Fantasy Fest...the pretenders' quest.

Greetings from the watcher on the Hill.

A chorale piece from Havana fills the room, four windows
forty eight panes cleaned inside and out, exercise for the
arms and pleasure for the eyes, a back wind blowing
through the bathroom and open kitchen door through
the open original front door, Tiger taking the breeze
on the newly painted floor.....
"Keeping up with the people next door," laughs
the oldman still finding the absurdity of life.

"Major introduction there, don't fuck up the rhyme,
or heaven forbid dangle the pentameter,"
snides the smartone.

"Well, do you have something to say, a jest perhest,
ruminations on gentrifications, reflections on the past
wasted and forgotten in a drunken bed, perhaps
something nice to say....", suggested the Korean gardener.

"Absolutely, Coy Poy,( his name )... the sky is blue
and time to enjoy the sunny side of the street
for a Barrywalk and treats for whoever visits."

The chicken soup simmered on the gas stove,
four cats on four chairs waited for lunch,
peaceful before the engineer arrived.

Definitely a full town, parking spaces filled,
tourists out and about, a cyclist bumping
the oldman off the sidewalk, following a couple
down Fleming, he with black shoes and a tropical
shirt, she with an ahoo covering a naked top,
white four inch knee boots that stepped in dogshit,
rather flabby back, crossing at the light where a
busload of black tourists from Miami parked
at the Chinese restaurant for whatever....
she flashed and their cameras as well,
airbrushed obiesity.

The crazyone arrived demanding information
on the rainy night intruder threatening the life,
what little left, of the oldman, actually thirsty,
downing a cold pint.."I haven't drank in two days,"
a milestone for the cracker, who left to pretend.

The oldman left him to his tools and noise,
two pints and a buzz, toys for the boys,
drunken home improvements,
naked with his tool belt,
raw on the Rock.

The opera in the east rooms,
smashing and crashing,
pounding and thumping.

The west side monster without power,
an electrical engineer from Georgia Tech,
a house with troubled wiring,
a fellow with a strange agenda.

"What's happening, oldman, still hiding out,"
shouts the visitor from the far side with treats
from Humbolt County and the Mad River.

"That lunatic is still destroying the house,
the porch is great, but Eddie did it," thirty years
of insults and truth, the travelling man
without a bed, a mailbox, a roof or kitchen,
a junkyard dream on Big Pine Key.

"See you later, gotta see naked tit, don't like
Airheads' vibes, all negative energy,
the Mason vaccum cleaner," leaving another treat
on the clean glass table.

1500 the opera on the east side,
the other on the west, thirsting for change.

Blue skies and a breeze,
the pretender in paradise.

The oldman to the balcony.

Away from the madness.

The Fruit Festival Parade

Greetings from the Hill.
80/88 E10 65%H 0730/1850

A very quiet morning after a ruckussless night.
The usual drunken assholes may have taken
other routes or the free transportation.

Grey skies and static from Havana, the studio
more organized, neat, clean and spacious...
"Absolutely, looking great, ready for the man,
the Greatone back from the past, one of
history's mystery's....", laughs the madone.

Routines that keep the homekeepers directed,
feeding cats, sweeping floors, watering plants,
cleaning dishes, washing windows, cooking meals.
"Then you get to write, read the Internet,and....
play the Blogist....then like all great artists....
get drunk and visit the dreamworld," offers
an alien observation.

The mornings internetting have been on the crisis,
like all under George Insane, covered with lies.
An amusing speech by Bernie Bullshit
to the Economic Club of NY, 10/15, wonderful
words of comfort to the agents and dealers....
they were of opposites in the old days.
Basicly all laws are circumvented by the Beige Book,
the twelve apostles of Central Bank deceit, much
the same as the Israelie does at Homeland...walls.

Could there be something simple behind this dilemma,
gangsters in suits fronting for the true enemy,
able to avoid prosecution because of deep moles
in invisible holes within the IRS, the SEC, the Congress,
Hedge Funds from offshore, a tsunami at the door,
the dollar and treasury notes sinking as well....
"But Georgie, you could not have done this alone,
did Jeb put you up to this, bad enough what he did
to Florida, but son, youv'e ruined the country,"
sighed a weary mother her hair turned red as well.

"Well, yes it could be a conspiracy, a marxistcapitalist
union of exKGB and other athiests who do not embrace
The Rapture, thats what Uncle Dick said."

"You must find love, son, the voters will forgive and forget,"
weary of George's crooked children.

Put the dumbest son of a yellow flier in the White House
and a populous of obeise minddead greedy gobblers
consuming until hospitalised, pigfarming outsourced
by a billion little yellow people visiting soon...
"Smile when you flip those burgers."

A cooling breeze
in the florida keys
on the Florida Horn.

Ahoy,eh.

An Afternoon Walkabout

Greetings from the Hill

A pleasant walkabout, away from the machine,
supplies from Wallgreens and Faustos and a look
down Duval, tourists filling the sidewalk bars,
mostly walking and gawking, searching for what,
"Is not and never will be again."

Leaving the goods in the studio then a walk,
that strange walk into the past,
a journey when things were different,
streets were not paved with tourist gold.

The sun was the gold and shadows silver,
porches were alive with families and friends,
pets to love and plants to feed, music from a piano
not noises between commercials nor a tourguide
telling lies to oldfarts from cruiseships.

"Jaaaacckk," screams my niegbour of 33 years,
holding abstracts of her property back 133 years.
Too fast and in spanish the past was updated.
"I no like what they do, and him, I spit on."
So much for memory lane.

The speculator stuck in his money pit gone quicksand
his senior years needing junior's income and
a rich husband for daughter...
moving in on Halloween.

One of Those Days.

Greetings from the Hill.
80/88 ESE10/15 65%H 0729/1853

All this concern over doom is bloody depressing,
as if a voice never heard could change events.
"You like to see your words and those pictures
with clever captions, gossip and comixs," growls
the madone sipping leftover wine.

"Hello, hello, this is David M Walker...
and we're in shit."

Really..another financial report...
2006 Losses....450 billion dollars.
Liability .... 50 trillion dollars.
up 20 trillion since George Insane.

2,715,000 employees @ $67,000.

"Ohhhh those benefits..."

No one listens to the Controller General.

"Really, you silly old bugger, a downhill race
for a stuffed turkey trophy, no more Clinton
magic, that was immigrant and drug money,"
snorts the madone pretending, buttttt....
imagine.....Gimmeee some Truth....
and not an assasin.

Fuck it all, its Barrytime, blue skies and breezy,
a walk on the sunny side of the street,
off to Faustos for good cheer and beer.

An afternoon playing in the garden
imagining beautiful things
in These Ilse' of Eternal Sun
on the Florida Horn.


Adios Amigos.

Rainy Day in Paradise

Greetings from the Hill.
80/86 Light Rain S5/10 0727/1856

Helped the neighbor start his car with
an extension cord, fancy folks on Love Lane.

Writing on the glass table in the studio,
saturday morning notes,
a coolness in the air.

Cats inside, classics from Cuba, the Weather
Channel showing lots of green,
tires slick on the street.

Thinking about chores and bores,
home improvement for whom...

"Very simple, oldboy, don't smoke pot..
eat..and drink later," offers the visitor
at the screen door, folding his umbrella
on the front porch...the limey had been away
for a while, a rough tough first mate
in a pickup, in those days.

But this identity change was interesting,
perhaps different roles were manifesting or,
at crises, the original character revealed,
rather than the american disguises.

The Union Jack was back
and all the gold was in London, the Rothschild
clan and that silly other bitch,
the pound would get it's revenge on the buck,
and Michael Ra really gave a fuck.
"What's up mate," pretending again.

"I say..and who is this brave lad.."
picking up the big Tiger, purring
to the old friend....
"You must be the house Tiger,"
rocking him in his arms, big green eyes
in love and amazed this stranger
knew his name, of course Ra knew all,
the sungod on a rainy day in paradise.

"Well now..a lovely break in the mist..
let me take a look," dancing down the steps
doing a bit of an Irish jig to confuse,
a black Mercedes trunk lid popped
with a touchtone.

"I say, I say..but 'Today is the Day,"
laughing with his past and Mel Fisher
days at the Schooner Wharf...
a large bag of Meow Mix, two sixpacks
of Harp and Guiness.

"Never visit without gifts," dropping
twenty pounds on the porch with a thud..
"Very nice deck..looks like twenty
dollar swamp wood boards," unfolding
a white tshirt with a red maple leaf,
a strange grin.

"The loony is at par, the pound is up,
and I have no investments in the U.S.
but my limey heart and green card."

"Good to see you, my friend,"
a bit of a hug but neither were
of the graspy nature, a smile and good word,
the direct eye were what mattered
between oldfarts.

"Say, listen, I don't mean to be rude, but I am,"
affluence to poverty, the way it is, it....
"I have a few errands to attend," blue eyes
turning to black, old debts due, the walkabout.

"Here's the keys if you still like driving these things,
I bought in Toronto, white plates, got an apartment
above the lake...twisted the minds of the bloody
border boobs with my passports..Hofuckingho,"
leaving something else on the table.

The skies cleared at noon, blue skies of course,
smiling in the sun, Ra the sungod swung on the pole,
laughing.."Love vine on Love Lane....
no match for a Mason."

Only the oldman knew the Truth of that.

Blue Skies and Beautiful

Greetings from the Hill
82/88 S5/10 75%H 0726/1856

One of those slow days after prowling about
and internetting between two and four a.m.
Joe Bageant's essay, Princes of Gringolia,
festering in the brain, fat and gutless, rather
ironic that the Bitch will be President.

"Don't worry about it, oldman, you won't be
around to see the chaos, the despair, the
bankruptcies and foreclosures, the homeless,
the unemployed, closed factories, empty
office buildings, cars abandoned...Oh no,"
growls the madone, recalling scenes after
the riots and revolution long forgotten,
Harlem in "68 and the projects, Baltimore
barricaded, Watts burning, showdown Chicago,
CIA instigated student anarchy, and Tricky
didn't have eight years like the Weasle.

"Who the fuck remembers forty years ago
unless it's on History Channel," more grumbling.

Chores done; cats fed, plants watered, floors swept,
dishes done, Total milk and juice at the machine.

"Getting old sucks, can't run, lift boulders, carry
cement bags, don't even ride a bike...only have sex
at night," sighs the oldman living part time.

No fan, no breeze, the soap opera from Havana
at noon, a way back in radio time, what a life,
just recording the final days at home.

"Hofuckingho, that story, the true story
will never be told," laughed the alien visiting
with treats and some cash for the oldman.

A cuban mix and cold Molson on the front porch,
the local rags and gossip about the mayor's race,
inside dirt on crooked developers and payoffs
to the bureaufatcats, scalleywag bribes,
a cuban wife at City Hall knows all.

Blue skies and a southern breeze.

"Take care old man, be careful with that pot,
makes your legs..wobbly, Adios Amigo,"
just like in the old westerns.


A humid light breeze
in the florida keys,
under the Eternal Sun
on the Florida Horn.

A Few more Notes

Greetings again from the Hill

Last friday morning a whistle in the dark, familiar..
that kind kids do playing in the woods, Ce Cile..
through thier teeth, the oldman wobbled downstairs
in the dark, a diesal engine rattled up the street.

Happy cats in the street light luminating 'Kit and Kaboodle'
and two whole wheat loaves on the porch. Before going north,
the man drove sixty miles out of his way
for an oldman and his cats.

"An eastern star," so bright gazing towards the airport,
moving to another bowl for Muggsie then Lightning,
a great constellation blue in a black sky above
"The Southern Cross, what a delightful morning,"
smiled the oldman happy to be alive.

Too much life wasted on other people's schemes
and not one's own nightime dreams.

Ruminating on a week with Gumbo Limbo, The Mango Opera,
Bone Island Mambo, Octopus Alibi, Air Dance Iguana...
great titles crappy covers considering the hero is as well,
a fine art photographer...Tom Corcoran is funny.

Going blind from the Internet and books again,
abandoning television but for FreeTV31,
plug it in and rerun Heaven and never forget
the classics from Havana 58AM.

But there is a world going funny led by a silly fellow.
Alfred E Newman from Mad Magazine...
"What . Me Worry."
and he sleeps with Laura.

Not much breeze
in the Keys.

Blue skies in Paradise

Greetings from the Hill
82/88 SE5/10 75%H 0725/1855

"My heavens, but the economy has yet to collapse,
maybe the madman in the WhiteHouse is waiting
for Xmas to cross out his list," grumbles the oldman,
tea and toast with the machine, classics from Havana,
soon a treasonable offence.

"The dysfunctional state of american politics does not
give me great confidence in the short run.....
but how about one percent..," Alan Ginsberg '87/'06.

"The job of the Federal Reserve is to take away the
punchbowl just when the party gets interesting...,"
William McChesney Martin '51/'70

"Well now Georgie Boy, this is one awful mess....
you couldn't have done this alone, someone must
have put ideas in your mind," murmurs Mom.

Must have been those Conduit makers for the SIV's,
maybe the rebundlers of CDO's and bad bankers.
Those unregulated offshore Hedge Funds orrrr...
Uncle Dick's company now in Dubai...
"Gee whiz, the dollar's got a slow leak as well,"
wonders Ralph Nader not wanting the job.

Of course one must trust the numbers like ratings,
advertising for realestate, pictures in paradise,
come one come all....a new fall rate,
"Affordable Housing in Foreclosures," mocks the madone
a new adventure for Vulture Funds..the key to a door.

And the Madness is just beginning...look at the prices,
catfood, milk and orange juice...bread,beer and bananas
mad cow, diseased chicken, poisoned pork,
floods in California, "Homeland Security at work,
no hurricane relief to fuckup, Georgies' jewspy at the helm
of the USS FUCKUP.

Of course there is no inflation
and houses cant fly
unless a big wind
from Wall Street.

Where life is a breeze
in the florida keys
these Isles of Eternal Sun.

Blue Skies and Beautiful

Greetings from the Hill
80/86 E10/20 60%H 0723/1904

Another lazy day on the balcony reading in the sun,
tea and toast with 'The Mango Opera',
more of Tom Corcorans' home town mysteries
a bit of lightness from Vidal's 'Hollywood'
and the intrigues of Washington and the movies.

Noontime at the machine and a roar at the door,
the multimillionaire from Greenwitch,
home of HedgeHogs and offshore sailors...
"Lets do lunch," laughing into the house.

A ride in the antique Mercedes to Geiger Point
stopping for catfood, beer and wholewheat bread.

"Isn't this beautiful," peaceful waters and mangroves,
grouper sandwiches and frenchfries, yinyang draft,
a visit to the past without tourists,
time to talk about PT's and the 'Big Fleet'.

"They don't remember, Mad Jack," soothed the friend,
looking at his watch and thinking ahead.

Dark blue waters with a ripple of whitecaps,
back to the Rock without the shock,
the oldman was happy drunk and
forgot the bread and catfood in the trunk.

Adventures for the oldfolks,
a blast from the past,
full jib on the mast.

Water and wind on USOne,
the breeze in the Keys
and 'The Eternal Sun'.

After the Walkabout

A pleasant walk to Faustos for supplies,
cigarettes for the week, a pack of Buglers,
meat for the tomato sauce with liguini,
four pints for the typist.

Sunday afternoon with the opera,
the Red Sox and Angels scoreless and
what about those Rockies,
a real estate boom in Denver.

The Yankees collapsing again
to a bankrupt city.

What does all this mean.....

1600 Blue skies and breezy.

"Okay, this is it, last friday morning in bed,
genuflections and ruminations during
Camelot in San Francisco, nothing specific".

1100
A destination point..a point of view, a view
from the hill..the hill above the surge,
that surge that flows from within to within
and passes into another drain and out to sea
into a greater flow and current.

"Might as well wack off in the waves..."
perhaps it was time for messages again,
the machine would open the eyes
to catoragize and analyse.

Posters, the San Francisco age, psycedelic
dayglo drug outrageous fuck zodiac designs,
East Totem West and Funky Sam,
Celestial Arts and Bill Bates.
Romantic, be nice, still alone, a sticker
on the fridge, flower power....
burn down the guettos and jail free speech.

End the war, bring home the boys
and put real stoners on the streets.

"And that was it, head shops became boutiques,
then into department stores.....
big companies and brand names....
Duhhh, what next."

1200
"You make it sound so simple, a sign on the door,
a colorful logo, the image, an International
Billboard, brand labeling on the ass
of your pants, the neck of your shirt,
the grill of your car, steers to the cash register",
snorts the oldman, eyes heavy, ears ringing,
yearning for something unknown,
a proccupation with finality, but far from ready
to leave..not this house, not this life, always
an optimist believing in the sunny day.

In a vicarious world of entertainment that offers
duplicate hats and sweaters and the chance
to look like an asshole on television,
only fools would spectate.

Identity becomes a color change, a slimmer body,
enhanced options, change the bed and keep
the partner, sell the house and leave
the partner.

"Your'e missing the point asshole,
it is all about change...
but not the evolving comprehensive kind,
the tools and toys, baubles bangles and clothes,
better housekeeping...
trade in and turnover, an address changes
every two years, hardly time to grow a garden,"
snorts the madone unamused with the gypsy way
that started when the Dodgers moved to L.A.

Then goalies wore masks,
the snakes climbed up ladders
from thier law offices into elevators
and agency floors, lobbiest for stars,
dealmakers for the percentage, an allegiance
to the highest price.

The team number became the dollar number
and the frachise is Bushleague.

Always end with a joke.

Blue skies and beautiful,
a good breeze in the Keys.

Ready for the cold pint.

1730 time to cook dinner.

More Rainy Day Notes

Three hundred words an hour, better learn to type.....

0900
Families visited families with a boobtube, and soon
a skyline of antennas and birdshit interupted the view,
the Korean War was far away and too unpleasant
to broadcast, suburbia was spreading it's sod and
middleclass management learned to commute,
even the workingclass could afford a home
of thier own, flats were for foriegners, immigrants
that did the hard and dirty work..no blacks
just irish and italian, catholics of course...
"My heavens, but somewhat prejudiced,
church and state in a holy union but no peerage
in castles on crown land, this was a proletariat nation,"
muses the oldman gazing out over the balcony,
pigeons flapping for catfood, quiet streets below,
sunlight on cuban oregano, Chopin and Slovak
Paradise in its' second hour....
indeed, indeed, the oldman lived in a dream.

Free of other people's schedules, time to enjoy
the luxury of enjoying, those copulating verbs
so misunderstood for lack of use..
"Ho Ho, remember to remember, how curious
to be curious..," gazing out the north window
at floating poincianna limbs and swaying
palm leaves, orange blossoms long gone and
thoughts of the last month of hurricane season.
the constant dread of destruction...
"Of what, a roof, the porch and balcony,
windows and floors, gardens and fences,
furniture and appliances....Ho fucking Ho",
chuckles the oldman naked on the bed,
listening to a growling gut, as a fully loaded
cuckootrain passes babbling bullshit
to cruiseshippers gawking at paradise.

harrumff harrumfff.


1000

"Change your life for the better, upgrade your
standards, improve your lifestyle..",announces
the madone pretending to pretend,
certainly squandering one's thoughts in a
notebook for none to discover seems selfish,
but perhaps the concept has the purpose
of evolving out of the subconscious into a style
or even a larger theme...doing without to discover
what is truly necessary, eliminating waste
to eliminate less...

"Yeah..you fat hogs, eat less..shit less, for starters,
entertain yourself and stay at home,
maybe write read and listen to classics
and the sound of no hand clapping
...Oh oh, I couldn't be alone..
who could hear me groan...", mocks the madone
holding the broom in the hallway as the oldman's
fingers begin to cramp and he had yet to discover
why Jack Keroauc went On the Road without
a corvette on Route 66, and beatniks were said
to be a name by Herb Cain when psuedointellectuals
sat at Bandice's on Broadway picking up rich pussy
from Nob Hill, homosexuals arriving from New York
for the rennaisance, tailors for sailors, Camelot
arrived and Gore Vidal was Jackie's pet.

Johnny Mathis, of course not, Liberace was beyond,
certainly not Rock, decades before
the dark age of disease.

"But everyone is bi at Berkley",
wails the jewish girls
and the age of experimentation begins
with sex and drugs as the whores
in the tenderloin were men
decades before a clever adman
introduced the gay market.

And the oldman lived at Turk and Hyde
across from the Blackhawk.

Before Kennedy was killed.

A little sunshine for the walk
to Faustos.

Love Vine is growing on Love Lane

Greetings from the Hill
79/88 NE10/20 80%H 0721/1907

What a time for the gardens, God bowling up above,
the evening light shows stroblighting silver roofs,
indeed a balcony view of awe in nature....
a bit subdued from the hurricane watches of past,
but we are not yet through the seasons.

Cats fed,floors swept, dishes done, typing begins
with juice, toast and tea and the classics from Havana,
the writer at his island outpost in the Horn of Florida.

"No moaning and groaning about the White House Weasle,"
suggests the madone with enough of politics,
the local race into a runoff for Mayor.

Indeed, indeed as Captain Conch would say, the editor
of Big Pine Key.com, his experiment in suburban outreach
for those who enjoy true keys lifestyles.

In town Cayo Dave monitors the housing dilemma but...
"Yeah, but where is Rock Trueblood," wondered the oldman,
unheard of in a month, stultified voices and no opinions,
smiling poses to the Conch Color realestate rag...
the politician prodevelopment picture editor, "Say Cheese."

The true treasure is Goodmorningkeywest.com, the daily
notes of the pirate and pastor, strange natures together,
"This pirate did survive to sixty five and quite alive..
Happy Birhday, Sloan," congratulates the oldman.

Perhaps it is the grey skies, islanders are so spoiled with
'blue skies in paradise' always walking on the sunny side
of the street, the morning music of a mockingbird,
swaying palm leaves with undulating poincianas and...
"Yes, even the nothere rich, plant lovely gardens,"
admits the madone overlooking the illegal caretakers.

Fun to play with words and maybe invent a few.

This is a page from the daily journals begun in bed...

0800
"Not working for others...but not working for
yourself is in a definite reactionary mode,
the drunk thing could be investigated a bit more
with the mass pursuit of gambling..
a study on domestic aberrational behavior...,"
muses the oldman to the cat, surrounded by the
swarms, mosquitos seek black,..the reasons for not,
the subconscious denial of slavery that evolved
with suit rejection, then fashion for the poor..
jeans and tshirt, the James Dean hair
and the Marlon Brando sneer, but what of ..
the girls who loved Elvis, those hot things after
bobbysoxers who dreamed of being bad girls
with big tits driving daddy's new car and mommy nuts
with Ricky Nelson in the trunk....

ahhh..television and the top ten, from actual drama
to the friday night fights, Gillette and Texaco,
Groucho Marx peddling Lacky Strikes and Chrysler,
with of course a gorgeous girl showing leg
as she swung into the drivers' seat...
"The beginning.... and Groucho did it", smiling to the cat
my heavens but who would have believed how that
subtle revolution began that made delivery drivers
of housewives, this expanded duty prepping thier talents
for the fulltime workforce as well, couldn't support
the family needs with but one income abd one couldn't
expect the brats to work....
the beginning of middleclass distinction, cliques that seperated
the girls in classes and boys' sweaters with letters,
television seperated the income classes,
antenna poles were expensive
and color was to come.

Commercials spun thier insideous advertising
into a gullible nation of wanto believers.


"Well well, and that was page one hour one,"
typing was blowing up his fingers,
and five more pages of morning memories,
maybe on installments and it was screwing
up his photo gallery.

The grey sky rumbles,
the winds blow,
driving rain

In these Isles of Eternal Sun.

Another Election

Greetings from the Hill
82/88 SSW5 65%H 0719/1912

My heavens but a town divided in mind,
now a runoff between the Big Mac
and 'you can't beat our meat'....
the battle of the carnivori to be
settled after the 'Fruit Festival',
hummmm as Sloan would write.

The elitist lawyer and planning judge
not the landslide expected stuck in his mud
from eliminating too much forest...
"No leaves in the pools", smiled barehead.

A womans point of view again on the dias
in place of age with a sense of humour,
the greedy rat back, whoremaster of Duval
and Ambassador of Alcoholism.

Poor old Harry ruined by the drunken rage
and sunken vehicle of his son...
out of one of Tom's local tales,
soon forgotten but by the 'bladers'.

"But what does this mean for the future,
two years and five stars, hofuckingho,"
laughs the madone watching it all
and predicting the fall
before winter.

Seasons change and chairs rearrange,
bureaucrats retire or get fired
and the politician becomes lobbiest
the lawyer changes sides
and no one writes the Truth about
resident slaves and moniest knaves.

"What about you, Mr. Golden Flake,"
laughs the oldman of the poet politician,
the editors who suck ass for ads
and pimp for realestate, gutless wimps.
Voices that speak for green trees
aqua waters, rainbows of blossoms,
and even butterflies...all free.

"Fuck these pricetag makers for the Gullible,
rapers of blue sky victims in paradise,
outrageous chargers of illusion, delusion,
'take a drunk down whorehouse lane',
and send him home on a plane,"
growls the madone, too old to care,
too contended to dare,
and too poor for the fare.

Classics from Havana, a silent house,
a slight breeze from the south,
cats fed, plants watered, floors swept.

Getting weaker every day with age,
reading too much of Vidal and Bashinsky,
distressed with the american way of greed
that personifies in a tourist town,
"A hundred dollar bill gets lunch
and not even an insult," musing
over times past that didn't last.

Time to get a life
maybe a new wife.

A slight breeze in the keys,
these Isles of Eternal Sun.

Election Day

Greetings from the Hill
82/88 E5/10 60%H 0720/1915

"And how many mayors and how many elections
have you seen rearrange the Rock," wondered
the madone to the oldman sipping a cold pint
each on the balcony, a blue sky breeze at noon.

The oldman mused and thought of the first..McCoy,
The Real McCoy on a hundred dollar bill....
'McCoy fills the Bill above the print, great job,
hard to reproduce on cotton, the color perfect as well.

Mad Jack, the T shirt King.

Captain Tony.....why not, if you care, if you dare..
an upset and a barefoot mayor.

He thought Heymen an odd name for a gay mayor.

Wardlow was Swifty's stooge.

Someone was missing during the drunk decade.

Weekley and the Pretty Sing giveaway,
developers welcome in or out of the closet,
paved streets, drains that dont work,
the laterals stopped neither stink nor infection
"But made the plumbers rich, eh bubba,"
smiled the madone.

Morgan, the loveable pastor but a mean bear,
todays the day for change for ten dollars a vote,
very cheap for a 10,000 dollar job, 80 hours a week
free drugs,food and booze...trips galore.

Two thousand votes maybe three thousand
apathy thy name is voter but democrats have
plurality and the Tampoites support the butcher,
but the hatchetman got the navyman.

Cats sleeping in chairs, classics from Havana,
a window breeze, a change in the keys...
"Not very fucking likely, money is the honey
of these beekeepers of zoning and moaning,"
growls the madone heading to the booth.

Another beautiful day in paradise,
these Isles of the Eternal Sun.