
but never the Truth.
"Even about the President
of the United States of Americans,"
groans the oldman wondering
about Shahada and Maya Soetoro Ng,
Wright, Farakan and Malcom X,
a little Red church in Seattle,
Mama with the Ford Foundation,
a black muslim economist in Nigeria
who abandoned his illegitimate son,
Bill Ayers, Bernadine Dohrn, the Woods Fund
and Frank Davis, Bernie Saunders, AAAN,
on and on the list of radicals
that this Professor of Constitutional Law
seems to have enjoyed and enjoined.
"The mystery is why he was Chosen."
Voted in by the registered and privileged,
and one of the lowest showings
in the world and all the hype.
An alternative to McCain, Palin, Gramm,
after the bossiest of all bitches
was pushed back in the closet,
maybe that guilt since slavery
making things half right
with a half white
who married an all black
"The Messenger sent from Hell
who grins and smiles,
waves like a movie star
so thrilled with himself,"
grumbling in the garden.
Zillow.com had put him into
a state of depression
at the sorry ass housing market,
any investigator must wonder
how governments expect to extract
property taxes from plunged values
without changing the laws,
increasing millage,
eliminating exemptions...
never ever cutbacks,
no unions in the private sector
but those government employees
from local to federal
do have some packages.
The Banksters have a major con
with Cede and Co. and DTCC,
the NYSE gang of criminals
and the Big Houses use
this fiction as major fraud
to trade at will all stock
so many times no one knows,
the scandals of naked shorts
or simply a conspiracy,
imagine clearing five quadrillion,
such a number beyond trillions,
the amount of trades by machines,
not silly fellows on 'the floor',
this racket has the players
with the best toys skimming,
the Goldman Sachs Mob.
Too Big to Fail!
These assholes hold in name,
"Yeah, remember Street Name,
when your broker kept your certificates,
and used them at his discretion,
that same old game,"
the oldman remembered well,
before electronic trading
when paperwork got lost.
Of course the secret is in
having your own clearing house,
"Yeah, like the Warehouse."
Little pixels on a screen.
The Wall Street Mobs are owners
in DTCC, Cede and Markit.
"You don't have a chance."
But then these fucks already
have your 401K, all pensions,
then levered and hedged,
branched and tranched,
all mathematical models
engineered for financial wealth,
certainly not the suckers.
"It's a Bear or a Bull...
an Elephant or a Jackass,"
seems about the extent of choice.
The poor old housing market,
that dream of home ownership,
a piece of the rock,
a roof from the rain,
this underwater investment
still has much to milk.
MERS is now in 60 million homes
and getting bigger...
all the same scam of owner of record.
"Trust in God, you're better off!"
'Any attempt to transfer the beneficial
interest of a trust deed
without ownership
is void by law', hofuckingho.
Welcome to the world of Fanny and Freddy,
BofA, Wells Fargo, SunTrust on and on
until every mortgage is pixelated,
circumventing county records,
no more paper trail.
MOM is now in control,
MERS as Original Mortgage,
mind control by acronyms.
This sounds like Big Brother!
'Any loan registered on the system
is innoculated against future assignments
because MERS remains the nominal mortgagee
no matter how many times
servicing is traded.'
"Those branches are cut into twigs
and mulched into tranches."
Imagine foreclosing on a mysterious mortgage
without the secret eight digit number
known only by MOM.
Makes the subprime rap a little weak.
This scam was devised ten years ago for F and F!
Grey skies suck and so does fraud.
Bush was a smirk playing stupid.
Obama grins and jives.
Who could be next?
Above the Horn.
Inside the Reef.
At home on the Hill.
DOGS 10206,7345,1228,1806. LIBOR 23/31.
Greetings from the Hill.
A heavy hot humid day,
a week of torrential rains
have the mosquitoes swarming
but the gardens lush.
A morning ride off the rock
to improve the attitude
and remember where we are
and why we are here.
"Those barefoot dropouts!"
In the beautiful Florida Keys.
Cafe con leche in the garden
scanning the talking tits,
flirting with the viewers,
pathetic pretenders all posers,
the ham and the jam
but never the Truth.
"Even about the President
of the United States of Americans,"
groans the oldman wondering
about Shahada and Maya Soetoro Ng,
Wright, Farakan and Malcom X,
a little Red church in Seattle,
Mama with the Ford Foundation,
a black muslim economist in Nigeria
who abandoned his illegitimate son,
Bill Ayers, Bernadine Dohrn, the Woods Fund
and Frank Davis, Bernie Saunders, AAAN,
on and on the list of radicals
that this Professor of Constitutional Law
seems to have enjoyed and enjoined.
"The mystery is why he was Chosen."
Voted in by the registered and privileged,
and one of the lowest showings
in the world and all the hype.
An alternative to McCain, Palin, Gramm,
after the bossiest of all bitches
was pushed back in the closet,
maybe that guilt since slavery
making things half right
with a half white
who married an all black
"The Messenger sent from Hell
who grins and smiles,
waves like a movie star
so thrilled with himself,"
grumbling in the garden.
Zillow.com had put him into
a state of depression
at the sorry ass housing market,
any investigator must wonder
how governments expect to extract
property taxes from plunged values
without changing the laws,
increasing millage,
eliminating exemptions...
never ever cutbacks,
no unions in the private sector
but those government employees
from local to federal
do have some packages.
The Banksters have a major con
with Cede and Co. and DTCC,
the NYSE gang of criminals
and the Big Houses use
this fiction as major fraud
to trade at will all stock
so many times no one knows,
the scandals of naked shorts
or simply a conspiracy,
imagine clearing five quadrillion,
such a number beyond trillions,
the amount of trades by machines,
not silly fellows on 'the floor',
this racket has the players
with the best toys skimming,
the Goldman Sachs Mob.
Too Big to Fail!
These assholes hold in name,
"Yeah, remember Street Name,
when your broker kept your certificates,
and used them at his discretion,
that same old game,"
the oldman remembered well,
before electronic trading
when paperwork got lost.
Of course the secret is in
having your own clearing house,
"Yeah, like the Warehouse."
Little pixels on a screen.
The Wall Street Mobs are owners
in DTCC, Cede and Markit.
"You don't have a chance."
But then these fucks already
have your 401K, all pensions,
then levered and hedged,
branched and tranched,
all mathematical models
engineered for financial wealth,
certainly not the suckers.
"It's a Bear or a Bull...
an Elephant or a Jackass,"
seems about the extent of choice.
The poor old housing market,
that dream of home ownership,
a piece of the rock,
a roof from the rain,
this underwater investment
still has much to milk.
MERS is now in 60 million homes
and getting bigger...
all the same scam of owner of record.
"Trust in God, you're better off!"
'Any attempt to transfer the beneficial
interest of a trust deed
without ownership
is void by law', hofuckingho.
Welcome to the world of Fanny and Freddy,
BofA, Wells Fargo, SunTrust on and on
until every mortgage is pixelated,
circumventing county records,
no more paper trail.
MOM is now in control,
MERS as Original Mortgage,
mind control by acronyms.
This sounds like Big Brother!
'Any loan registered on the system
is innoculated against future assignments
because MERS remains the nominal mortgagee
no matter how many times
servicing is traded.'
"Those branches are cut into twigs
and mulched into tranches."
Imagine foreclosing on a mysterious mortgage
without the secret eight digit number
known only by MOM.
Makes the subprime rap a little weak.
This scam was devised ten years ago for F and F!
Grey skies suck and so does fraud.
Bush was a smirk playing stupid.
Obama grins and jives.
Who could be next?
Above the Horn.
Inside the Reef.
At home on the Hill.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Counterpunch and Joe Bageant!
0701/2000 82/88 Blue Skies SE 5/10 75%H.
DOGS 10436 7617 1228 1856. LIBOR 23/36.
Greetings from the Hill.
Paradise and blue skies,
swaying palms in the Keys breeze,
classics from Havana
and those lying tits from CNBC...
art without truth!
The oldman took a walk at sunrise,
no room for him on cemetery hill,
have to dig a hole in the garden
and be with his cats.
Mrs. Albury's house empty still,
family contesting a home,
plants and gardens neglected.
While the city builds drains
and fancies sidewalks.
"That no one fucking walks."
The madone was the ranter.
Attending to chores, always housekeeping,
daily duties that made a home,
cats and plants, dishes and cooking,
toast and coffee in the garden...
Internet in the Gazebo!
"Fuck those Internet Cafes."
One of those days when one wants HOPE,
and if no bullshit, maybe TRUTH.
"Dream on oldman, Tom Payne is long dead,
the media creates the interpretation
of 'The American Scheme' with pixels,
the same as 'Shadow Banking',
no one dares to publish a voice
that speaks for the common man,"
the madone was jaded.
The oldman was weary, the laptop connected.
Surfing the same dreary shit.
Market Ticker, Mish and Clusterfuck,
Keysnews, nyt, Asia Times,
Global Research, Globe and Mail,
Reuters and Roubini,
draggy ass bloggers,
and then that jewish rag,
a strange collection of the eclectic,
"Hello, hello, hello...
Make my fucking day,"
finally laughing with delight.
CounterPunch seemed to like Joe Bageant.
The oldman still believed in TRUTH.
Certainly somewhat souring to the imagination
when a greater talent says 'it' better,
can't rip off Uncle Joe, but...
he did email Mad Jack to try a blog,
with pictures and poetry.
"Fanfuckingtastic."
"Now that's 'IT'."
No sense in going on babbling bullshit,
Joebageant.com and Counterpunch.com.
Truth in Art
and Art with Truth.
And Obama is Honest.
A grand day today,
thank you Joe
for being you!
Beyond the Reef,
Above the Horn,
Inside all Honesty.
The Breeze in The Keys.
DOGS 10436 7617 1228 1856. LIBOR 23/36.
Greetings from the Hill.
Paradise and blue skies,
swaying palms in the Keys breeze,
classics from Havana
and those lying tits from CNBC...
art without truth!
The oldman took a walk at sunrise,
no room for him on cemetery hill,
have to dig a hole in the garden
and be with his cats.
Mrs. Albury's house empty still,
family contesting a home,
plants and gardens neglected.
While the city builds drains
and fancies sidewalks.
"That no one fucking walks."
The madone was the ranter.
Attending to chores, always housekeeping,
daily duties that made a home,
cats and plants, dishes and cooking,
toast and coffee in the garden...
Internet in the Gazebo!
"Fuck those Internet Cafes."
One of those days when one wants HOPE,
and if no bullshit, maybe TRUTH.
"Dream on oldman, Tom Payne is long dead,
the media creates the interpretation
of 'The American Scheme' with pixels,
the same as 'Shadow Banking',
no one dares to publish a voice
that speaks for the common man,"
the madone was jaded.
The oldman was weary, the laptop connected.
Surfing the same dreary shit.
Market Ticker, Mish and Clusterfuck,
Keysnews, nyt, Asia Times,
Global Research, Globe and Mail,
Reuters and Roubini,
draggy ass bloggers,
and then that jewish rag,
a strange collection of the eclectic,
"Hello, hello, hello...
Make my fucking day,"
finally laughing with delight.
CounterPunch seemed to like Joe Bageant.
The oldman still believed in TRUTH.
Certainly somewhat souring to the imagination
when a greater talent says 'it' better,
can't rip off Uncle Joe, but...
he did email Mad Jack to try a blog,
with pictures and poetry.
"Fanfuckingtastic."
"Now that's 'IT'."
No sense in going on babbling bullshit,
Joebageant.com and Counterpunch.com.
Truth in Art
and Art with Truth.
And Obama is Honest.
A grand day today,
thank you Joe
for being you!
Beyond the Reef,
Above the Horn,
Inside all Honesty.
The Breeze in The Keys.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
In Praise of Tony.
0700/2003 80/88 Blue Skies E 5/10 85%H
DOGS 10320 7574 1216 1802 LIBOR 23/31
Greetings from the Hill.
A beautiful day in paradise,
the oldman working at the blog,
classics from Havana clear,
CNBC lying in the bedroom,
palm trees hardly swaying...
empty quiet streets,
the painter touching up the front wall.
The old house was lucky to have
someone who made a home
of where he lived.
So many assholes who never cared,
jerkass deadbeats always in debt,
pompous fools presuming
to make the rules...
Pretenders in Paradise.
A lovely fence along the lane,
built by Tony and Love Lane Bill,
encouraged by the Indian Woman,
praised by Doug and Moody,
the latter's home for sale,
a dream house rented
to an empty soul...
who lives alone.
Great dreams and equity schemes
to provide comfort in old age
when 2500 houses sold @ $600,000.00,
five years ago and now
only 400 houses sold @ $300,000.00...
"Hey, suck that up, whore agents
and mortgage pimps," laughs the madone,
growling on the balcony.
"But look at the size of your garden,"
praised Moody before Tony planted
the treasures collected
left on the streets.
The oldman built a golfcourse
on one hundred and fifty acres
of dirt, bare ground, unplanted...
some never live a dream.
Some never have chance to plant.
"Most have no soil in which to toil,"
mused the oldman weary of words.
Things were not as bad as others had,
utilities averaged 700 dollars a month
and payments 2500 dollars according
to a Monroe County fact finder.
The oldman managed on 500 dollars a month,
utilities, maintenance and improvements,
Airhead paid the taxes, as he could.
A home was not a house.
Imagine the hopes of folks to enjoy
if not a vegetable garden
at least a leafy garden
of just green colors
and sunshine tones...
an eyes' delight
for the pleasure of sight.
"Poetry don't pay the bills asshole,
and no one reads the blog,
who gives a fuck about Larry Summers
and Nancy Zimmerman, Harvard geeks
and Hedge Fund Russian bond manipulation
through Goldie Sox derivatives,
another Greek Bumbfuck,
and who cooks the IMF books
while Soros stirs the Rothschild stew,
simmering in the bones of EMU,
as always only one man knew...
Lydon LaRouche EIR
A breeze on the Keys.
No slick yet...
Obama slick shit.
DOGS 10320 7574 1216 1802 LIBOR 23/31
Greetings from the Hill.
A beautiful day in paradise,
the oldman working at the blog,
classics from Havana clear,
CNBC lying in the bedroom,
palm trees hardly swaying...
empty quiet streets,
the painter touching up the front wall.
The old house was lucky to have
someone who made a home
of where he lived.
So many assholes who never cared,
jerkass deadbeats always in debt,
pompous fools presuming
to make the rules...
Pretenders in Paradise.
A lovely fence along the lane,
built by Tony and Love Lane Bill,
encouraged by the Indian Woman,
praised by Doug and Moody,
the latter's home for sale,
a dream house rented
to an empty soul...
who lives alone.
Great dreams and equity schemes
to provide comfort in old age
when 2500 houses sold @ $600,000.00,
five years ago and now
only 400 houses sold @ $300,000.00...
"Hey, suck that up, whore agents
and mortgage pimps," laughs the madone,
growling on the balcony.
"But look at the size of your garden,"
praised Moody before Tony planted
the treasures collected
left on the streets.
The oldman built a golfcourse
on one hundred and fifty acres
of dirt, bare ground, unplanted...
some never live a dream.
Some never have chance to plant.
"Most have no soil in which to toil,"
mused the oldman weary of words.
Things were not as bad as others had,
utilities averaged 700 dollars a month
and payments 2500 dollars according
to a Monroe County fact finder.
The oldman managed on 500 dollars a month,
utilities, maintenance and improvements,
Airhead paid the taxes, as he could.
A home was not a house.
Imagine the hopes of folks to enjoy
if not a vegetable garden
at least a leafy garden
of just green colors
and sunshine tones...
an eyes' delight
for the pleasure of sight.
"Poetry don't pay the bills asshole,
and no one reads the blog,
who gives a fuck about Larry Summers
and Nancy Zimmerman, Harvard geeks
and Hedge Fund Russian bond manipulation
through Goldie Sox derivatives,
another Greek Bumbfuck,
and who cooks the IMF books
while Soros stirs the Rothschild stew,
simmering in the bones of EMU,
as always only one man knew...
Lydon LaRouche EIR
A breeze on the Keys.
No slick yet...
Obama slick shit.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Lying and Dying Summer Nights.
0657/2008 82/88 Cloudy E5/10 75%H.
DOGS 10603,8119,1209,1851.LIBOR 24/41.
Greetings from the Hill.
A sad day in paradise...
Muggsy dying of old age,
not moving from the balcony,
enjoying her last breeze
in the Florida Keys.
Born under the bathtub,
she preferred the second floor.
She was a laptop that purred
with golden eyes of love.
Human eyes are mostly empty
or darting, scheming and lying.
The oldman loved his cats.
"All you can do is comfort her,"
sighs Tony, petting his pal,
encouraging her to drink.
Death sucked, the end of dreams
and memories of the past.
"And life, such a wasted pursuit
following others' schemes,
'The Great American Dream'
such a pathetic joke...
$8,771462133533.12 Deficit,
$4,530175163617.83 Intergovernment,
$13,301637817150.95 Big Total!
Follow the Joker on the Hill!"
A bad week for sleep,
watching and sometimes listening
to the monster in the corner
spewing lies with white teeth
and absurd flirting eyes,
not a male with balls...
the oldman thought of discovering
the creators and producers
of engineered idiocy,
the propaganda to keep
FOOLS FOOLED.
"The Weather Channel with Al,
another Disney jerkoff with
that nasal snot Abrams...
CNN moving to National Enquirer,
Ziggy,s glamour queen daughter with Joe,
then CNBC, pure fucking insanity,
asshole limeys interpreting economics,
experts on 'The City of London' swills,
the perpetrators of derivatives
to mass destruct America...
this engineered chaos through arguement,
domestic bickering on the sillyscreen,
personified confusion and never,
never ever, sensible discourse,
all to create a shitstorm of fear,
the great grey cloud of doubt,"
rages the oldman finishing his juice,
ready for coffee and whole wheat toast,
the winds were fucking with the classics,
it was not a good day to die.
"The mud seems to have filled the hole
and all the oil has disappeared,
Thad has taken command of the crisis
and the President is behind him,
Turdball is banished to Siberia
and that fool from Amoco is in charge
of the global giant...WePeeonYou,"
laughs the madone tending chores
and looking over his favorite cat.
Another beautiful day in paradise,
billowing clouds from Havana
in a cobalt blue sky,
palm leaves swaying,
quiet streets without tradesmen,
repairs and renovations delayed
for another year or two,
gentrification for flippers
had flopped...
"Million dollar mortgages on
five hundred thousand dollar houses,"
laughed Tony bringing up tomatoes
from the backyard garden,
lettuce and peppers grew on the balcony,
strawberries hung from the gable ends,
the idea was self sufficiency.
"What can he do anyway but talk,
he's the inspirational leader
for the people, all the people,
the oppressed, the depressed,
the unemployed and homeless
as well as billionaires,
and commander in chief...
that hat sucks because he ain't
what he pretends to be,"
snorted the gardener on his way,
riding about town at high noon
looking for treasures while
picking up beer for the blogist.
The oldman wondered if something good
might come from this financial crisis,
perhaps a lesson from 'The Way We Were',
but he knew different, been there before...
The Invisible Hands of Corporations,
a conspiracy book for the curious
about the olden days of 'The Company'
when an owner with bosses and thugs
allowed no snotnosed union...
the Depression and Communism bred unions
helped by leftist academics and politicians
then engulfed by war and isolationism,
Victory Bonds and women welding,
until the crippled returned...
Peace and the UN with VHA loans,
a picture window and new car
with a kid who becomes a jerk.
Everyone liked Ike then loved Camelot,
LBJ passed Civil Rights and went to war
and the seeds of government corruption
grew to deadly nightshades
in Tricky Dicky's Rose Garden.
Veterans mocked and disdained
as warriors in 'The Longest War'.
Forty years ago, before a SUV,
a cellphone or Plasma TV.
And really where are we...
still too blind to see.
Too deaf from DEBT.
"And the American Public refinanced
at record levels this week."
gushes a talking tits on CNBC."
Love those bank fees.
"Do you think those assholes
will keep up their payments,"
wondered a gambler in financing
the world of the 'little lady'
who loved her white goods,
never suspecting who controlled
the budget priorities of the household,
while Alan Greenspan was finger fucking
Ayn Rand and playing in a band.
"Who the fuck could have imagined,"
laughed Robert Rubin after suckering
the biggest asshole on the Hill,
"Gee, gosh...Just plain Bill."
That fellow who transferred social security
excess funds into general slush,
then lying about the intergovernment loan,
bullshitting all these years
believing his own lies,
a legend for fundraisers,
one wonders what happened to
Georgie Boy's Rangers,
another hustler on the book tour
and sure to be a commentator
on Rupert's Republican Channel.
"One big fucking sideshow with
senators as dancing fools for bucks,
congressmen drooling for fucks,
and the executive branch broken,
the biggest horse's asses,
making corporations human...
about as stupid as a market
that has a life,"
growled the oldman
popping a Miller's pint.
"Hey, maybe companies are hoarding
to avoid banks of all kinds,
circumvent the thieves
and let them eat their own shit."
How ironic that states might do the same.
"Not very likely when the FRBNY
is the holder of all things FIAT."
Such a mess beyond the understanding
of a curious oldman.
Taking the breeze
in the Florida Keys.
Praying for Muggsy.
DOGS 10603,8119,1209,1851.LIBOR 24/41.
Greetings from the Hill.
A sad day in paradise...
Muggsy dying of old age,
not moving from the balcony,
enjoying her last breeze
in the Florida Keys.
Born under the bathtub,
she preferred the second floor.
She was a laptop that purred
with golden eyes of love.
Human eyes are mostly empty
or darting, scheming and lying.
The oldman loved his cats.
"All you can do is comfort her,"
sighs Tony, petting his pal,
encouraging her to drink.
Death sucked, the end of dreams
and memories of the past.
"And life, such a wasted pursuit
following others' schemes,
'The Great American Dream'
such a pathetic joke...
$8,771462133533.12 Deficit,
$4,530175163617.83 Intergovernment,
$13,301637817150.95 Big Total!
Follow the Joker on the Hill!"
A bad week for sleep,
watching and sometimes listening
to the monster in the corner
spewing lies with white teeth
and absurd flirting eyes,
not a male with balls...
the oldman thought of discovering
the creators and producers
of engineered idiocy,
the propaganda to keep
FOOLS FOOLED.
"The Weather Channel with Al,
another Disney jerkoff with
that nasal snot Abrams...
CNN moving to National Enquirer,
Ziggy,s glamour queen daughter with Joe,
then CNBC, pure fucking insanity,
asshole limeys interpreting economics,
experts on 'The City of London' swills,
the perpetrators of derivatives
to mass destruct America...
this engineered chaos through arguement,
domestic bickering on the sillyscreen,
personified confusion and never,
never ever, sensible discourse,
all to create a shitstorm of fear,
the great grey cloud of doubt,"
rages the oldman finishing his juice,
ready for coffee and whole wheat toast,
the winds were fucking with the classics,
it was not a good day to die.
"The mud seems to have filled the hole
and all the oil has disappeared,
Thad has taken command of the crisis
and the President is behind him,
Turdball is banished to Siberia
and that fool from Amoco is in charge
of the global giant...WePeeonYou,"
laughs the madone tending chores
and looking over his favorite cat.
Another beautiful day in paradise,
billowing clouds from Havana
in a cobalt blue sky,
palm leaves swaying,
quiet streets without tradesmen,
repairs and renovations delayed
for another year or two,
gentrification for flippers
had flopped...
"Million dollar mortgages on
five hundred thousand dollar houses,"
laughed Tony bringing up tomatoes
from the backyard garden,
lettuce and peppers grew on the balcony,
strawberries hung from the gable ends,
the idea was self sufficiency.
"What can he do anyway but talk,
he's the inspirational leader
for the people, all the people,
the oppressed, the depressed,
the unemployed and homeless
as well as billionaires,
and commander in chief...
that hat sucks because he ain't
what he pretends to be,"
snorted the gardener on his way,
riding about town at high noon
looking for treasures while
picking up beer for the blogist.
The oldman wondered if something good
might come from this financial crisis,
perhaps a lesson from 'The Way We Were',
but he knew different, been there before...
The Invisible Hands of Corporations,
a conspiracy book for the curious
about the olden days of 'The Company'
when an owner with bosses and thugs
allowed no snotnosed union...
the Depression and Communism bred unions
helped by leftist academics and politicians
then engulfed by war and isolationism,
Victory Bonds and women welding,
until the crippled returned...
Peace and the UN with VHA loans,
a picture window and new car
with a kid who becomes a jerk.
Everyone liked Ike then loved Camelot,
LBJ passed Civil Rights and went to war
and the seeds of government corruption
grew to deadly nightshades
in Tricky Dicky's Rose Garden.
Veterans mocked and disdained
as warriors in 'The Longest War'.
Forty years ago, before a SUV,
a cellphone or Plasma TV.
And really where are we...
still too blind to see.
Too deaf from DEBT.
"And the American Public refinanced
at record levels this week."
gushes a talking tits on CNBC."
Love those bank fees.
"Do you think those assholes
will keep up their payments,"
wondered a gambler in financing
the world of the 'little lady'
who loved her white goods,
never suspecting who controlled
the budget priorities of the household,
while Alan Greenspan was finger fucking
Ayn Rand and playing in a band.
"Who the fuck could have imagined,"
laughed Robert Rubin after suckering
the biggest asshole on the Hill,
"Gee, gosh...Just plain Bill."
That fellow who transferred social security
excess funds into general slush,
then lying about the intergovernment loan,
bullshitting all these years
believing his own lies,
a legend for fundraisers,
one wonders what happened to
Georgie Boy's Rangers,
another hustler on the book tour
and sure to be a commentator
on Rupert's Republican Channel.
"One big fucking sideshow with
senators as dancing fools for bucks,
congressmen drooling for fucks,
and the executive branch broken,
the biggest horse's asses,
making corporations human...
about as stupid as a market
that has a life,"
growled the oldman
popping a Miller's pint.
"Hey, maybe companies are hoarding
to avoid banks of all kinds,
circumvent the thieves
and let them eat their own shit."
How ironic that states might do the same.
"Not very likely when the FRBNY
is the holder of all things FIAT."
Such a mess beyond the understanding
of a curious oldman.
Taking the breeze
in the Florida Keys.
Praying for Muggsy.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Summertime Madness.
0651/2015 82/88 Blue Skies SE10/20 70%H
DOGS 10424 7897 1189 1118. LIBOR .25.
Greetings from the Hill.
A beautiful day in paradise,
the oldman still crippled and housebound,
a morning walk up Love Lane,
the extent of exercise,
a battle against atrophy.
Five computers all WIFI,
"No drain to the brain,"
laughs the madone
enjoying a fantasy
come true.
The house was fully loaded,
prepared for the war
by the Street Cheaters,
the Middle Class Eaters,
FrankandDodds Deceit,
and Barry Obama.
Could the public be stupid,
the unwashed masses as ignorant
as the consuming cash cows
paying Citi thirty percent,
to avoid default and foreclosure
while Goldman bets on failure,
routing the game through
House Hedges, SLKHull, SigmaX,
AXE ECN....REDIPLUS...
Hofuckingho.
"What the fuck are ECN's,"
pissed with machines that only
the high and mighty could buy
and control the numbers
of billion share trading days
and own the clearing houses
of low life equities,
when the quadrillion dollar market,
those bets on bets on bets
in The WorldWide Casino,
Billy O'Brien, the newest snotfuck,
managing mafia of derivatives,
"Dream on whiteboy..Triads murder."
Fucking with the Chinese waters
playing wargames while losing
in Afghanistan, lost in Iraq,
quagmired at home...
another phoney commander in chief,
three cheats in a row
never a leader of men,
twenty years of talking fools,
money raising tools
for the trading traitors.
"Piss a pure patriot fucking off,
where's that Jim Webb,"
growled the oldman,
sipping a pint,
sucking a rollup,
raining outside, classics inside,
Lord of the Rings on TV,
Big Mac humming,
laptops on in the west wing,
the artist below
working on his paintings,
the house at home.
Thunder in paradise
with a light show of lightning.
Lightning, the cat, bounds into the bedroom.
"Who did this," wonders Tony,
tired of computer games,
the rain leaking on his TV,
his garden green.
"Bill Clinton and Robert Rubin,
Alan Greenspan and Wendy Gramm,
Larry Summers and Larry Fink,
Henry Kissinger and Pete Petersen,
Hank Paulson and George Bushes,"
laughed the oldman,
"and that kike from AIG and CFR.
All too much to understand.
Gambling against losses
when the faith has gone,
the hope a leaking boat,
the SS Obombus.
Believing in an unbeliever,
faith in a fraud.
Gullibles Travels.
And the oil leaks
and no one freaks.
Leaderless.
A rainy day in the Keys.
n a fantasy
DOGS 10424 7897 1189 1118. LIBOR .25.
Greetings from the Hill.
A beautiful day in paradise,
the oldman still crippled and housebound,
a morning walk up Love Lane,
the extent of exercise,
a battle against atrophy.
Five computers all WIFI,
"No drain to the brain,"
laughs the madone
enjoying a fantasy
come true.
The house was fully loaded,
prepared for the war
by the Street Cheaters,
the Middle Class Eaters,
FrankandDodds Deceit,
and Barry Obama.
Could the public be stupid,
the unwashed masses as ignorant
as the consuming cash cows
paying Citi thirty percent,
to avoid default and foreclosure
while Goldman bets on failure,
routing the game through
House Hedges, SLKHull, SigmaX,
AXE ECN....REDIPLUS...
Hofuckingho.
"What the fuck are ECN's,"
pissed with machines that only
the high and mighty could buy
and control the numbers
of billion share trading days
and own the clearing houses
of low life equities,
when the quadrillion dollar market,
those bets on bets on bets
in The WorldWide Casino,
Billy O'Brien, the newest snotfuck,
managing mafia of derivatives,
"Dream on whiteboy..Triads murder."
Fucking with the Chinese waters
playing wargames while losing
in Afghanistan, lost in Iraq,
quagmired at home...
another phoney commander in chief,
three cheats in a row
never a leader of men,
twenty years of talking fools,
money raising tools
for the trading traitors.
"Piss a pure patriot fucking off,
where's that Jim Webb,"
growled the oldman,
sipping a pint,
sucking a rollup,
raining outside, classics inside,
Lord of the Rings on TV,
Big Mac humming,
laptops on in the west wing,
the artist below
working on his paintings,
the house at home.
Thunder in paradise
with a light show of lightning.
Lightning, the cat, bounds into the bedroom.
"Who did this," wonders Tony,
tired of computer games,
the rain leaking on his TV,
his garden green.
"Bill Clinton and Robert Rubin,
Alan Greenspan and Wendy Gramm,
Larry Summers and Larry Fink,
Henry Kissinger and Pete Petersen,
Hank Paulson and George Bushes,"
laughed the oldman,
"and that kike from AIG and CFR.
All too much to understand.
Gambling against losses
when the faith has gone,
the hope a leaking boat,
the SS Obombus.
Believing in an unbeliever,
faith in a fraud.
Gullibles Travels.
And the oil leaks
and no one freaks.
Leaderless.
A rainy day in the Keys.
n a fantasy
Monday, June 21, 2010
63 Days and Still Gushing!
0638/2018 80/90 Cloudy E 15/25 80%H
DOGS 10502 7880 1259 1926. LIBOR .30.
Greetings from the Hill.
A cool morning at eighty degrees
with thunder and showers,
notes and breakfast
on the balcony...
life in the tropics.
News from the gulf states distressing
as once again Washington waits,
rigs close down,businesses fail,
Corexit kills all ocean life
sinking the dead out of sight...
a product of Exxon after Valdez,
bury all evidence and shred the proof,
all rotting corruption.
Obama does nothing but posture,
another pathetic effete
pretending to be a leader,
no experience as a man...
at least Kostner does something
"This is the time to change
Cheney's Energy Policy,
and the 'Big Oil Corruption',
a time for real Change,"
dreams Redford to Larry King,
raising dead bird money,
Haiti ignored and forgotten,
alone to face the hurricanes.
Another sleezeball protects BP,
Jamie Gorelick, government traitor,
mouthpiece for the highest price,
whore for hire.
My good friend John keeps me aware...
a bumper sticker,
'Pray for Obama Psalm 109.8'
"Let his days be few;
and let another take his office."
T shirts and bumper stickers
are the stuff of CHANGE.
Summer and ninety two degrees
in oil free Florida Keys.
Above the Horn.
Inside the Reef.
DOGS 10502 7880 1259 1926. LIBOR .30.
Greetings from the Hill.
A cool morning at eighty degrees
with thunder and showers,
notes and breakfast
on the balcony...
life in the tropics.
News from the gulf states distressing
as once again Washington waits,
rigs close down,businesses fail,
Corexit kills all ocean life
sinking the dead out of sight...
a product of Exxon after Valdez,
bury all evidence and shred the proof,
all rotting corruption.
Obama does nothing but posture,
another pathetic effete
pretending to be a leader,
no experience as a man...
at least Kostner does something
"This is the time to change
Cheney's Energy Policy,
and the 'Big Oil Corruption',
a time for real Change,"
dreams Redford to Larry King,
raising dead bird money,
Haiti ignored and forgotten,
alone to face the hurricanes.
Another sleezeball protects BP,
Jamie Gorelick, government traitor,
mouthpiece for the highest price,
whore for hire.
My good friend John keeps me aware...
a bumper sticker,
'Pray for Obama Psalm 109.8'
"Let his days be few;
and let another take his office."
T shirts and bumper stickers
are the stuff of CHANGE.
Summer and ninety two degrees
in oil free Florida Keys.
Above the Horn.
Inside the Reef.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
BP Slick and Obama Shit.
0636 2015 82/90 W 5/10 Blue Skies 80%H.
DOGS 9868 7200 1247 1834. LIBOR 0.30.
Greetings from the Hill.
A hot day in paradise,
empty streets and a few renovations,
"She owns a few around town,
got it for six ninety five,"
rolling his eyes at life...
sold for 1.5M in 2007,
renovated and offered at 2.5M,
touched the big 3M and died,
with the contractors dream.
Walking through quiet streets,
passing Paradise Cafe..closed,
a bad summer for business.
"Good Morning," smiles the lady
at the Electric Company,
cold and refreshing
before the six blocks back.
Something was getting worse,
that ominous feeling of disaster,
economic, environmental, and next...
"Emotional eruptions and Madness,"
grumbles the madone quite familiar
with intellectual turmoil,
tending the balcony plants.
"What will it smell like by august,
why is nothing being done,"
asks the reporter to the jawboner,
baffling with bullshit,
changing nothing.
"All fucking idiocy...
developers want another Sunset Key,
thirty multimillion dollar homes
in the gulf harbor...
new twenty million dollar offices
for the overweight and overpaid,
financial fucking suicide,"
growls the gardener at noon,
monitoring the backyard sprinkler.
Divert the crisis with a disaster,
avoid prosecuting the fraudsters
to pursue civil action against BP,
all total nonesense and a rerun,
force a company into bankruptcy
then bail it out after the calamity,
ecological murder not prosecuted
and the truth again hidden.
"Where are the financial geniuses
directing their prowess into answers,
great at skimming money but not
an oil slick, not for the greater good,
a pitiful collection of parasites
functioning only as pixel makers,
put the pricks skimming the Gulf,"
sighs the oldman giving up Hope.
"There isn't any money for Fema,
the National Guard playing war,
Federal and State income down
twenty percent, like employment,
and now Hurricane Season...
God's revenge against greed
and the ugly American,
all on the watch
of Slick Barry."
The oldman was thirsty,
too disgusted with the situation,
three years on the slide down
to financial parity
with the past,
a scam of the Federal Reserve
through inflation of a nation,
but not globalization,
Yummies for yellow tummies...
Saunders is rolling.
Time for a beer in the gazebo.
This sort of shit takes attention,
reading significant blogs,
searching for the voice of Truth,
finding nothing but repetition,
fools trusting Google...
a chorus line of mimics,
no significant sarcasm
in the censored society,
Burger King on granite tops.
"Yeah, yeah,blame 'it' on the limeys,
Blankfein or Rothschild, maybe Mack,
perhaps both Paulsons and Bernanke,
a currency plot by Soros enabled
by chinese gold reserves to devalue
the US dollar and Treasury bonds,
or simply a Federal Reserve method
of greening the Toxic with ZIRP
for a few years of recession,
dumping the debt into the shadow market,
washing the Wall Street dirt
from the paper,"
snorts the madone pissed with MSNBC,
especially Greenspan's wife,
all fast talking cunts.
Watching without sound.
Life without the sound of commercials,
the ringing of cash registers,
the scanning of a plastic card,
pixels in the magical magnetic core
of VISA....the secret.
Charging towards a balanced budget,
deficit free financing....
paying off the National Debt,
"Hofuckingho, those were
'the good old days'...
before Gloria got pregnant,"
All in the Family reruns
and the long hot summer,
doldrums and deadbirds,
sinking real estate,
a monster from the African coast,
raging through the Carribean
into the spewing plume
beneath the Gulf
airbrushing black
the Gold Coast homes.
Of course AIG insures all.
"Does anyone know
who's running the show?"
A runaway train,
a hijacked plane.
Disappearing money
and an uncorked gusher.
Above the Horn,
beyond the reef.
Time for another walk.
DOGS 9868 7200 1247 1834. LIBOR 0.30.
Greetings from the Hill.
A hot day in paradise,
empty streets and a few renovations,
"She owns a few around town,
got it for six ninety five,"
rolling his eyes at life...
sold for 1.5M in 2007,
renovated and offered at 2.5M,
touched the big 3M and died,
with the contractors dream.
Walking through quiet streets,
passing Paradise Cafe..closed,
a bad summer for business.
"Good Morning," smiles the lady
at the Electric Company,
cold and refreshing
before the six blocks back.
Something was getting worse,
that ominous feeling of disaster,
economic, environmental, and next...
"Emotional eruptions and Madness,"
grumbles the madone quite familiar
with intellectual turmoil,
tending the balcony plants.
"What will it smell like by august,
why is nothing being done,"
asks the reporter to the jawboner,
baffling with bullshit,
changing nothing.
"All fucking idiocy...
developers want another Sunset Key,
thirty multimillion dollar homes
in the gulf harbor...
new twenty million dollar offices
for the overweight and overpaid,
financial fucking suicide,"
growls the gardener at noon,
monitoring the backyard sprinkler.
Divert the crisis with a disaster,
avoid prosecuting the fraudsters
to pursue civil action against BP,
all total nonesense and a rerun,
force a company into bankruptcy
then bail it out after the calamity,
ecological murder not prosecuted
and the truth again hidden.
"Where are the financial geniuses
directing their prowess into answers,
great at skimming money but not
an oil slick, not for the greater good,
a pitiful collection of parasites
functioning only as pixel makers,
put the pricks skimming the Gulf,"
sighs the oldman giving up Hope.
"There isn't any money for Fema,
the National Guard playing war,
Federal and State income down
twenty percent, like employment,
and now Hurricane Season...
God's revenge against greed
and the ugly American,
all on the watch
of Slick Barry."
The oldman was thirsty,
too disgusted with the situation,
three years on the slide down
to financial parity
with the past,
a scam of the Federal Reserve
through inflation of a nation,
but not globalization,
Yummies for yellow tummies...
Saunders is rolling.
Time for a beer in the gazebo.
This sort of shit takes attention,
reading significant blogs,
searching for the voice of Truth,
finding nothing but repetition,
fools trusting Google...
a chorus line of mimics,
no significant sarcasm
in the censored society,
Burger King on granite tops.
"Yeah, yeah,blame 'it' on the limeys,
Blankfein or Rothschild, maybe Mack,
perhaps both Paulsons and Bernanke,
a currency plot by Soros enabled
by chinese gold reserves to devalue
the US dollar and Treasury bonds,
or simply a Federal Reserve method
of greening the Toxic with ZIRP
for a few years of recession,
dumping the debt into the shadow market,
washing the Wall Street dirt
from the paper,"
snorts the madone pissed with MSNBC,
especially Greenspan's wife,
all fast talking cunts.
Watching without sound.
Life without the sound of commercials,
the ringing of cash registers,
the scanning of a plastic card,
pixels in the magical magnetic core
of VISA....the secret.
Charging towards a balanced budget,
deficit free financing....
paying off the National Debt,
"Hofuckingho, those were
'the good old days'...
before Gloria got pregnant,"
All in the Family reruns
and the long hot summer,
doldrums and deadbirds,
sinking real estate,
a monster from the African coast,
raging through the Carribean
into the spewing plume
beneath the Gulf
airbrushing black
the Gold Coast homes.
Of course AIG insures all.
"Does anyone know
who's running the show?"
A runaway train,
a hijacked plane.
Disappearing money
and an uncorked gusher.
Above the Horn,
beyond the reef.
Time for another walk.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Summertime Blues.
0639 2008 78/85 Blue Skies E 5/10 60%H
DOGS 10174 7396 1215 1815. LIBOR 30.6. VIX 30.4.
Greetings from the Hill.
A perfect day in paradise,
chores done and a walk to Faustos.
Blue skies and Poincianna blooming,
a light breeze in the florida keys,
quiet streets without trucks...
gentrification in recession.
The oldman had rearranged his quarters,
Big Mac in the bedroom with CNBC,
classics and jazz in the study,
the guestroom empty,
the presidents room in disarray,
the artist leaving for elsewhere.
Summertime without cashflow.
And the dreaded change.
Big Mac out of memory.
Shit and a slick
all at once.
cuban oregano plants burgeoning
on the balcony...
always a balance to confusion.
Out back the master carpenter
is planing Pensacola pine boards
for frames complimenting his art,
"He waits until he leaves,"
grumbles the madone,
never liking change.
A month away from world obsessions
and what has changed but topics,
the fright of the day,
the dread of overnight
trading losses...
"A computer gone Mad,"
laughs the oldman,
gazing at Moony's folly
across the alley,
gentrification gone sad,
the daughter lost,
the old man hospitalized,
an empty dream.
The nation ready to explode,
major cities preparing bankruptcy,
bonds all shorted by the Fraudsters,
all renegotiated without the DEBT...
fuck highrider pensions,
all very strange with the unionman
on the board of the FRBNY.
Running out of power.
Blue skies in paradise.
DOGS 10174 7396 1215 1815. LIBOR 30.6. VIX 30.4.
Greetings from the Hill.
A perfect day in paradise,
chores done and a walk to Faustos.
Blue skies and Poincianna blooming,
a light breeze in the florida keys,
quiet streets without trucks...
gentrification in recession.
The oldman had rearranged his quarters,
Big Mac in the bedroom with CNBC,
classics and jazz in the study,
the guestroom empty,
the presidents room in disarray,
the artist leaving for elsewhere.
Summertime without cashflow.
And the dreaded change.
Big Mac out of memory.
Shit and a slick
all at once.
cuban oregano plants burgeoning
on the balcony...
always a balance to confusion.
Out back the master carpenter
is planing Pensacola pine boards
for frames complimenting his art,
"He waits until he leaves,"
grumbles the madone,
never liking change.
A month away from world obsessions
and what has changed but topics,
the fright of the day,
the dread of overnight
trading losses...
"A computer gone Mad,"
laughs the oldman,
gazing at Moony's folly
across the alley,
gentrification gone sad,
the daughter lost,
the old man hospitalized,
an empty dream.
The nation ready to explode,
major cities preparing bankruptcy,
bonds all shorted by the Fraudsters,
all renegotiated without the DEBT...
fuck highrider pensions,
all very strange with the unionman
on the board of the FRBNY.
Running out of power.
Blue skies in paradise.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Springtime in Paradise.
0655/1954 70/80 Blue Skies E10/20 70%H
DOGS 11160 8437 1153 1816 LIBOR .251
Greetings from the Hill.
Swaying palm trees and sleeping cats,
classics and cafe con leche,
brunch on the balcony,
a quiet day...
Garden watered, floors swept, dishes done,
chores to keep alive.
An oldman's exercise to survive.
Another week of lies from cheats,
who do not break a law of course
hiring the makers for breakers,
"Derivatives are bets...",
of course, of course,
not insurance, not gaming,
an unregulated contract
that is cleared by the DTCC,
how most peculiar.
"What if...we created a thing
which has no purpose,
absolutely conceptual, highly theoretical,
and which no one knows
how to price 'it'."
A confiscated email from Mister Fab.
"When you are going down the Shit Shoot,
who greased your ass?"
Traders are traitors,
blame 'it' on a frog!
"The quantitative aspirations of economists
and financial analysts have for many years
been based on the belief that
'it' should be possible to build models
of economic systems as predictive
as those in physics...
Random Thermal Noise,
Gaussian Distribution of Fluctuations,
the Bell Curve...
the Black Scholes formula of option trading
capturing all contingencies
and probabilities of Risk...
hohofuckingho,
except when the free market is rigged
for gangsters lke John Paulson
by Lloyd Blankfein,"
roars the madone,
a pretender in paradise.
Bought through the front door,
hedged through the side door,
shorted out the back door,
winnings offshore.
Not a cop to stop
the banksters.
Obama is a sissy,
shameful effete,
all talk no walk.
The oldman would take the walk...
to the garden and wonder,
"Mental masturbation
is a writer's tool,"
sorting out the subconscious,
hidden mazes of the covered mind,
patterns of behavior disguised
not to be recognized,
laughing masks protecting
the fragility of the heart,
a caustic wit to save the soul...
too much catharsis could make
the imagination anorexic,
troubling thoughts to presume
one might comprehend a society,
the ways of man seeded
in the fields of greed,
endeavoring to understand the greatest
financial crisis in history and
the complicated methods
of the perpetrators
of monetary fraud.
"Shoot the fucking lawyers,
that eliminates politicians as well,"
laughs Alger with a treat.
"How bad can 'it' get,
what is left to steal...
all the Debt,"
laughing at the Truth
and lighting
God's gift.
Nothing would Change,
there is no Hope
with a jive talking dope,
shit in a smoothie.
A beautiful breeze
in the florida keys.
Above the Horn.
High on the Hill.
DOGS 11160 8437 1153 1816 LIBOR .251
Greetings from the Hill.
Swaying palm trees and sleeping cats,
classics and cafe con leche,
brunch on the balcony,
a quiet day...
Garden watered, floors swept, dishes done,
chores to keep alive.
An oldman's exercise to survive.
Another week of lies from cheats,
who do not break a law of course
hiring the makers for breakers,
"Derivatives are bets...",
of course, of course,
not insurance, not gaming,
an unregulated contract
that is cleared by the DTCC,
how most peculiar.
"What if...we created a thing
which has no purpose,
absolutely conceptual, highly theoretical,
and which no one knows
how to price 'it'."
A confiscated email from Mister Fab.
"When you are going down the Shit Shoot,
who greased your ass?"
Traders are traitors,
blame 'it' on a frog!
"The quantitative aspirations of economists
and financial analysts have for many years
been based on the belief that
'it' should be possible to build models
of economic systems as predictive
as those in physics...
Random Thermal Noise,
Gaussian Distribution of Fluctuations,
the Bell Curve...
the Black Scholes formula of option trading
capturing all contingencies
and probabilities of Risk...
hohofuckingho,
except when the free market is rigged
for gangsters lke John Paulson
by Lloyd Blankfein,"
roars the madone,
a pretender in paradise.
Bought through the front door,
hedged through the side door,
shorted out the back door,
winnings offshore.
Not a cop to stop
the banksters.
Obama is a sissy,
shameful effete,
all talk no walk.
The oldman would take the walk...
to the garden and wonder,
"Mental masturbation
is a writer's tool,"
sorting out the subconscious,
hidden mazes of the covered mind,
patterns of behavior disguised
not to be recognized,
laughing masks protecting
the fragility of the heart,
a caustic wit to save the soul...
too much catharsis could make
the imagination anorexic,
troubling thoughts to presume
one might comprehend a society,
the ways of man seeded
in the fields of greed,
endeavoring to understand the greatest
financial crisis in history and
the complicated methods
of the perpetrators
of monetary fraud.
"Shoot the fucking lawyers,
that eliminates politicians as well,"
laughs Alger with a treat.
"How bad can 'it' get,
what is left to steal...
all the Debt,"
laughing at the Truth
and lighting
God's gift.
Nothing would Change,
there is no Hope
with a jive talking dope,
shit in a smoothie.
A beautiful breeze
in the florida keys.
Above the Horn.
High on the Hill.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Freddie Couples and Loving Couples.
0709/1946 72/82 E5/10 Blue Skies 75%H
DOGS 10965 8484 1160 1839 LIBOR .228.
Greetings from the Hill.
Another beautiful day in paradise,
golf on one side and classics the other,
blue skies and swaying palms...
spring and summer have arrived
with seventies and eighties
and a light sheet at night
for the open window breeze.
"Well, oldman..about time for a rant,
you may be free for a year,
but the nation you love
is deeper in financial shit,
thanks to the phony professor
in the White House,"
grumbles the madone
watering the balcony plants.
The oldman mused about the performance
of Barryboy and his oratory art,
a form of political evangelizing
that had the faithful swaying
and the doubters braying...
the middle class back to praying,
a subtle form of change
for the might of the religious right.
"The Prick canceled National Prayer Day
while letting Ragheads congregate
in front of Lincoln..."
steamed the Obama hater on the balcony.
Definitely a hidden agenda,
this warmongering Peace Prize winner
oozes false enthusiasm encouraging
"And a round of applause for..."
another of his toadies,
a toastmaster of bullshit.
The oldman sighed and accepted the con,
Ingratiating cheerleaders on the sidelines.
Most marriages aren't made in heaven,
but through EHarmony.com,
but for those exceptional few,
those couples not fake or opaque,
but transparent in honesty
and the true love
of soulmates.
"No lying eyes, no cheating hearts,
true love from heaven above,
real American couples
exuding happiness...
after editing,"
chuckles the oldman,
approaching his A game.
"And we are coming up to
the final pairings,"
intones the idiot announcer
with hush hush ostentation
for for fools who bang balls
"And bang their balls,"
interjects the madone
mocking the man who took
'The Gentle Path'
to understand his
sexual aberrations
for white girls,
the promiscuous kind,
the wild sort.
"I don't know why that boy
didn't just have oral sex...
that's not intercourse,
why..ask Hillary,"
grinned that shifty
Billy Blythe.
Always close to the Truth.
A good spokesman for business,
and acting helps in politics,
Ronnie was the best but
Arnold looks like he was shot
or has a California cucumber
up his ass and his wife
looks like a Kennedy in drag,
spokespersons for default
on every imaginable bond
from the eighth largest economy
in the world..."Hello, hello,
Dumb, Stupid, Retarded...
allfuckingthree,"
snorts the oldman to Big Mac.
So comforting to know that some
politicians are honest about sex
but not the incestuous finance
of Freddie and Fannie,
or the menage a trois
with Ginnie Mae.
"That sputtering queer
covering up the Fraud,
the Fed in bed with the
'naked shorters',
Little Ben and Tiny Tim
peaking through the window
of opportunity at discount,"
snorting and getting thirsty,
too weak to walk.
Time to take the shade
in the garden
for beautiful thoughts.
"The Devil is out of the golf bag,
no pretty lovely blonde is safe,
big stick, big dick...
take your Gatorade..
'Is it in you',
great ad, Pepsi Cola,
hofuckingho, on with the show,
and the largest female audience
in television history...
every thing works out
in...America,"
thinking about all those
forgiving wives
until the time arrives.
Quiet streets and empty parking spaces,
no weekend repairs, no nothing,
no weekend drunks at three,
the Recession was Back!
"Imagine if the Fraudsters couldn't cheat,
professional golf, no handicap,
no mulligans, no kick out of the rough,
and noooo side bets covered
by a partner or rich caddy,
no snakey ass lawyer moving markers,
changing cup placement,
not raking traps,
scuffing the greens...
a game of honest gentlemen,"
wonders the oldman sadly,
knowing that 'if there is no law
against 'it', then do 'it'
is the prevailing behavior
of players of all American games,
be it golf, sex or the market.
"Tiger cheated on his wife,
tainted his children
and embarrassed his mother,
Earl would have broken
all of his fingers,"
growled the madone.
"How's Freddie hitting them,"
asks Fred from Portland,
on the MagicJack,
"Is Lee still first on the tee?",
inquires Cousin Terry's
scottish wife...
funning on an email,
"I like Phil,"
giggles Patricia,
watching in the bedroom.
A day of Change.
"It's a different world,
the complexity is awesome,
reaching far beyond our capacities,"
the senile old shit getting
his comeuppance on CSPAN
from Brooksly Born,
Greenspan was right
seventy percent of the time,
"Put that on margin."
Tiger was lurking in the short grass.
Phil had lost his thrill.
Hardly a breeze
in the fabulous florida keys.
Above the Horn.
DOGS 10965 8484 1160 1839 LIBOR .228.
Greetings from the Hill.
Another beautiful day in paradise,
golf on one side and classics the other,
blue skies and swaying palms...
spring and summer have arrived
with seventies and eighties
and a light sheet at night
for the open window breeze.
"Well, oldman..about time for a rant,
you may be free for a year,
but the nation you love
is deeper in financial shit,
thanks to the phony professor
in the White House,"
grumbles the madone
watering the balcony plants.
The oldman mused about the performance
of Barryboy and his oratory art,
a form of political evangelizing
that had the faithful swaying
and the doubters braying...
the middle class back to praying,
a subtle form of change
for the might of the religious right.
"The Prick canceled National Prayer Day
while letting Ragheads congregate
in front of Lincoln..."
steamed the Obama hater on the balcony.
Definitely a hidden agenda,
this warmongering Peace Prize winner
oozes false enthusiasm encouraging
"And a round of applause for..."
another of his toadies,
a toastmaster of bullshit.
The oldman sighed and accepted the con,
Ingratiating cheerleaders on the sidelines.
Most marriages aren't made in heaven,
but through EHarmony.com,
but for those exceptional few,
those couples not fake or opaque,
but transparent in honesty
and the true love
of soulmates.
"No lying eyes, no cheating hearts,
true love from heaven above,
real American couples
exuding happiness...
after editing,"
chuckles the oldman,
approaching his A game.
"And we are coming up to
the final pairings,"
intones the idiot announcer
with hush hush ostentation
for for fools who bang balls
"And bang their balls,"
interjects the madone
mocking the man who took
'The Gentle Path'
to understand his
sexual aberrations
for white girls,
the promiscuous kind,
the wild sort.
"I don't know why that boy
didn't just have oral sex...
that's not intercourse,
why..ask Hillary,"
grinned that shifty
Billy Blythe.
Always close to the Truth.
A good spokesman for business,
and acting helps in politics,
Ronnie was the best but
Arnold looks like he was shot
or has a California cucumber
up his ass and his wife
looks like a Kennedy in drag,
spokespersons for default
on every imaginable bond
from the eighth largest economy
in the world..."Hello, hello,
Dumb, Stupid, Retarded...
allfuckingthree,"
snorts the oldman to Big Mac.
So comforting to know that some
politicians are honest about sex
but not the incestuous finance
of Freddie and Fannie,
or the menage a trois
with Ginnie Mae.
"That sputtering queer
covering up the Fraud,
the Fed in bed with the
'naked shorters',
Little Ben and Tiny Tim
peaking through the window
of opportunity at discount,"
snorting and getting thirsty,
too weak to walk.
Time to take the shade
in the garden
for beautiful thoughts.
"The Devil is out of the golf bag,
no pretty lovely blonde is safe,
big stick, big dick...
take your Gatorade..
'Is it in you',
great ad, Pepsi Cola,
hofuckingho, on with the show,
and the largest female audience
in television history...
every thing works out
in...America,"
thinking about all those
forgiving wives
until the time arrives.
Quiet streets and empty parking spaces,
no weekend repairs, no nothing,
no weekend drunks at three,
the Recession was Back!
"Imagine if the Fraudsters couldn't cheat,
professional golf, no handicap,
no mulligans, no kick out of the rough,
and noooo side bets covered
by a partner or rich caddy,
no snakey ass lawyer moving markers,
changing cup placement,
not raking traps,
scuffing the greens...
a game of honest gentlemen,"
wonders the oldman sadly,
knowing that 'if there is no law
against 'it', then do 'it'
is the prevailing behavior
of players of all American games,
be it golf, sex or the market.
"Tiger cheated on his wife,
tainted his children
and embarrassed his mother,
Earl would have broken
all of his fingers,"
growled the madone.
"How's Freddie hitting them,"
asks Fred from Portland,
on the MagicJack,
"Is Lee still first on the tee?",
inquires Cousin Terry's
scottish wife...
funning on an email,
"I like Phil,"
giggles Patricia,
watching in the bedroom.
A day of Change.
"It's a different world,
the complexity is awesome,
reaching far beyond our capacities,"
the senile old shit getting
his comeuppance on CSPAN
from Brooksly Born,
Greenspan was right
seventy percent of the time,
"Put that on margin."
Tiger was lurking in the short grass.
Phil had lost his thrill.
Hardly a breeze
in the fabulous florida keys.
Above the Horn.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Seventy...and Free for a Year!
0718/1942 65/75 Blue Skies E5/10 70%H.
DOGS 10948 8487 1124 1793. LIBOR .220.
Greetings from the Hill.
A marvelous day in paradise,
the dreaded tax certificate
paid again in the last hour
with Bill's silver stash
and a bridge loan from John...
another year to learn to type
and pretend to make Comix.
Beautiful blue skies and swaying palms,
wackos from CNBC across the hall,
classics from Havana in the corner,
contented cats on a sunny balcony.
The gardener off on a voyage,
the oldman tending and loving
the backyard magic garden.
Springtime and learning to walk
more than around the block.
"Hey, oldman, looking gooood,"
laughs the madone popping a cork,
a pinot noire from the lovely lady
from Foggy Bottom who arrived
with a frown and left
with a happy smile...
"Key West is the best."
"Watch your mind, wine is a different kind,"
lecturing Four Pack Jack.
Hohofuckingho, wondering about Barry,
in his Oshawa wine cellar.
Silver roofs mirroring in the noonday sun.
"Never thought I'd be seventy,"
muses the oldman to the Big Mac,
ready for a little ranting.
"This Fox inspired Tea Party
by the Mad Haters without hats,
Limbaugh, Beck and Coulter,
stooges of the Mad Murdock
and his yellow journalism
fomented by his chink wife,"
snorts the oldfart wondering why
bad taste and overweight waste
submerged the American Dream.
"Television commercials did 'it',
consumption financed by Debt,
everything became a scheme...
offshoring of jobs and capital,
a socialistic government
without health and oldage benefits,
the world's largest military
cannot find Osama Bin Laden
but can bomb a donkey in Afghanistan
from a bunker in Colorado,
the insurance companies never stop
pitching accident and death,
Buffet,s Geiko geeky gecko
and a spastic cunt in red lipstick,
AIG is still on your face,
all cash flow for the Vultures
creating a new line of derivatives
from the fashion houses
of innovative finance,
the traitors who trade
in Debt, Chaos and Disease...
Monsters from Jekyll Island,
agents of the Federal Reserve System,"
sighing over the 'National Swindle'
that debilitates with inflation,
a very complicated concept of theft
evolved by Central Bankers.
Bill had given the oldman a birthday treasure,
'The Creature from Jekyll Island',
by G Edward Griffin, read 'it' before,
now a house reference with Quigley.
Patricia brightened the day
with a smile and supplies
from Faustos.
A lucky oldman indeed.
"All very nice oldman, but...
reality is living each day,
watering the ornamentals,
tending the vegetable patches
and feeding the cats...
after that
life is a breeze
in the fabulous florida keys,
sometimes high on the Hill,"
smiled the madone.
Beyond the Reef.
Above the Horn.
DOGS 10948 8487 1124 1793. LIBOR .220.
Greetings from the Hill.
A marvelous day in paradise,
the dreaded tax certificate
paid again in the last hour
with Bill's silver stash
and a bridge loan from John...
another year to learn to type
and pretend to make Comix.
Beautiful blue skies and swaying palms,
wackos from CNBC across the hall,
classics from Havana in the corner,
contented cats on a sunny balcony.
The gardener off on a voyage,
the oldman tending and loving
the backyard magic garden.
Springtime and learning to walk
more than around the block.
"Hey, oldman, looking gooood,"
laughs the madone popping a cork,
a pinot noire from the lovely lady
from Foggy Bottom who arrived
with a frown and left
with a happy smile...
"Key West is the best."
"Watch your mind, wine is a different kind,"
lecturing Four Pack Jack.
Hohofuckingho, wondering about Barry,
in his Oshawa wine cellar.
Silver roofs mirroring in the noonday sun.
"Never thought I'd be seventy,"
muses the oldman to the Big Mac,
ready for a little ranting.
"This Fox inspired Tea Party
by the Mad Haters without hats,
Limbaugh, Beck and Coulter,
stooges of the Mad Murdock
and his yellow journalism
fomented by his chink wife,"
snorts the oldfart wondering why
bad taste and overweight waste
submerged the American Dream.
"Television commercials did 'it',
consumption financed by Debt,
everything became a scheme...
offshoring of jobs and capital,
a socialistic government
without health and oldage benefits,
the world's largest military
cannot find Osama Bin Laden
but can bomb a donkey in Afghanistan
from a bunker in Colorado,
the insurance companies never stop
pitching accident and death,
Buffet,s Geiko geeky gecko
and a spastic cunt in red lipstick,
AIG is still on your face,
all cash flow for the Vultures
creating a new line of derivatives
from the fashion houses
of innovative finance,
the traitors who trade
in Debt, Chaos and Disease...
Monsters from Jekyll Island,
agents of the Federal Reserve System,"
sighing over the 'National Swindle'
that debilitates with inflation,
a very complicated concept of theft
evolved by Central Bankers.
Bill had given the oldman a birthday treasure,
'The Creature from Jekyll Island',
by G Edward Griffin, read 'it' before,
now a house reference with Quigley.
Patricia brightened the day
with a smile and supplies
from Faustos.
A lucky oldman indeed.
"All very nice oldman, but...
reality is living each day,
watering the ornamentals,
tending the vegetable patches
and feeding the cats...
after that
life is a breeze
in the fabulous florida keys,
sometimes high on the Hill,"
smiled the madone.
Beyond the Reef.
Above the Horn.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
The ReGeneration ... Redo, Repo, Repent.
0727/1940 62/73 Blue Skies E10/15 70%H
DOGS 10795 8023 1090 1663. LIBOR .218.
Greetings from the Hill.
Brilliant blue skies,
palms swaying in the breeze,
the oldman worried and wondering
how to pay the DEBT...
and live another year.
"Hey, oldman, most folks agonize
this threat every day
with every thing they pay,"
growls the madone
pissed with the blogist
and his silly journals.
The very idea that a National Swindle
could be uncovered by a reader
of doubting websites
and skeptical writers
beyond a publisher's censor...
"Hello, hello..what if...
something so heinous had proliferated
in all levels of government and business,
as well as the courts of justice,
the implication of blackmail and conspiracy
from Wall Street to Pennsylvania Avenue,
Main Street to Rodeo Drive...
Connecticut to the Cayman Islands..."
mused the oldman to Big Mac,
talking fools on CNBC across the hall,
classics from Havana in the corner.
"Yes, yes..imagine money laundering
on a grand scale without drugs or murder,
ZIP from the FED to Treasuries in
offshore accounts leveraged to insanity,
while 'the loans' are lost to shadow banking,"
a private jet glided to the airport
and a palm sander noised next door.
"Well, what does it take to add up
the trillions in equities, bonds, funds,
cash, commodities and real estate,
every day at the DTCC's new Warehouse,
with brand new clean and transparent windows
serviced by MARKIT GROUP squeegees,
this operation is completed..but...
that pesky OTC market goes unregulated
as Hedge Funds' credit default swaps
send conversions overseas
to Luxembourg and Switzerland,
that instant pixel flight,"
mused the oldman wondering
if this internet communication itself
actually created a transparency
or simply enabled the innovators
to find more avenues of opaqueness,
more streets of darkness,
dead ends in a black hole.
"Don't forget those Bloomberg Terminals,"
growled the madone washing dishes
on a blue sky balcony.
"China's economy is expecting nine percent growth,"
snorts Krudlow to his afternoon audience.
"My, heavens...what a wonderful plot that
assumes some sort of economic omniscience
guides the plan for one world government
under a single currency and clearing house,
stamped, certified and rated by whom ???
a board of governors from the World Bank,
the IMF, all Central Banks and what would
the consumers use...a Visa World Card,
with a little arbitrage for traders
in the derivative carriage trade,
maybe some slop on interest rates,
certainly some insurance against risk,
and of course backed by the world government,
Too Big to Fail...hofuckingho,"
laughed the oldman amused that
he still managed to retain his wit.
"Clean house, the House of Representatives,"
laughed the gardener checking to see
if the oldman was still alive
and maybe needed medicine.
The Administration, the Party in Power,
the Wiseman in the Whitehouse had made
all americans safe to see a doctor,
fearless of hospital bills...
for a few dollars more
or less.
One more government snoop,
this one in your hospital room
or with your employer's bookkeeper.
"Fedcops are not the same as local boys,
government approved licensing maybe,
the old permitting process that roosts
with those bureaucratic vultures
in every county, city and state office,
'crime permeates every level of the country',
money is the seed of greed that grows
in every mind, more so those without.
Charge, charge on to oblivion,
spend, spend and hope that maybe
there will be change in the billing,
no interest charges this year,
maybe one per cent like bankers,
'but not very likely',
extended care for credit cards,
replacements for mortgage arms,
a government check in the mail...
to cover health care costs,"
the oldman had lost the thread
by mid afternoon, transcribing
from yesterday morning notes
was not same as improvisation.
"The thing about 'it' is the coverup,
this particular 'National Swindle'
was dumped on the Democrats with
the economists who opened the doors
for the original deregulation are
back advising a face in the vanity mirror,
this mystery of betting contracts
determined without regulation,
not even questionable insurance vehicles
simply something peddled by bookies
in a quadrillion dollar market...
no oversight, no SEC, no FBI,
no cop on the beat,
the most amazing con in finance
perpetrated to circumvent the laws
that the uninsured, the foreclosed,
the jobless, the homeless, the workingclass,
the oppressed middle class
are all buried beneath."
Quiet empty streets,
beyond the reef,
above the Horn.
On the hill.
DOGS 10795 8023 1090 1663. LIBOR .218.
Greetings from the Hill.
Brilliant blue skies,
palms swaying in the breeze,
the oldman worried and wondering
how to pay the DEBT...
and live another year.
"Hey, oldman, most folks agonize
this threat every day
with every thing they pay,"
growls the madone
pissed with the blogist
and his silly journals.
The very idea that a National Swindle
could be uncovered by a reader
of doubting websites
and skeptical writers
beyond a publisher's censor...
"Hello, hello..what if...
something so heinous had proliferated
in all levels of government and business,
as well as the courts of justice,
the implication of blackmail and conspiracy
from Wall Street to Pennsylvania Avenue,
Main Street to Rodeo Drive...
Connecticut to the Cayman Islands..."
mused the oldman to Big Mac,
talking fools on CNBC across the hall,
classics from Havana in the corner.
"Yes, yes..imagine money laundering
on a grand scale without drugs or murder,
ZIP from the FED to Treasuries in
offshore accounts leveraged to insanity,
while 'the loans' are lost to shadow banking,"
a private jet glided to the airport
and a palm sander noised next door.
"Well, what does it take to add up
the trillions in equities, bonds, funds,
cash, commodities and real estate,
every day at the DTCC's new Warehouse,
with brand new clean and transparent windows
serviced by MARKIT GROUP squeegees,
this operation is completed..but...
that pesky OTC market goes unregulated
as Hedge Funds' credit default swaps
send conversions overseas
to Luxembourg and Switzerland,
that instant pixel flight,"
mused the oldman wondering
if this internet communication itself
actually created a transparency
or simply enabled the innovators
to find more avenues of opaqueness,
more streets of darkness,
dead ends in a black hole.
"Don't forget those Bloomberg Terminals,"
growled the madone washing dishes
on a blue sky balcony.
"China's economy is expecting nine percent growth,"
snorts Krudlow to his afternoon audience.
"My, heavens...what a wonderful plot that
assumes some sort of economic omniscience
guides the plan for one world government
under a single currency and clearing house,
stamped, certified and rated by whom ???
a board of governors from the World Bank,
the IMF, all Central Banks and what would
the consumers use...a Visa World Card,
with a little arbitrage for traders
in the derivative carriage trade,
maybe some slop on interest rates,
certainly some insurance against risk,
and of course backed by the world government,
Too Big to Fail...hofuckingho,"
laughed the oldman amused that
he still managed to retain his wit.
"Clean house, the House of Representatives,"
laughed the gardener checking to see
if the oldman was still alive
and maybe needed medicine.
The Administration, the Party in Power,
the Wiseman in the Whitehouse had made
all americans safe to see a doctor,
fearless of hospital bills...
for a few dollars more
or less.
One more government snoop,
this one in your hospital room
or with your employer's bookkeeper.
"Fedcops are not the same as local boys,
government approved licensing maybe,
the old permitting process that roosts
with those bureaucratic vultures
in every county, city and state office,
'crime permeates every level of the country',
money is the seed of greed that grows
in every mind, more so those without.
Charge, charge on to oblivion,
spend, spend and hope that maybe
there will be change in the billing,
no interest charges this year,
maybe one per cent like bankers,
'but not very likely',
extended care for credit cards,
replacements for mortgage arms,
a government check in the mail...
to cover health care costs,"
the oldman had lost the thread
by mid afternoon, transcribing
from yesterday morning notes
was not same as improvisation.
"The thing about 'it' is the coverup,
this particular 'National Swindle'
was dumped on the Democrats with
the economists who opened the doors
for the original deregulation are
back advising a face in the vanity mirror,
this mystery of betting contracts
determined without regulation,
not even questionable insurance vehicles
simply something peddled by bookies
in a quadrillion dollar market...
no oversight, no SEC, no FBI,
no cop on the beat,
the most amazing con in finance
perpetrated to circumvent the laws
that the uninsured, the foreclosed,
the jobless, the homeless, the workingclass,
the oppressed middle class
are all buried beneath."
Quiet empty streets,
beyond the reef,
above the Horn.
On the hill.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Libor, Libor, a hole in the Door.
0729/1938 70/78 Hazy SE10/15 75%H
DOGS 10750 8068 1106 1693. LIBOR .240.
Greetings from the Hill.
A gorgeous day in paradise,
warm breezes and classics from Cuba,
quiet streets without home repairs,
the elite working in their gardens,
growing 'green sprouts'
contemplating 'Obama doubts'.
"Is Barry a fool and tool of the banksters?"
"If the American people ever allow
private banks to control the issue of currency..
the banks and corporations that will grow
around them will deprive the people of prosperity
until their children wake up homeless
on the continent their Fathers conquered."
Imagine that President Jefferson.
"How long to destroy the American Dream,
an idiotic globalization scheme,
endorsed by Blowjob Bill,
allowed by Retard George
and promulgated by
Halfwit Barry...
Commander General's
never in military service,
pansy boys,"
rants the madone
disgusted with win by spin.
What about those Bloomberg Terminals,
the one dollar mayor
made four billion
during 'the recession',
the eighth richest man
in America.
"Hey, Jack...
come out to the garden,"
beams the gardener
with a sunset fourpack.
More treasures from the streets.
Rich fucks too cheap to hire trucks.
Garbagemen were auxiliary police...
with Obamaphones.
"Hello, hello, blame 'it' all on Ranieri,
another inventor of CMO's at Salomon,
then Florida Bank United to WAMU,
disgraced at Franklin Bank,
now Prosperity..."
snorts the madone,
recalling pitches with Jeb Bush
to destroy wetlands,
"making it easier for minorities
to become homeowners",
more bullshit to the NAH in Lost Vegas
while circumventing banking regulation.
Let the working class pay taxes.
Buy a house and deduct your interest.
No principal for five years.
A new bankruptcy law.
"Who the fuck conceived this scheme
to nightmare the dream...?"
The oldman needed a cane to walk,
a lefthanded nine iron worked well,
shuffling down the steps
through Bill's workshop,
as idle as american factories
into the backyard...
a magical creation
of a golfcourse janitor,
a term terminating a marriage
when Johnson was President...
of course when he started smoking
the grass as well as cutting...
"That was Barry's fault in '65,"
chuckling over the past.
A walkabout in the backyard,
the last weekend before borrowing
to save the house from DEBT,
that monster that lurks
about the beauty created
and sucks dry the appetite
for steak and apple pie.
Jim Furyk was leading
but donkeydick was coming back,
"Is 'it' in you,"
laughs Tony mocking the ad
that Pepsi regrets.
The oldman gazed out the windows,
palm trees still on the hill,
a piano concerto from Havana,
static from the storms
over the Straits,
still the same
after three decades...
Cuba Libra.
Chinese cars on sugarcane fuel.
Marxist money.
Waldorf Astoria in Havana.
Blackstone Blackrock,
a Fink in your sink.
A breeze in the Keys,
blue skies and beautiful.
Above the Horn.
DOGS 10750 8068 1106 1693. LIBOR .240.
Greetings from the Hill.
A gorgeous day in paradise,
warm breezes and classics from Cuba,
quiet streets without home repairs,
the elite working in their gardens,
growing 'green sprouts'
contemplating 'Obama doubts'.
"Is Barry a fool and tool of the banksters?"
"If the American people ever allow
private banks to control the issue of currency..
the banks and corporations that will grow
around them will deprive the people of prosperity
until their children wake up homeless
on the continent their Fathers conquered."
Imagine that President Jefferson.
"How long to destroy the American Dream,
an idiotic globalization scheme,
endorsed by Blowjob Bill,
allowed by Retard George
and promulgated by
Halfwit Barry...
Commander General's
never in military service,
pansy boys,"
rants the madone
disgusted with win by spin.
What about those Bloomberg Terminals,
the one dollar mayor
made four billion
during 'the recession',
the eighth richest man
in America.
"Hey, Jack...
come out to the garden,"
beams the gardener
with a sunset fourpack.
More treasures from the streets.
Rich fucks too cheap to hire trucks.
Garbagemen were auxiliary police...
with Obamaphones.
"Hello, hello, blame 'it' all on Ranieri,
another inventor of CMO's at Salomon,
then Florida Bank United to WAMU,
disgraced at Franklin Bank,
now Prosperity..."
snorts the madone,
recalling pitches with Jeb Bush
to destroy wetlands,
"making it easier for minorities
to become homeowners",
more bullshit to the NAH in Lost Vegas
while circumventing banking regulation.
Let the working class pay taxes.
Buy a house and deduct your interest.
No principal for five years.
A new bankruptcy law.
"Who the fuck conceived this scheme
to nightmare the dream...?"
The oldman needed a cane to walk,
a lefthanded nine iron worked well,
shuffling down the steps
through Bill's workshop,
as idle as american factories
into the backyard...
a magical creation
of a golfcourse janitor,
a term terminating a marriage
when Johnson was President...
of course when he started smoking
the grass as well as cutting...
"That was Barry's fault in '65,"
chuckling over the past.
A walkabout in the backyard,
the last weekend before borrowing
to save the house from DEBT,
that monster that lurks
about the beauty created
and sucks dry the appetite
for steak and apple pie.
Jim Furyk was leading
but donkeydick was coming back,
"Is 'it' in you,"
laughs Tony mocking the ad
that Pepsi regrets.
The oldman gazed out the windows,
palm trees still on the hill,
a piano concerto from Havana,
static from the storms
over the Straits,
still the same
after three decades...
Cuba Libra.
Chinese cars on sugarcane fuel.
Marxist money.
Waldorf Astoria in Havana.
Blackstone Blackrock,
a Fink in your sink.
A breeze in the Keys,
blue skies and beautiful.
Above the Horn.
Monday, March 15, 2010
"It's all about Insurance and Insurable Interest."
0735/1937 62/72 Blue Skies WNW/15 65%H
DOGS 10560 7956 1105 1710...LIBOR 193.
Greetings from the Hill.
A fantastic afternoon in paradise,
classics in the presidents room,
CNBC babbling bullshit across the hall,
Tony back with fifteen pounds of 'Whiskers',
happy cats on a sunny balcony.
"A perfect day for golf,"
suggested the course superintendent
of Cuckoo Key Country Club,
practicing wedge shots
over banana trees,
a new green by the waterfall
over Nicklaus bridge...
"Ain't 'it' fun to have fun,"
laughing in the sun.
The oldman was still in an odd mood
receiving emails from Ontario,
a forty-five year friend
and a thirty year love...
"Memories can make you think
but usually just drink,
accident, odd, or just chance,"
musing to Big Mac.
"Bring me up to date...
what have you done,"
inquiring minds concerned
about three decades of apathy,
10,000 forgotten nights
in paradise...
100,000 daily pages,
journals since '75.
Retirement reading.
"What a fucking mess, and all there,
those everyday notes and records
of life on the Hill,
millions of words and some
very funny phrases
with unique usage
of description,"
conceded the madone,
been there, always there,
that other voice on the Hill.
Imagination is such a treat
for the homebound and aged.
"Blahfuckingblah, memories are
inventions of losers...
tell me what you do,
not what you did,"
the Ross Perot line.
Time was running out again,
spoiling another birthday,
property tax certificate due
and the reserve fund shortfalled
by the bullshitter below...
"And the bullshitter before,"
sitting all day scheming
into a screen of pixels,
primadonnas on Love Lane,
too late for fame.
"Perhaps, perhaps there was a reason,
the experience was a parallel
to a higher level of voyage,
a mythological derivative of omniscience."
"Hofuckingho, that's a good one,
Greenspan on acid, Rubin on hash,
Clinton on pussyjuice...
Bush still on bourbon,
poppydust in Obama's pipe,"
roared the madone
getting into the theme
of absurdity.
LIBOR was insidiously creeping higher.
"That's the overnight cost of a fuck...
if you're Greece 'it's a bumfuck,
and watch your asshole Arnold,"
those basis points are back,
slimeing through the garage doors
of amputated arm mortgages.
"We want to know who did this,"
steams Senator Dodd pontificating
to a dumbass collection of halfwits
watching yappy tits and drones,
hoping to move to FOX NETWORK,
controlled by Wendy Dong,
the holder of Murdock's nuts,
twisted by a Walmart wrench.
"Well you dumbass fuckface,
'it's all about protection,
protecting the counterparty,
that asshole who cosigns your note...
remember kiting checks
before debit cards and ATM's,
none of these things function
without Bloomberg Terminals,
that's right retard...
that billionaire mayor
of New York..."
The oldman wondered how stupid
the levels of discovery
would pretend to duncedom,
actors in commercials
demeaning the middleclass,
a snotty cunt and a nerd,
a toilet bowl with a floating turd,
granny with a chinese bird.
"So maybe that smartass jew, of course,
was porking that derivative bitch,
being English, she had a habit
of coming through her nose,
a whore in the House of Morgan
finding true love with a pimp
from Goldie Sox, the fellow had
taken over Lance's Markit
now ready to do a country,"
sirens wailed through the streets,
grey smoke plummeted over the ghetto,
malcontents were enraged,
the oppressed were fighting back,
no longer were streets safe,
"Go home, Phoneyman."
So Brad Levy was fucking Blythe Masters
last week at the Casa Marina
and thought no one would know,
in Key West, everyone knows...
especially at the Waldorf Astoria,
owned by Larry Fink.
Playground of the Fraudsters.
"What does all this shit mean...
nothing makes sense except the rhyme,
certainly the idea that a few
could control the economies
of nations through DEBT
and have no regret...
sounds evil, Jews don't go to heaven,
where do the Catholics go,
and those pathetic ragheads,
without a Queen on their bill,
and GOD backs a FEDNOTE,
goodfuckingluck..."
snorts the madone
enjoying the afternoon,
the sun an hour early,
classics from Havana
and dinner simmering,
a solitary rooster crowing,
palm trees swaying,
cats contented,
the artist quiet.
Life is a breeze
in the florida keys.
At seventy.
DOGS 10560 7956 1105 1710...LIBOR 193.
Greetings from the Hill.
A fantastic afternoon in paradise,
classics in the presidents room,
CNBC babbling bullshit across the hall,
Tony back with fifteen pounds of 'Whiskers',
happy cats on a sunny balcony.
"A perfect day for golf,"
suggested the course superintendent
of Cuckoo Key Country Club,
practicing wedge shots
over banana trees,
a new green by the waterfall
over Nicklaus bridge...
"Ain't 'it' fun to have fun,"
laughing in the sun.
The oldman was still in an odd mood
receiving emails from Ontario,
a forty-five year friend
and a thirty year love...
"Memories can make you think
but usually just drink,
accident, odd, or just chance,"
musing to Big Mac.
"Bring me up to date...
what have you done,"
inquiring minds concerned
about three decades of apathy,
10,000 forgotten nights
in paradise...
100,000 daily pages,
journals since '75.
Retirement reading.
"What a fucking mess, and all there,
those everyday notes and records
of life on the Hill,
millions of words and some
very funny phrases
with unique usage
of description,"
conceded the madone,
been there, always there,
that other voice on the Hill.
Imagination is such a treat
for the homebound and aged.
"Blahfuckingblah, memories are
inventions of losers...
tell me what you do,
not what you did,"
the Ross Perot line.
Time was running out again,
spoiling another birthday,
property tax certificate due
and the reserve fund shortfalled
by the bullshitter below...
"And the bullshitter before,"
sitting all day scheming
into a screen of pixels,
primadonnas on Love Lane,
too late for fame.
"Perhaps, perhaps there was a reason,
the experience was a parallel
to a higher level of voyage,
a mythological derivative of omniscience."
"Hofuckingho, that's a good one,
Greenspan on acid, Rubin on hash,
Clinton on pussyjuice...
Bush still on bourbon,
poppydust in Obama's pipe,"
roared the madone
getting into the theme
of absurdity.
LIBOR was insidiously creeping higher.
"That's the overnight cost of a fuck...
if you're Greece 'it's a bumfuck,
and watch your asshole Arnold,"
those basis points are back,
slimeing through the garage doors
of amputated arm mortgages.
"We want to know who did this,"
steams Senator Dodd pontificating
to a dumbass collection of halfwits
watching yappy tits and drones,
hoping to move to FOX NETWORK,
controlled by Wendy Dong,
the holder of Murdock's nuts,
twisted by a Walmart wrench.
"Well you dumbass fuckface,
'it's all about protection,
protecting the counterparty,
that asshole who cosigns your note...
remember kiting checks
before debit cards and ATM's,
none of these things function
without Bloomberg Terminals,
that's right retard...
that billionaire mayor
of New York..."
The oldman wondered how stupid
the levels of discovery
would pretend to duncedom,
actors in commercials
demeaning the middleclass,
a snotty cunt and a nerd,
a toilet bowl with a floating turd,
granny with a chinese bird.
"So maybe that smartass jew, of course,
was porking that derivative bitch,
being English, she had a habit
of coming through her nose,
a whore in the House of Morgan
finding true love with a pimp
from Goldie Sox, the fellow had
taken over Lance's Markit
now ready to do a country,"
sirens wailed through the streets,
grey smoke plummeted over the ghetto,
malcontents were enraged,
the oppressed were fighting back,
no longer were streets safe,
"Go home, Phoneyman."
So Brad Levy was fucking Blythe Masters
last week at the Casa Marina
and thought no one would know,
in Key West, everyone knows...
especially at the Waldorf Astoria,
owned by Larry Fink.
Playground of the Fraudsters.
"What does all this shit mean...
nothing makes sense except the rhyme,
certainly the idea that a few
could control the economies
of nations through DEBT
and have no regret...
sounds evil, Jews don't go to heaven,
where do the Catholics go,
and those pathetic ragheads,
without a Queen on their bill,
and GOD backs a FEDNOTE,
goodfuckingluck..."
snorts the madone
enjoying the afternoon,
the sun an hour early,
classics from Havana
and dinner simmering,
a solitary rooster crowing,
palm trees swaying,
cats contented,
the artist quiet.
Life is a breeze
in the florida keys.
At seventy.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
What to do on a Sunny Day in Paradise?
0641/1833 55/65 Blue Skies NE 10/20 50%H
DOGS 10528 8171 1136 1742.
Greetings from the Hill.
Another perfect day in paradise,
cyclists out and about
taking the sun,
grinning with God...
"Happy to be free,"
snorts the madone watching
from the balcony.
A red rooster returned awoke
the oldman before five to watch
an entertainer in sneakers,
grey slacks and blue blazer
ranting about the presidents,
"Big Time stooge for Fox,
the fuckers even have Gasparino,
better than that dickhead Beck,"
the madone liked Charlie.
Another promise abandoned, always the same,
New Orleans, Twin Towers, now Main Street,
roads, bridges and schools...
"The Three Stooges have done more damage
than all the sleezeball traders
and contract manipulators
with presidential pens,"
sighed the oldman weary of the lies,
wondering if apathy went with obesity
to the food stamp offices.
"Chasing donkeys with million dollar drones,
backing up a heroin ring,
murdering a primitive culture...
sound fucking familiar,
those precious earthly commodities
that greedy men bank on
after soldiers spill their blood
and generals retire,"
the pentagon machine serving
the executive office,
this war mongering masquerader
suckered in Iraq, led by Israel,
doomed in Afghanistan,
the Peace Prize hawk,
Commander in Chief of Chaos.
Hockey season all year at the new rink,
saved and supported by Pretty Sing,
the oldman could only remember,
of course that was about all there was
when passing into the eighth decade,
unless one was Gordie Howe,
the hockey sticks were still
on the front porch
for the Love Lane Bladers,
the road hockey league.
Yesterday morning taking the sun
reading on the front porch,
Tom's gift, The New Yorker...
an interesting tale of Chicago
and Mayor Daley who has succeeded
in creating an American Gem,
that amazing combination
of grit and graft
with nepotism
and powerful bulldozers.
"The man lost his white momma,
his black daddy died drunk
in an African ditch and
his white granny
paid the bills,"
sighed the oldman,
sometimes sympathetic to
a political actor who
portrays and performs
as president.
Kevin Kline was his favorite,
of course as 'Jack'.
"Hey, Jack, Fred Couples is ahead,"
watching the Champions
on his big screen TV.
The Europeans were pissed off,
credit swaps by Hedge Hogs
and speculating derivatives
were bouncing basis points
to volatility...
"Why own when you can rent
a bet for the week."
The sun was setting
over the neighbor's roof,
the opera from Havana,
clear as the clean windows,
cats on the table...
waiting for dinner.
Gardening done,
garbage out,
beer cans recycled.
Springbreakers coming
with Daddy's card.
dreams of the
ultimate role
DOGS 10528 8171 1136 1742.
Greetings from the Hill.
Another perfect day in paradise,
cyclists out and about
taking the sun,
grinning with God...
"Happy to be free,"
snorts the madone watching
from the balcony.
A red rooster returned awoke
the oldman before five to watch
an entertainer in sneakers,
grey slacks and blue blazer
ranting about the presidents,
"Big Time stooge for Fox,
the fuckers even have Gasparino,
better than that dickhead Beck,"
the madone liked Charlie.
Another promise abandoned, always the same,
New Orleans, Twin Towers, now Main Street,
roads, bridges and schools...
"The Three Stooges have done more damage
than all the sleezeball traders
and contract manipulators
with presidential pens,"
sighed the oldman weary of the lies,
wondering if apathy went with obesity
to the food stamp offices.
"Chasing donkeys with million dollar drones,
backing up a heroin ring,
murdering a primitive culture...
sound fucking familiar,
those precious earthly commodities
that greedy men bank on
after soldiers spill their blood
and generals retire,"
the pentagon machine serving
the executive office,
this war mongering masquerader
suckered in Iraq, led by Israel,
doomed in Afghanistan,
the Peace Prize hawk,
Commander in Chief of Chaos.
Hockey season all year at the new rink,
saved and supported by Pretty Sing,
the oldman could only remember,
of course that was about all there was
when passing into the eighth decade,
unless one was Gordie Howe,
the hockey sticks were still
on the front porch
for the Love Lane Bladers,
the road hockey league.
Yesterday morning taking the sun
reading on the front porch,
Tom's gift, The New Yorker...
an interesting tale of Chicago
and Mayor Daley who has succeeded
in creating an American Gem,
that amazing combination
of grit and graft
with nepotism
and powerful bulldozers.
"The man lost his white momma,
his black daddy died drunk
in an African ditch and
his white granny
paid the bills,"
sighed the oldman,
sometimes sympathetic to
a political actor who
portrays and performs
as president.
Kevin Kline was his favorite,
of course as 'Jack'.
"Hey, Jack, Fred Couples is ahead,"
watching the Champions
on his big screen TV.
The Europeans were pissed off,
credit swaps by Hedge Hogs
and speculating derivatives
were bouncing basis points
to volatility...
"Why own when you can rent
a bet for the week."
The sun was setting
over the neighbor's roof,
the opera from Havana,
clear as the clean windows,
cats on the table...
waiting for dinner.
Gardening done,
garbage out,
beer cans recycled.
Springbreakers coming
with Daddy's card.
dreams of the
ultimate role
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