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.

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.

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,
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

Friday, March 5, 2010

Freeze the nuts off a Fixed Cat.

0644/1831 50/59 Blue Skies NNE10/15 60%H
DOGS 10528 8171 1136 1742.

Greetings from the Hill.

Chilly again this morning,
fifty degrees above the covers,
dreaming until nine o'clock,
indulging in the luxury of seventy,
eight decades of amazement.

A late evening last night reading
the essays of Joe Bageant,
a wondrous writer with an insight
to today's yuppie hell
from living in hippie heaven
and counterculture reporting
for Paul Krassner.

"Who would have imagined student unrest,
Berkeley and Oakland stirring shit
without Black Panthers or CIA help,
that was against Governor Ronnie,
this against President Barry,
maybe grandchildren of the originals",
mused the madone been there at the time,
a student with Kennedy, in exile with Johnson,
a businessman against Nixon...
no shit on his fedora.

The battles with the police were conceived
in the queer closets about chinatown,
before the gay revolution,
"Yeah, getting beat up was a thrill,
come in your pants with a nightstick,
sick fucking assholes, masochists",
ranting on, older not wiser.

America was now a family of DEBT.

Of course, the solution to the dilemma
was being worked out in
congressional closets,
secret deals and no appeals,
no jail time just a big fat fine,
paid for with BAILOUT money,
that 700 Billion that is refilled
whenever half full...
"Ain't government great, always there
to make democracy fair."

Indeed, indeed, as Capt. Conch would say,
knowing words to be turds one might slip on,
when walking on drunken sidewalks...
"Volcker has the Fed in revolt,
as eleven start nibbling at one,
Geithner's follies at FRBNY for Paulson
covering counterparty for Goldie
and the consortium of foreigners
pretending to protect AIG,"
snorting and looking out the window,
sunlight on the window plants at two,
he was not of the mood to blame
the mess of engineered financing
on quant theory mathematicians,
MIT insurance actuarians or
Lehman whores in Armani suits...
his fortune slowly and hard earned
had gone....with Enron.

"Don't get me started about
those fucking derivatives,"
not a man to curse.

A cool day in the fifties...
inside and outside.

'Hey, I got a nice tree,"
smiling at the old friend leaving,
classics from Havana,
cats in chairs,
sunlight on the floor.

"Plant a tree and leave something
that lives and grows with beauty
until some asshole puts in
a swimming pool."

An oldfart said that when Carter was President.

"Well, shiiit, Moody has a cocktail pool
on a half lot with a beautiful balcony,
selling out for 1.2 Million,"
snorted the madone reading the mail
not liking change.

The gardener was on a rideabout,
photographing the rich and famous
who in Key West were unseen,
an address for scoundrels
and high financeers
on low profiles...
"Hey, does Marc Rich
still live on Sunset Key,
Madonna still has her condo,
Brad Pitt lives on Ballast Key,
Larry Fink has the penthouse
at the Reach,
that Yankee baseball player
keeps a suite at La Concha,
Sloan Bashinsky moved to a trailer,"
leaving some insight for blind eyes
when listening to Fox News.

Newt was warning the public,
the Obama Administration
was stealing what little left
of the citizen,s wealth...
converting IRA's and 401K's
into guaranteed trusts
of Treasury Bonds.

"Hey, no one else buy this shit,
direct deductions, Victory Bonds
for losers, hofuckingho...
and when you die,
nothing passes on...
but your bills, suckerfucks,
welcome to Obamaland,
no Hope and small Change,"
snorts the madone
wondering how much dumber
the dumb will become.

Blue skies and swaying palm trees,
classics and clean windows,
cats on sunlit chairs.

A cold breeze
in the florida keys.

On the Hill.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

A West Wind from the Gulf.

0646/1830 56/65 Blue Skies W 20/30 60%H
DOGS 10408 8088 1141 1722.

Greetings from the Hill.

A bit of a chilly day in paradise,
classics from Havana, cats on the table,
talking tits across the hallway,
sunshine on the balcony.

Perusing the Internet blogs,
Denninger, Shedlock, Roubini,
Asia Times, New York Times,
Globe and Mail, Key West Citizen,
paper rags gone into space
for cripples who cannot leave
their place...
the oldman walked to Faustos.

"The Wives of Wall Street",
smiled the oldman to the 'artist',
snooping about for something new,
languishing in lethargy,
more procrastination on Love Lane,
constipation in his brain.

"It's a reality show for HBO,
somewhat like the Bravo Channel,
House Wives of Wherever,
but with the richest bitches,
snotty elitist cunts",
chuckled the oldfart.

The fellow shook his head
in the four o'clock sun
and pulled out a skinny one.

With a grin on his face.

"Imagine living 'up there',
trying to understand 'them'",
he shrugged.

Krugman ignored his comments.

Joe Bageant was an exile self imposed.

The laundry was in the backyard sun.

Getting disturbed over the rhetoric
of the Professor in the White House
would recall Woodrow and House,
who had Obama's mind????

Was he still a Muslim??????

A Zen Buddist with a rosary
or sitting on Dimon's knee.

A Trillion dollar DEBT MASTER
to the KINGS of FIAT.

Did the Dunce understand DEBT.

"Not very fucking likely,
another shill on the Hill",
growled the madone
bringing in the laundry
fresh from the breeze
in the florid keys.

Another sunset
in paradise.