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.

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 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. 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.


"Now that's 'IT'."

No sense in going on babbling bullshit, and

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.

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

"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.