Sunday Morning Delight

0719/1942 70/80 Grey Skies, Light Rain, Calm.

Greetings from the Hill.

Orange juice and cafeconleche, cuban breadtoast,
chores done but no walk around the block,
a good day to stay away from grumbling
about thieves and liars,
"Right on, oldman...
Enjoy what you got
while you can still walk, Harharhairball,"
the madone cackling
with the light shower.

The indianwoman brought breakfast..
four pieces of bacon
with french toast and maple syrup
from Quebec.

"Hey, oldman, you said Canada was safe..
what's this Caisse de Depot and crap
from Goldman, ABCP's again...
and SIM's,VIES,SFT's, SIV's,
UFO's and the CIA, hofuckingho,"
eating the oldman's breakfast.

Was there no place safe and secure,
no wind in the pines,
an empty beach
not occupied
by tourists.

"You cannot drink in Key West until noon
on Sunday, unless at home,"
as the madone went downstairs
for a cold pint.

The oldman wondered if only the few
knew about Paulson's secret plans
on laws and regulation...
like FDR with Joe at the SEC,
a wiley fox watching golden goose eggs
soon to be scrambled eggs.

Perhaps the time had come for change
but to where and why for what...
to leave a life of comfort for another,
beginning again without a balcony,
no cats or doves, nor clucking below.

"Ah, yes, the dilemma and analemma,
the temperature at sunrise,
for a walk on the beach,"
smiled Doctor Coy
inquiring of his good freind Joe
outposting in Belize,
they had trained together
in the Erasian Gulf.

joebageant.com

"Well I think he's the best
when he too gets mad,"
adds the indian woman
with a cold beer
and thin joint
before noon.

Calm and quiet
in Key West.

Save your canned food.

A Very Old Man.

0721/1941 72/82 Blue Skies ESE/10 55%H

Greetings from the Hill.

A love dove trapped in the flat,
confused by the clean windowpanes
perfected by the alien.

Next door west,
nervous gaymen
giggled on the porch...
and the roosters crowed
and the walking tourists laughed.

"That bird is shitting on your bed,"
grumpled the indianwoman
with another joint
and cold pint.

"Fuck off, go paint the porch
of the hundred year old woman,"
as the lovedove smashed
into the clear clean glass...
bleeding on the bed.

Eight years of that asshole Bush...
imagine the progress at home
for those who stayed
more than two years
before finding
a TV dream....
Countrywide and Citigroup,
Blackstone and Blackrock
guarded by Blackwater
over the Federal Reserve Dam
of subprime slime
"A dollar for your dime,"
smiled the mortgage regulator
behind your back,
a political hack.

"They are all in together, part of 'it',
always have been, one or the other, Eh..
Democrats or Republicans of what,"
spitting over the balcony
on the rooster,
a dumb Rhode Island Red.

"What can an honest man say
could truth from the common man sway
the merchandisers way...
over dumbfuck buyers,"
sighed the greatone.


Leaving the dove dead on the bed.

Canned beans was an answer.

There was no hotwater.

The weather was warmer.

A breeze in the Keys.

The Sixtyninth Year (69).

0725/1940 Blue Skies 68/78 E10/20 50%H

Greetings from the Hill

The oldman was watching Seven Mile Reef
on FreeTV, listening to the classics,
lush and clear in the east wind,
blue skies and beautiful...

"Happy birthday, oldfart..Your'e still alive,"
laughed the madone with the morning Times
and the wind rattled the chimes,
the cats ignored the gawker
too many too soon would come
the new owners
and what was
will have been.

The oldman was in one of 'those moods',
thirty three birthdays
in the same house
"The same fucking bedroom..
although the adjective might be Clintonesqe,
Harfucking hairball,"
cackled the madone
stoned and now
popping a cold pint
in paradise.

"You see the sun, you feel the sun,
you face the rays of energy,
the solar fuel for blood in humans,
photosynthesis for plants,"
smiled the kind Doctor Coy
on the balcony
with a rare cactus
that blossomed
every
thirty three years.

The Kid arrived for lunch
the mother was late.

Noontime in the American Subtropics...

The oldman woke up at four o'clock
for Total and toast,
a late breakfast after two joints
and four pints...Goldie Hawn's husband
was starring in a chinese movie
on FreeTV...
oldcat drank the milk
at home on the Hill.

"What's up, oldman...
still breathing,"
laughed the cuban freind
of thirty years
with a treat
for the living.

Conch chowder and oyster crackers.

The oldman was ready for the movie in bed,
On Golden Pond.

An east breeze
in the florida keys.

And the night had yet
to begin.

Urbi et Orbi "Or is it Orbi et Urbi."

0726/1939 Blue Skies 70/80 W5 50%H

Greetings from the Hill.

An absolutely beautiful morning for breakfast,
on the balcony of course, with cats,
and lovedoves,
and chickens...
the thirtythird Easter in paradise.

At home of course.

"Good morning oldman, How's the recession,"
mocks the madone bringing cafeconleche and
cuban bread with the Miami Herald
open at the business section.
"A cold spell coming, down in the sixties
like the value of a buck, Har fuckingharhair,"
agitating the dying oldone.

An Emerson record player replica in the corner
of the presidents room played Sinatra,
an original from Miss Vickey's collection,
the machine, a birthday gift
from the indianwoman...
the songs from the sixties too he mused.

"The Trading Traitors play Blackheart."

The ultimate screw your Uncle Sam scam
unfolded as the dealers convinced
the twelve bankers of the Reserve
to take their Toxic Shit as collateral
for 400B to short the US dollar.

"Hello hello out there in Duncedom...
does anyone question the thinking,
perhaps a pause between hypnosis,
maybe disbelief of deceit...
won't laugh at your greed for need,"
the madone was performing
on the balcony
to the passing swells.

The oldman had been reading speeches
of the Fed bankers, Fish the mexican
is funny, the woman a liar, a band of the same
scoundrels from a traders' seat.
"Lie until you Die,"
grumbling without a cold pint
taking a walk so as not to atrophy
or the calves turn to lead,
a tour about the block at sunset
had revitalized the hope
to survive alive
"Birthday 68."

The oldman had been babbling on to the boy
who's eyes looked funny in another world,
indianmothers' eyes were black
in protection and anger.

"I'm taking him to the hospital."

The boy had had another fit.

Some days suck.

Hardly a breeze in the Keys.

Don't drink wellwater.

"There is a smile in the air."


Grey skies and beautiful.

Sail away from the Sale

0732/1937 Cloudy and Windy SE15/25 70%H

Greetings from the Hill.
What a day for sailing, chimes singing, trees bending,
windows rattling, papers blowing about,
"Notes on the scammers, those crooked banksters
and the corporapists...fuck them," growls the madone
finishing his egg and sausage crumpet with cafeconleche,
a big breeze in the keys today.

A crisis in the education program over lunches...
parents are delinquent in prepaying for the crap
that is confused as food for thier little hoggies.
"Let the fat turds fast on odd days," grumbles the oldman,
disgusted with the walking bloated.

"It's a goddamned shame the way these people look,
fifty inch asses flopping up the street...
imagine the strain on the toilet seat,"
belching from the hot sausage,
farting from the eggs
ready for a cigarette.

The odd thing about this financial crisis is the con.

Economists beyond the american media suspect
a plot of conspirators beyond belief...
"The Indians shrug and decouple thier market,
the Chinese smile and wait, the Russians have got
the investment bankers secret stash with no fear
of Hedge Fund takeovers....the old KGB,"
offers the doctor visiting the cripple.

The wind was blowing off the last leaves
of the key lime tree, springtime in paradise,
summer arrives hand in hand, 70/80....

One wonders if the McMansions are worried about
thier gardens and pets, children and grandparents,
the wind in thier, hair classics in the air,
or.....CSI on plasmaTV, fuel in the SUV,
the Harley in the back garage,
and Cramer's barrage.

"It is a consolidation of power by the agents,
these licensed distributers of government debt
who can control the money markets through
the Federal Reserve, itself under the aegis
of the GoldieSocks graduates," sighs the doctor,
attending to the oregano taking the balcony sun.

"What the vulture funds have done with debt
is now being applied by the top twenty, now the top
nineteen," chuckling to himself....
"The mystery is the rotten root, the decayed apple
that spreads its disease through the money trees
of economic greed groves....and the rot is not
from subprime mortgages."

"No fucking shit Sherlock," growls the oldman
too weak to walk to Faustos on a sunny day,
trapped behind the machine of gloom and doom,
locked inside a devaluating room,
sick and tired of being retired
from living....

"So the fuck what, it's all bullshit, Doctor..
and the 'it' is government shit, funny how the problems
all began with one man and the WTC and WMD,
this savage little prick then brought Homeland
and Blackwater for protection for Halliburton,
oh yes..privatization of government for profit,"
the oldman was getting heart palpitations
fuming about the scumball structure.

"Relax yourself, death comes soon enough,"
soothed the kindly spirit leaving the oldman
to his house arrested development.

"How stupid can a populace be that allows a clown
to represent the most powerful nation on earth,"
sighs the weary oldman wishing he were forty.

"House for sale, built with plastic nail,
an Astroturf lawn with imitation gardens,
lovingly looked after by aliens,"
snorted the madone.

Take the breeze in the keys,
sail on small seas,
Don't eat canned worms.

Springtime in Paradise

0736/1935 Cloudy 65/78 ESE10/15 70%H
Greetings from the Hill.

Finally back on the machine, a new console
and two new mice, double sided action
to understand the duplicity of government.

Hard to imagine a blueblood Walker boy,
scion of Wall Street bankers and supporters
of the Hitler regime and Horace Schacht
could look like a redneck niggerkiller.

"Hey, hey, oldman walking...
hard to imagine Hippies back in the White House,
....or will it be the Black House,"
laughs the madone walking to the balcony,
filling the bowls on the scaffolding,
for six cats and twenty doves,
feeding the carekillers meals
to sixteen chickens in the garden below.

The oldman was in regression again,
after a month of being homebound from paralysis
he began walking, first a block, then increasing
to twenty five and almost a heart attack.

"Then you fucking near cut your arm off, asshole,
redesigning the flat with a northwest galley,"
second floor chores done, the madone sat down
beside the oldcat eating caviar and sipping milk.
He often wondered about things like that
on a fifty dollar a week budget.
The oldman seemed to have a way with money...
or a way without 'it', that mysterious it again.

"A fool in power who believes his words..."
the doctor had returned from his studies,
soothing the balcony plants with love
talking in plant tongue.

"Only these Americans believe thier own propoganda,
trust advertising, and have faith in thier dollar,"
shaking his head and watching a springbreak bum
on a passing bicycle, the joy of youth,
without a cellphone.

"Against the ruination of mankind there is
but one defense," pausing to perform
to the passing Conchtrain, the sun shining,
god's spotlight on the good Doctor Coy,
"The creative act."

The oldman smiled in amusement at the ripoff,
forty years ago in the hills beyond MillValley,
the cliffs above the Golden Gate,
in the valleys of the Redwoods
before hippies and peaceniks,
lived the Beatnicks....
The oldman and Roy Coy
also went to Berkeley to chase pussy.

"Dream on, oldman....
its closer to fifty years," offers the madone,
sending the oldfart on a walkabout
for a cold pint before noon.

Time was closing it's channel on the oldman,
the joy of watching and walking
a battle with degenerative disease
and an unrefined diet.
Independence and freedom, a choice of time,
the very essence of spirit,
shackled by carekillers and takeover artists,
vultures preying upon the weak,
picking raw the love of life,
taking the Love Lane mailbox,
stomping the lovevine,
poisoning little chickees.

"So what is the solution, Doctor...
surrender to the banksters and corporapists.."
offers the madone as the skies turn blue
and a salt breeze clears the air,
placing plates on the balcony table,
fresh roses in the vases,
homemade bread with fresh hair.

Lunch at noon...
blue skies and beautiful.

The oldman was starting to crank it up
with rhyme and free time.

A joint and a cold pint.

"All is not right," claim the commenters
not the commentors who proclaim
the spirit of advertising with
spin in the wind from the gas
passed from the ass in the White House
who has mortgaged 'it' to the most.

"Think about that, Asshole....
walking debt with hidden assets
illegally unreported, not fake opaque
transparently recorded and reported."

The voice from the hallway.

All part of a very mysterious will,
an option on an estate, half interest
in a broken dream....

The sad case that never closes.

Until the chickees leave home.



Don't eat hairbread.

Today is almost balanced in orbit
and time 736/737

There forces of intelligence
somewhere else.

A cock on the Rock.