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,
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
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.