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.