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 Zillow.com....
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
whenever.

"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...
imfuckingpossible...hohoho",
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?"