Summertime Madness.

0651/2015 82/88 Blue Skies SE10/20 70%H
DOGS 10424 7897 1189 1118. LIBOR .25.

Greetings from the Hill.

A beautiful day in paradise,
the oldman still crippled and housebound,
a morning walk up Love Lane,
the extent of exercise,
a battle against atrophy.

Five computers all WIFI,
"No drain to the brain,"
laughs the madone
enjoying a fantasy
come true.

The house was fully loaded,
prepared for the war
by the Street Cheaters,
the Middle Class Eaters,
FrankandDodds Deceit,
and Barry Obama.

Could the public be stupid,
the unwashed masses as ignorant
as the consuming cash cows
paying Citi thirty percent,
to avoid default and foreclosure
while Goldman bets on failure,
routing the game through
House Hedges, SLKHull, SigmaX,
AXE ECN....REDIPLUS...
Hofuckingho.

"What the fuck are ECN's,"
pissed with machines that only
the high and mighty could buy
and control the numbers
of billion share trading days
and own the clearing houses
of low life equities,
when the quadrillion dollar market,
those bets on bets on bets
in The WorldWide Casino,
Billy O'Brien, the newest snotfuck,
managing mafia of derivatives,
"Dream on whiteboy..Triads murder."

Fucking with the Chinese waters
playing wargames while losing
in Afghanistan, lost in Iraq,
quagmired at home...
another phoney commander in chief,
three cheats in a row
never a leader of men,
twenty years of talking fools,
money raising tools
for the trading traitors.

"Piss a pure patriot fucking off,
where's that Jim Webb,"
growled the oldman,
sipping a pint,
sucking a rollup,
raining outside, classics inside,
Lord of the Rings on TV,
Big Mac humming,
laptops on in the west wing,
the artist below
working on his paintings,
the house at home.

Thunder in paradise
with a light show of lightning.

Lightning, the cat, bounds into the bedroom.

"Who did this," wonders Tony,
tired of computer games,
the rain leaking on his TV,
his garden green.

"Bill Clinton and Robert Rubin,
Alan Greenspan and Wendy Gramm,
Larry Summers and Larry Fink,
Henry Kissinger and Pete Petersen,
Hank Paulson and George Bushes,"
laughed the oldman,
"and that kike from AIG and CFR.

All too much to understand.

Gambling against losses
when the faith has gone,
the hope a leaking boat,
the SS Obombus.

Believing in an unbeliever,
faith in a fraud.

Gullibles Travels.

And the oil leaks
and no one freaks.

Leaderless.

A rainy day in the Keys.








n a fantasy

63 Days and Still Gushing!

0638/2018 80/90 Cloudy E 15/25 80%H
DOGS 10502 7880 1259 1926. LIBOR .30.

Greetings from the Hill.

A cool morning at eighty degrees
with thunder and showers,
notes and breakfast
on the balcony...
life in the tropics.

News from the gulf states distressing
as once again Washington waits,
rigs close down,businesses fail,
Corexit kills all ocean life
sinking the dead out of sight...
a product of Exxon after Valdez,
bury all evidence and shred the proof,
all rotting corruption.

Obama does nothing but posture,
another pathetic effete
pretending to be a leader,
no experience as a man...
at least Kostner does something

"This is the time to change
Cheney's Energy Policy,
and the 'Big Oil Corruption',
a time for real Change,"
dreams Redford to Larry King,
raising dead bird money,
Haiti ignored and forgotten,
alone to face the hurricanes.

Another sleezeball protects BP,
Jamie Gorelick, government traitor,
mouthpiece for the highest price,
whore for hire.

My good friend John keeps me aware...
a bumper sticker,
'Pray for Obama Psalm 109.8'

"Let his days be few;
and let another take his office."

T shirts and bumper stickers
are the stuff of CHANGE.

Summer and ninety two degrees
in oil free Florida Keys.

Above the Horn.

Inside the Reef.

BP Slick and Obama Shit.

0636 2015 82/90 W 5/10 Blue Skies 80%H.
DOGS 9868 7200 1247 1834. LIBOR 0.30.

Greetings from the Hill.

A hot day in paradise,
empty streets and a few renovations,
"She owns a few around town,
got it for six ninety five,"
rolling his eyes at life...
sold for 1.5M in 2007,
renovated and offered at 2.5M,
touched the big 3M and died,
with the contractors dream.

Walking through quiet streets,
passing Paradise Cafe..closed,
a bad summer for business.

"Good Morning," smiles the lady
at the Electric Company,
cold and refreshing
before the six blocks back.

Something was getting worse,
that ominous feeling of disaster,
economic, environmental, and next...
"Emotional eruptions and Madness,"
grumbles the madone quite familiar
with intellectual turmoil,
tending the balcony plants.

"What will it smell like by august,
why is nothing being done,"
asks the reporter to the jawboner,
baffling with bullshit,
changing nothing.

"All fucking idiocy...
developers want another Sunset Key,
thirty multimillion dollar homes
in the gulf harbor...
new twenty million dollar offices
for the overweight and overpaid,
financial fucking suicide,"
growls the gardener at noon,
monitoring the backyard sprinkler.

Divert the crisis with a disaster,
avoid prosecuting the fraudsters
to pursue civil action against BP,
all total nonesense and a rerun,
force a company into bankruptcy
then bail it out after the calamity,
ecological murder not prosecuted
and the truth again hidden.

"Where are the financial geniuses
directing their prowess into answers,
great at skimming money but not
an oil slick, not for the greater good,
a pitiful collection of parasites
functioning only as pixel makers,
put the pricks skimming the Gulf,"
sighs the oldman giving up Hope.

"There isn't any money for Fema,
the National Guard playing war,
Federal and State income down
twenty percent, like employment,
and now Hurricane Season...
God's revenge against greed
and the ugly American,
all on the watch
of Slick Barry."

The oldman was thirsty,
too disgusted with the situation,
three years on the slide down
to financial parity
with the past,
a scam of the Federal Reserve
through inflation of a nation,
but not globalization,
Yummies for yellow tummies...
Saunders is rolling.

Time for a beer in the gazebo.

This sort of shit takes attention,
reading significant blogs,
searching for the voice of Truth,
finding nothing but repetition,
fools trusting Google...
a chorus line of mimics,
no significant sarcasm
in the censored society,
Burger King on granite tops.

"Yeah, yeah,blame 'it' on the limeys,
Blankfein or Rothschild, maybe Mack,
perhaps both Paulsons and Bernanke,
a currency plot by Soros enabled
by chinese gold reserves to devalue
the US dollar and Treasury bonds,
or simply a Federal Reserve method
of greening the Toxic with ZIRP
for a few years of recession,
dumping the debt into the shadow market,
washing the Wall Street dirt
from the paper,"
snorts the madone pissed with MSNBC,
especially Greenspan's wife,
all fast talking cunts.

Watching without sound.

Life without the sound of commercials,
the ringing of cash registers,
the scanning of a plastic card,
pixels in the magical magnetic core
of VISA....the secret.

Charging towards a balanced budget,
deficit free financing....
paying off the National Debt,
"Hofuckingho, those were
'the good old days'...
before Gloria got pregnant,"
All in the Family reruns
and the long hot summer,
doldrums and deadbirds,
sinking real estate,
a monster from the African coast,
raging through the Carribean
into the spewing plume
beneath the Gulf
airbrushing black
the Gold Coast homes.

Of course AIG insures all.

"Does anyone know
who's running the show?"

A runaway train,
a hijacked plane.

Disappearing money
and an uncorked gusher.

Above the Horn,
beyond the reef.

Time for another walk.

Summertime Blues.

0639 2008 78/85 Blue Skies E 5/10 60%H
DOGS 10174 7396 1215 1815. LIBOR 30.6. VIX 30.4.

Greetings from the Hill.

A perfect day in paradise,
chores done and a walk to Faustos.

Blue skies and Poincianna blooming,
a light breeze in the florida keys,
quiet streets without trucks...
gentrification in recession.

The oldman had rearranged his quarters,
Big Mac in the bedroom with CNBC,
classics and jazz in the study,
the guestroom empty,
the presidents room in disarray,
the artist leaving for elsewhere.

Summertime without cashflow.

And the dreaded change.

Big Mac out of memory.

Shit and a slick
all at once.





cuban oregano plants burgeoning
on the balcony...
always a balance to confusion.

Out back the master carpenter
is planing Pensacola pine boards
for frames complimenting his art,
"He waits until he leaves,"
grumbles the madone,
never liking change.

A month away from world obsessions
and what has changed but topics,
the fright of the day,
the dread of overnight
trading losses...
"A computer gone Mad,"
laughs the oldman,
gazing at Moony's folly
across the alley,
gentrification gone sad,
the daughter lost,
the old man hospitalized,
an empty dream.

The nation ready to explode,
major cities preparing bankruptcy,
bonds all shorted by the Fraudsters,
all renegotiated without the DEBT...
fuck highrider pensions,
all very strange with the unionman
on the board of the FRBNY.

Running out of power.

Blue skies in paradise.

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.

Freddie Couples and Loving Couples.

0709/1946 72/82 E5/10 Blue Skies 75%H
DOGS 10965 8484 1160 1839 LIBOR .228.

Greetings from the Hill.

Another beautiful day in paradise,
golf on one side and classics the other,
blue skies and swaying palms...
spring and summer have arrived
with seventies and eighties
and a light sheet at night
for the open window breeze.

"Well, oldman..about time for a rant,
you may be free for a year,
but the nation you love
is deeper in financial shit,
thanks to the phony professor
in the White House,"
grumbles the madone
watering the balcony plants.

The oldman mused about the performance
of Barryboy and his oratory art,
a form of political evangelizing
that had the faithful swaying
and the doubters braying...
the middle class back to praying,
a subtle form of change
for the might of the religious right.

"The Prick canceled National Prayer Day
while letting Ragheads congregate
in front of Lincoln..."
steamed the Obama hater on the balcony.

Definitely a hidden agenda,
this warmongering Peace Prize winner
oozes false enthusiasm encouraging
"And a round of applause for..."
another of his toadies,
a toastmaster of bullshit.

The oldman sighed and accepted the con,

Ingratiating cheerleaders on the sidelines.

Most marriages aren't made in heaven,
but through EHarmony.com,
but for those exceptional few,
those couples not fake or opaque,
but transparent in honesty
and the true love
of soulmates.

"No lying eyes, no cheating hearts,
true love from heaven above,
real American couples
exuding happiness...
after editing,"
chuckles the oldman,
approaching his A game.

"And we are coming up to
the final pairings,"
intones the idiot announcer
with hush hush ostentation
for for fools who bang balls
"And bang their balls,"
interjects the madone
mocking the man who took
'The Gentle Path'
to understand his
sexual aberrations
for white girls,
the promiscuous kind,
the wild sort.

"I don't know why that boy
didn't just have oral sex...
that's not intercourse,
why..ask Hillary,"
grinned that shifty
Billy Blythe.

Always close to the Truth.

A good spokesman for business,
and acting helps in politics,
Ronnie was the best but
Arnold looks like he was shot
or has a California cucumber
up his ass and his wife
looks like a Kennedy in drag,
spokespersons for default
on every imaginable bond
from the eighth largest economy
in the world..."Hello, hello,
Dumb, Stupid, Retarded...
allfuckingthree,"
snorts the oldman to Big Mac.

So comforting to know that some
politicians are honest about sex
but not the incestuous finance
of Freddie and Fannie,
or the menage a trois
with Ginnie Mae.

"That sputtering queer
covering up the Fraud,
the Fed in bed with the
'naked shorters',
Little Ben and Tiny Tim
peaking through the window
of opportunity at discount,"
snorting and getting thirsty,
too weak to walk.

Time to take the shade
in the garden
for beautiful thoughts.

"The Devil is out of the golf bag,
no pretty lovely blonde is safe,
big stick, big dick...
take your Gatorade..
'Is it in you',
great ad, Pepsi Cola,
hofuckingho, on with the show,
and the largest female audience
in television history...
every thing works out
in...America,"
thinking about all those
forgiving wives
until the time arrives.

Quiet streets and empty parking spaces,
no weekend repairs, no nothing,
no weekend drunks at three,
the Recession was Back!

"Imagine if the Fraudsters couldn't cheat,
professional golf, no handicap,
no mulligans, no kick out of the rough,
and noooo side bets covered
by a partner or rich caddy,
no snakey ass lawyer moving markers,
changing cup placement,
not raking traps,
scuffing the greens...
a game of honest gentlemen,"
wonders the oldman sadly,
knowing that 'if there is no law
against 'it', then do 'it'
is the prevailing behavior
of players of all American games,
be it golf, sex or the market.

"Tiger cheated on his wife,
tainted his children
and embarrassed his mother,
Earl would have broken
all of his fingers,"
growled the madone.

"How's Freddie hitting them,"
asks Fred from Portland,
on the MagicJack,
"Is Lee still first on the tee?",
inquires Cousin Terry's
scottish wife...
funning on an email,
"I like Phil,"
giggles Patricia,
watching in the bedroom.

A day of Change.

"It's a different world,
the complexity is awesome,
reaching far beyond our capacities,"
the senile old shit getting
his comeuppance on CSPAN
from Brooksly Born,
Greenspan was right
seventy percent of the time,
"Put that on margin."

Tiger was lurking in the short grass.

Phil had lost his thrill.

Hardly a breeze
in the fabulous florida keys.

Above the Horn.

Seventy...and Free for a Year!

0718/1942 65/75 Blue Skies E5/10 70%H.
DOGS 10948 8487 1124 1793. LIBOR .220.

Greetings from the Hill.

A marvelous day in paradise,
the dreaded tax certificate
paid again in the last hour
with Bill's silver stash
and a bridge loan from John...

another year to learn to type
and pretend to make Comix.

Beautiful blue skies and swaying palms,
wackos from CNBC across the hall,
classics from Havana in the corner,
contented cats on a sunny balcony.

The gardener off on a voyage,
the oldman tending and loving
the backyard magic garden.

Springtime and learning to walk
more than around the block.

"Hey, oldman, looking gooood,"
laughs the madone popping a cork,
a pinot noire from the lovely lady
from Foggy Bottom who arrived
with a frown and left
with a happy smile...
"Key West is the best."

"Watch your mind, wine is a different kind,"
lecturing Four Pack Jack.

Hohofuckingho, wondering about Barry,
in his Oshawa wine cellar.

Silver roofs mirroring in the noonday sun.

"Never thought I'd be seventy,"
muses the oldman to the Big Mac,
ready for a little ranting.

"This Fox inspired Tea Party
by the Mad Haters without hats,
Limbaugh, Beck and Coulter,
stooges of the Mad Murdock
and his yellow journalism
fomented by his chink wife,"
snorts the oldfart wondering why
bad taste and overweight waste
submerged the American Dream.

"Television commercials did 'it',
consumption financed by Debt,
everything became a scheme...
offshoring of jobs and capital,
a socialistic government
without health and oldage benefits,
the world's largest military
cannot find Osama Bin Laden
but can bomb a donkey in Afghanistan
from a bunker in Colorado,
the insurance companies never stop
pitching accident and death,
Buffet,s Geiko geeky gecko
and a spastic cunt in red lipstick,
AIG is still on your face,
all cash flow for the Vultures
creating a new line of derivatives
from the fashion houses
of innovative finance,
the traitors who trade
in Debt, Chaos and Disease...
Monsters from Jekyll Island,
agents of the Federal Reserve System,"
sighing over the 'National Swindle'
that debilitates with inflation,
a very complicated concept of theft
evolved by Central Bankers.

Bill had given the oldman a birthday treasure,
'The Creature from Jekyll Island',
by G Edward Griffin, read 'it' before,
now a house reference with Quigley.

Patricia brightened the day
with a smile and supplies
from Faustos.

A lucky oldman indeed.

"All very nice oldman, but...
reality is living each day,
watering the ornamentals,
tending the vegetable patches
and feeding the cats...
after that
life is a breeze
in the fabulous florida keys,
sometimes high on the Hill,"
smiled the madone.

Beyond the Reef.

Above the Horn.