"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.