Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Summer's Over and Summers' gone!

0718/1916 78/85 Light Clouds SW 10/20 90%H.
DOGS 10821 7725 1309 2185. LIBOR 23/29. VIX 23/31.

Greetings from the Hill.

A gusty day in paradise,
the oldman taking a stroll
up Love Lane.

"Well, we dodged that one,"
smiles Peter washing the Audi,
the Rolls Wraith gleaming,
restored by artisans,
coachwork and a paint job,
"New bumpers too and tyres,"
of English African descent.

"How about that funny swinger,"
his wife played golf...
he always remarked.

A rather ostentatious form of travel.

"He has a ten thousand dollar bicycle,"
commented Tony always amazed
at the lifestyle of renters.

Sometimes owning a home is unwise.

"The new budget is coming out...
likely four trillion,"
not a fan of Obama,
nor Internet,
read only the WSJ,
the down under subversive.

"That bloody jew will be Mayor of Chicago,
'it's' all in derivative debt,
they privatized parking meters
to bloody Goldman Sachs,"
he had a funny way of talking.

The Rolls smelled new...
that expensive leather aroma,
his one eyed cat jumped
on the wife's covered car
and winked at the oldman...
she liked the lane.

"They are all leaving him,
'it' couldn't work out,
Clinton's misfits from Harvard,
MIT pretenders from Goldman,
and his Acorn Club,"
snorting on the stones.

All that from one newspaper.

The oldman was overwhelmed
and headed for his sanctity,
classics and cornbread.

Maybe Tony's spaghetti

And a couple of pints.

What could the masses be thinking
who watched talking tits
and believed Glenn Beck.

Could the Crisis have ended,
the Recession recovered,
all factories hiring.

The economy booming.

"Don't quit your night job."

"You might want to sing for supper."

The illegal aliens were busy again,
taking the neighbors storm shutters down,
fancying the gardens,
preparing for Fantasy Fest.

Absent homeowners renting for fortunes
to pay for property taxes,
the month of Gay love and lust
and fantasies of the past,
for the survivors
of the dreaded curse.

"La Te Da is for sale,"
shrugged the photographer,
capturing history,
perhaps the last great party
for those who can remember.

"Some guy named Walsh bought
the Porter House
for eight million,"
frowning and taking a pint,
"He operated that stand."

And eight other joints.

Always a Prol Perry,
a Bobbie Mongelli,
a horse on the course.

"Hey, you fucked up...
where's the other Spottswood,"
laughs the madone,
filling the cat bowls.

"John says Sloan is too bold
for an old man without a license
and no permit to preach,
not even a sunday tent
with fritters and grits,"
always amazed...

At the breeze in the Keys
that blew away the rain.

Above the Horn.

Beyond the Reef.

Gullible's Belief.

Saturday, September 25, 2010

Ten year thoughts on the Two Year Crisis.

0717/1920 80/88 Light Clouds E10/20 85%H.
DOGS 10860 7649 1297 2146. Libor 26/47.

Greetings from the Hill.

Blue skies in the morning,
showers in the afternoon,
a gardeners delight
but not a golfer's pleasure.

Strange to imagine that two years
have passed and things are worse,
far from the projections of recovery,
the promises of hope and change
from the cowboy on the open range.

A decade and back to where Bill left us,
fantasies by Treasury Secretary Summers
to eliminate the deficit in ten years,
a nation of prosperity and wealth.

"And look at us now," growled the madone.

"Dow down ten per cent, real estate twenty percent,
oil up one hundred and twenty five per cent,
Gold up five times from 275 to 1295,
silver almost four times to 21.20...
guess who got rich,"counting
his silver and gold.

In eight years Clinton left a deficit
of near six trillion dollars.

In eight years Bush left a deficit
of close to ten trillion dollars.

In two years the Obama Debt
will exceed fourteen trillion dollars.

With tax cash flow down twenty percent
and non working the same.

"Smoke another booger, Barry,
stay high in the highest office,
keep the brothers agitated,
but keep the benefits coming,"
growls the madone
disgusted with the hippie fairy.

Imagine if the fairy barry
had listened to his mother
rather than pretending in the underground,
Moma Tut worked for Geithner's dad,
studying micro economies...
something the both sons
are making America.

"It's all over, Asshole...
fucking finished, never a leader,
no World Champion rings,
an also ran falling each year,
to last place, the basement,
dragged down by incompetence
and corruption, the crooked bets
that lost the franchise,"
ranted the oldman
enjoying the Rays
and a new style of play.

Too many mysteries not uncovered,
a mother pregnant by a foreign national,
and not nineteen, too precocious and
a radical miscegenation fuckabout...
pissing off her parents,
"She never dated the white crew cut boys,"
confided a classmate.

So the half black barry fluent in muslim prayer
is ignored by the bad black bigamist dad,
who as an athiest marxist had high hopes
from the ministry of finance
to the PM's chair.

Once an Asshole...
always an Asshole.

Dies drunk in a ditch.

Could American Black Muslims
be whispering in Barack's ear.

"Renounce America and claim
your rights from a Kenyan father,
build a new nation,"
agitated Farrakhan at Daddy's funeral.

Guess what squirrel has the Acorns.

"Practice revolution in the neighborhood,"
suggested the white jewish instigators
who influenced the boy
who could never be black.

He lived in a mansion in Hyde Park,
walking distance to mentors,
Farrakhan and Ayers,
thanks to Resko.

Most african family blood is arab.

"But, who the fuck cares!"

"The land of Opportunity."

"Equal Lenders."

"How.s your score?"

Things seem to be great on the Rock,
beds filled, bars packed,
restaurants booming,
bed tax highest ever,
funds wasted on advertising
and executive reimbursements,
same scumshits skimming
and cooking the books.

The Spottswood family trying
to con the city by funding
their mega yacht harbor proposal,
"Hit the road, Jack."

Royally fucking up the Beachside
and 'the other side'.

Kiss your bank goodbye, bros....

The photographer was keeping the rounds,
capturing the denouement of waste
and collective bad taste.

Ironically Key West will survive
as a higher level of minds
will choose the weather and charm,
the familiarity of Lanes,
the treat of walking and cycling
without worry and fear.

More empty houses will become homes.

If the country is going to Hell,
one might best find heaven
in paradise.

How to penetrate the minds
of bureaucratic buffoons
who mismanage the city finances
seems an impossible dream.

Idiots who want to spend what isn't.

A 22 Million Dollar city hall
that will double by finishing,
a Memorial to Duncedom.

Living beneath one's means.

Soup and sandwich
in the garden
with a good book.

Above the Horn.

Inside the Reef.

And sometimes
within belief.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

Who really is Barry Dunham?

0715/1926 80/88 Blue Skies E 10/20 80%H
DOGS 10607,7366,1275,2074. LIBOR .26 VIX 22.

Greetings from the Hill.

A lovely morning in paradise,
house empty and quiet,
but for classics and chimes.

The wood turner romancing his new love.

"With stories of unearned glories,"
laughed the madone watching
the painter across the street.

The oldman was studying the mystery
of the mystery of the President's Past.

"Such obvious connections but no thread,
the color of the cloth is red,
the fabric madras,
with no button holes,"
musing on the photos of a boy
who was destined to be different.

"Barry likes blue,"
suggested Stanley to Uncle George,
before leaving on another tour
of the microeconomics of Asia,
researching the future
of socialist capitalism.

Rumors of Momma's sexual propensities
drifted through the State Department,
but was fluent in Farsi
as well as mandarin,
"But a 'fellow traveler',"
accepted those in the 'know',
she was always free to go,
whenever...where ever.

"Now, Barry, I have to leave,
Gramps will take you to Washington,
promise me you won't take
any stolen watches from 'him',
I've told you how he 'is',"
leaving the boy on his own.

Jake, who just returned from Hawaii,
offered an insight...
"You know the rays are different,
they alter the pigment and change
a black man to yellow,
kind of...
and their pot thins out
baby fat!"

Looking at the photos,
little fatso lost weight
and got a color tint.

"And won the state championship
with a basketball scholarship
to Occidental College,
a hotbed of insurgents,"
growled the madone
who studied secrets.

"The problem is 'The Freedom of Information Act'
does not apply to Dunham Obama Sorieto,
more bizarre than 'The Manchurian Candidate'
and much more mysterious,
asshole and his 'executive order',"
grumbles the madone watching,
as the painter leaves at noon.

Twenty years of 'Law and Order'
invites curiosity to even the old,
a good mystery better with a body,
like the Clinton White House,
this grinning Jackass creates
economic genocide
and social chaos.

"Well, what about the time gap,
those years after a 'C' average
at Columbia between Harvard,
some say Momma knew Ollie North
and sent the sissy on a mission
to learn to be a man...
learn to hold a gun
rather than his pecker,"
always making up stories.

"Those who cannot build
become lawyers and bureaucrats,
counterproductive to growth,
creating loopholes of laws,"
mused the oldman wondering
about the Kingdom of Duncedom,
two years into the 'Crisis',
trillions of dollars lost,
on paper of course,
numbers on a rating report,
an index of an indice,
the value of the market
for a salable object,
a thing to pick up and hold,
a structure to rest one's head,
or a contract to trade
to the next sucker,
pixels typed on a tube
by a boob in a cube,
a trading traitor
where money is a number,
but the word is dollar.

"Holey Horse Fuck, take a walk
or buy a pickup truck,"
laughed the oldman,
his mood spoiled
with the return
of 'Lover Boy'.

A morning walkabout after church,
a stroll from the Atlantic
to the Gulf...
peaceful with the bars closed,
even the Poker Run bikers
not roaring the streets,
sunday morning in bed
with breakfast.

"A nation of sissies."

"Not Fancy Nancies."

"Straight Men who need Viagra."

Jeffrey's lady friend from
'Coral Gables' not 'Miami',
a social consciousness,
says the 'Beach'
and the 'Grove'
are dying
from lack of attention,
too many dark empty condos
not even rented,
the locals are fucked
having borrowed on equity
that no longer exists
and taxes increasing
increasing increasing.

Fat Randy's now very fat wife
took the walk finally,
big time in the Big House
for her crimes against children
and the school system
while hubby works for Bubba Swift
planning how to keep Ed
from bankruptcy
and the collapse of his empire,
thirty years in the making
'Daring to be Great'
emulating the man with the lisp,
Ed talked funny
and wore bracelets
when in Fire Island.

Two marvelous old ladies
went to heaven at eighty five.

A grand age to leave paradise.

"Silly but not senile,
sarcastic and witty,
but never cruel...
always demanding of something
'better than the last time',
an inspiration to strive,"
commented Amy who herself
has joined the club
of grey haired artists.

A painting is such a lovely gift
to pass on to the future,
the gift of teaching to those
talented enough to learn,
hands creating from sight
or the vision within.

Imagine if paradise had artists
solving problems and troubles
rather than corrupt politicians
and crooked cops...
judges making deals
for meals on wheels.

Above the Horn.

Inside the Reef.

Nothing Beyond Belief.

Monday, September 6, 2010

Some are born leaders, others are what they are.

0710/1940 78/88 Grey Skies ESE 10/15 90%H
DOGS The same.

Greetings from the Hill.

Another damp day in paradise,
the wood turner noising below,
the oldman writing in bed,
watching CNBC documentaries.

The gardener out with the camera.

Alger in the Rockies.

Does anyone care about the President?

His father was on his way to Harvard,
his mother a radical anti=establishmentarian,
a teenager and bigamist,
breeding without marriage,
condoned by Grannie,
the only white woman banker
in Hawaii.

Stanley, a funny name for a mother,
who had ideas herself of greatness,
not African bound for Muslim wives
of the mean little man
who died drunk in a ditch,
like Billy Blythe's daddy...

"Never sit on the fence, son,
learn to dribble a ball...
I'm pregnant and you have another daddy,
you'll meet new friends,"
preparing the path of change.

Strange the history of Democrats,
leaders who had never served.

Grade school with nuns ringing in his ears
and that ommmmmming from the rug,
Daddy Sorieta was in the oil business for BP,
and Stanley was a spy with the Ford Foundation,
learning different paths to nirvana,
teachings of the Buddha,
ethics of the atheists,
"Maybe Momma was in the CIA!"

A little muslim had to drift into
a head preoccupied with greatness...
he would be the best
dribbler in the NBA.

He loved his rice and vegetables
with pinapples and spam...
he wanted to go home and dribble.

"Son, Momma has work to do in Asia,
grampa and grandma will look after you,
you will go to the best schools,
you have a gift with talking,
now learn the jump shot."

And Momma was gone.

His bad black Daddy never visited.

His yellow stepdaddy never appeared,
not even when he won the state title
with his jump shot...
Mom was working on her doctorate
somewhere in Indonesia.

No family, no friends, no lovers,
living in New York at Columbia,
the voices of Keroauc and Ginsberg
ringing through the halls
and onto the basketball court.

Like Jack, an injury ended a dream,
another road to travel, alone as always,
but Grandma was Vice President of 'The Bank',
following his bad black bigamist Dad to Harvard,
not in Economics but Law...imagine if both.

Grandpa and grandpa were so proud at graduation.

That all black girl in Chicago had plans of her own.

Momma didn't like black girls
but she took her coffee black.

She became a Doctor in Micro Economics
and saved the future for Asian nations,
found God and adopted a black baby girl.

Barry is not kind to his sisters
from his Momma but brags
about his brothers and sisters
bred by his bad black bigamist dad in Africa.

Maybe being half white in The White House
alters one's view of life.

Above the Horn.

Beyond the Reef.

Within believe.

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Empty homes and forgotten dreams.

0708/1945 78/86 Cloudy and Rain SSW 10/20 90%H.
DOGS 10447 7460 1246 1985. LIBOR 21/31.

Greetings from the Hill.

Grey skies and a misty rain,
classics from Havana,
the Weather Channel in the bedroom,
the oldman with coffee and Big Mac,
tires slicking up the street,
Viola in the window sill.

An imaginary morning walk,
down Southard Street to Five Brothers
then a stroll up Love Lane
and wondering...

Nine houses across the block,
two rented and two for sale,
seven empty homeless structures.

Nine house on this side,
two owner occupants...amazing,
the oldman and Maria,
thirty seven years of memories
without arguement!

Two rented and two for sale,
five empty homeless houses.

The 'fellows' next door got screwed
by House Flipper Joe and his 'Hot Toddy',
that phony live in for two years bill,
both are down half a million or more.

"More your ass, you old goat,
'me and my
next you will go after Irwin Higgs",
laughs the madone making toast.

Mister Moody's dreamhouse rented
to cover the juice
before the Big Arm falls,
teasing whores now want payment,
this one did a back flip.

Across the street at Seven Twelve,
enjoying life on the porch,
sunrise to sunset,
Jerry enjoys an extended vacation,
retired early, his job outsourced,
"Those fucking insurance companies
all buying into India",
growls the madone,
disgusted with globalization.

"Hey, pal 'it' ain't all that great
on millionaire hill...Love Lane,
address address location location,
realtor whore sweet talk",
hated the sluts
and their pimp brokers.

Certainly an interesting ride
on the Ferris Wheel of Gentrification.

In the Carnival of Real Estate.

Some were not speculators
and had found a home...
in paradise.

"Doesn't take too many fucking brains
to discover the comfort and ease
of living in the Keys",
that asshole was fixated
on rhymes.

Some people actually rent.

"But with a Rolls Royce and Audi",
wondered the snoopy gardener.

Picture postcards in paradise
usually came from the house hustlers.

"Ten Thousand dollars in property taxes,
mortgage interest insurance, three dogs
barking for their food first,
and never forget the gardener
to keep the dream beautiful",
chuckles the oldman
wondering about 'it' all.

Time, that rarest of commodities,
without the urgency of obligation,
no time share of the mind,
freedom to be oneself

"Yeah, yeah, dream on you old fart,
most people don't spend days on the Internet,
listening to classics and CNBC,
playing with cats and plants,
smoking and drinking,
paying the bills
on Six Hundred a Month...
chortles the voice on the balcony.

Always the sound of doubt,
those souls who cannot be without
the adverbial phrases,
the advertising persuaders
who pander to the insecure,
those pathetic withouts
who want beauty and wealth,
trading in their health
for the Devil's Dream.

Obama speaks with a forked tail.

With Bernanke and Frank...
Three Sputtering Fools
in dark financial pools,
the unwitting tools
of the powers that be.

Beyond you and me.

Above the Horn.

Beyond the Reef.

Goodbye Earl...

"Hello Who?"