How does the garden grow?

0651/1827 56/65 Blue Skies NNW 15/20 70%H
DOGS 10220 8000 1110 1610.

Greetings from the Hill.

Cold and beautiful from the balcony,
a morning taking the sun with the classics,
reading notes from wiseass bloggers
looking for clever phrases,
but finding intellectual mazes...

As petty as schoolteachers keeping secrets.

"Tis a shame the brain has gone lame,
a daily diet of stupidity
has given the imagination rigidity,"
laughing to the cats.

A different approach to the blogspot,
that stain left from a leaking drain
dripping from a skuzzy snooper's brain,
the free flow is dammed by debt...
"Open the Rivers of Credit,"
laughs the madone beyond cash,
all banking online,
all records transparent.

"Fuck this jiveshit...
how's the garden and the cats,
did you bury Angora in a nice spot,"
snarled the cuban
checking on the oldman and his will.

He had his eye on certain treasures,
thirty five years of journals
was a lot of blackmail
in the wrong hands
or igloo bands.

The oldman dropped his rollup
in an empty Millers pint
as sunset darkened,
Vivaldi from Havana,
static beginning before
the coldest night on record...
hockey night under comforters,
plants unprotected.

"What about that Scooterman,
seems to be a knowitall
on the Financial Fall,"
laughs Alger from the Rogosuite,
monitoring Key West blogists
in his gas stove warmed studio.

The oldman's fingers were cold
as the grey clouds raced
to Cuba over the Straits.

"No score..." laughed Tony,
a jacket on with long pants and socks
watching hockey sticks waving
around helmeted women
from US and Canada...
three windows and
big screen TV
in the dormroom.

"Fifty fucking degrees,"
shivered the oldman at seven
sucking a very cold pint.

"Obama is a sorryass Sophist,"
chuckled the oldfart beginning
to consider a rant against
the Commander in Chief
who has readied the returnies,
80,000 from Stupid Bushs' wars,
and his million dollar grunts
in Afghanistan fighting
30,000 patriots.