Level Plumb and Square.

0652/1954 75/85 Hazy S/5 75%H



Greetings from the Hill.



A sultry spring day in paradise,

hazy, warm and humid...

the oldman was still sick and suffering

headaches, ringing ears, dizziness,

burning eyes and lack of concentration...

"Too fucking tired to blog or..

sick of the banksters and liaticians

who dumb and numb the brain,"

growls the madone,

classics from Havana, no TV,

cats fed and sleeping,

dishes done,

plants watered

floors swept.



"Tomorrow and another day at court,

a new code inspector to dig deeper

into the historic house problems...

the engineer has leveled the floor,

plumbed the tilted walls

and squared the beams...

pretty damn good by himself,"

acknowledges the madone.



"And a new railing yesterday,"

muses the oldman becoming

faint at noon.



All this oppressive shit of finance,

minor millionaires pretending,

playing in bigtime digits

betting on betting on betting.

"Yeah, you assholes..

square derivatives that

magnify the 32/1 leverage

of HedgeHogging in the Caymans

or the world's largest sandtrap

Dubai."



Hazy silver skies and roofs

surrounded by lush spring leaves,

the forty foot Key Lime burgeoning

with yellow blossoms across the street,

a red trumpet of Royal Poinciana

dazzles through the west window...

"Greedy pissant thieves who strive

to drive the Bush SUV with SIV's

and exotic titles fueled by corn,

maybe the hungry starving masses

will push and pull for pennies...

Or maybe a ten cent dollar,"

wondering what reason

beside the greed of all

could cause Uncle Sam

to fall.



"Don't want to hear about 'it',

that answer to the predicament,

a cause of recession, a factor

in the financial model of bankers,

the buzzwords of hustlers with

lists of million dollar suckers...

the 20/20 Club," spitting

at the chickens below,

who only wanted food,

a little rice perhaps

or maybe corn.



"The dumbass fuckwads can't see,

never view their bulging bodies naked,

or are the fatones lowerclass, underclass,

the million elite are trim and slim

and the middleclass all on diets,

living not as they are

but who they fantasize...

smaller clothes sizes,

larger room sizes,"

upward mobility towards

The Diety of Debt,

gloom and doom without a tomb.



"Ah, it happens every decade,

a few trillion gets wiped out,

gamblers out of their league,

amateurs with the pros,"

skoffs Mileken beyond 'it',

that mysterious 'it' again...

all serving, like 'fuck it',

which the sheeple of this

'Once Great Nation'

ought to consider

come November.



The oldman's head was aching

from the fraud and deception,

truth in advertising but no returns

without buyer protection...

"Insurance is the name of the game,

hedge your bets for the gamble,

protect AAA's with derivatives,

that 'shadowy OTC market' by Markit,

coowned by the 'Top Twenty'

who get saved by 'Bailout Bernie'

and Whoever Whatever

the Fool in the Debt House.



Save canned goods.



Live on fifty a week.



Don't drive to work.



Buy Miller fourpacks.



Hardly a breeze

in the florida keys

where building booms

and nothing sells.



"

Million Dollar Appraisal.

0700/1950 72/82 Blue Skies SW5/10 65%H

Greetings from the Hill.

A beautiful morning in paradise,
blue skies and green trees
pictured in the five windows
of the writer's room...
cats outside sleeping
in the balcony sun,
classics from Havana,
John Wayne on FreeTV31...
a fellow might write
something inspired.

"Oh, yeah...Well, imagine leaving,"
growled the madone disturbed with
the partner's hiring of the dreaded
'Professional Real Estate Appraiser',
yes...those assholes who started 'it'
and the flimflam of makebelieve...
a banker, a broker, a 'Lending Tree'
for full DEBT enhancement
to the Zenith of Leverage.

The oldman had been walking a mile
and more every day,
paying bills and visiting
county and city offices
seeking information on 'What If'...

Thirtythree years of sunrises
over three thousand miles of ocean,
sunsets across the gulf
and Tropic of Cancer...
"And never left the balcony
for any storm of every kind
from hurricanes to tenants,"
mused the oldman to the blackcat
finishing his milk and Total,
avoiding the banana slices.

"Everybody is lying out their asshole,
believing in the television image
of 'the american consumer'...
buy the shit and you become 'it',
that fucking 'it' again,"
growls the madone
cleaning windows for therapy,
at least the fortyeight panes
on the balcony.

"Well, who do you trust...
that Dork on a Dell ad or
the Ann Murray lookalike
for the homelenders...
guess who says yes in the family
for mini and maxi McMansions,
that sweet missus beside her man
now out of her mind...
the real shit begins,"
vinegar and newspaper,
tried and true
like grandma
who never borrowed
on the home.

"Gentrification...the upward mobility
of the american middleclass from
two bedroom bungalows to
portico facaded McMansions
with Plasma TV and a Mercedes SUV,
fat stupid kids and a stuffed dog,
illegal domestics and gardener,
parents in a nursing home,"
muses the oldman wondering
about his independence,
his health and wealth,
alone in paradise.

The afternoon opera from Havana,
quiet streets without workers
and lanes without alien gardeners,
"I don't hire americans anymore,
they lie, cheat, and don't work,
drive around in new trucks
and talk shit on cellphones,"
rants my neighbor on the Alley.

Images on the small screen that makes
big time dreams and schemes...
"I need it," Need, the seed of greed...
"I want it," Want, the taunt of the Flaunt.

The Devil's work in Advertising.

Appealing to the disposable dumb money
that seems to be disappearing
as their toys are repossessed...
"Couch potato sofa for sale."

Starting again somewhere else
and where is the promised land,
enough to farm on for a family,
a barn for a tractor,
a well with water.

"Hello, hello, I'm with the Government,
you'll need permits, papers and passports,
and a vaccination for the dog,
no lights after midnight,
In God we Trust, Heh, Heh..."
fucking bureaucrats like in communism
before globalization
and the massmarketing
of DEBT.

Sit on your fat asses and do nothing...
at least read Iacocca's new book,
the last living honest patriot...
"Yeah, right, where the fuck
is the outrage over the whole collection
of grifting grafting politicians and those
bribing bastards, the lobbyists who
whore for the corporapists and banksters,"
snorts the oldman not even beginning.

A good spot on the Hill.

One to enjoy for a while.

Maybe even learn to write.

The buds have burgeoned,
full lush green trees on the Hill.

Living with kindness
unlike others.

Save those cans.

Sunday with the Saltman.

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Second Season of Recession.

0715/1943 73/82 Blue Skies ESE10/15 80%H.

Greetings from the Hill.

Times are tough...
the oldman walked to Faustos
and home with 25 pounds
for 20 US dollars...
the indianwoman bussed to the plaza
and biked home
on a 200 US dollar bicycle
knocked off in China...
so much for Schwinn

A mermaid swimming through the mangroves
seeking the mariner's cove
and a Cay Club dock
or a Singh's sling.

The oldman was pissed.

Always the same, a fool with money
and no insurance...
no SIV's for two wheelers
when the SUV is gone,
peanut butter for caviar
and beer for wine,
smiling in the sun
with the air in the hair
rather than on
the oldman's breakfast fare.

"Well, isn't that nice...,"
mocked the madone pissed
with the malfeasance of fiscal
responsibility...
roof and pantry
before ostentation..
"Fat ass on a bicycle,
Shitfuck in the carrier,
silly old trout."

What in the world are the banksters doing
wondering alone with the classics
and the man who lost his mind
on FreeTV...
the east breeze bending the fronds,
cats on the balcony
doves on the scaffolding
chickens below...

Bill in Las Vegas
betting the house.

Great opportunities in Water.

"If it was potable
and hot and not
as it still is,"
sighed the happy woman
out on her thrill.

How long does a bicycle last on the hill.

The indianwoman waved on the street
and the dog grinned,
fun in paradise.

"Keeping up with the Gays
ain't like the Jonese's and Martha Stewart
with KMart cottonwear
and unwashed underwear,
it's an elite effete
who style the shoes on your feet,"
shrugs the oldman after four pints
at two o'clock in paradise.

"The Queer's control the Market...
straights in gay clothes,
cunt's in fruitpants,
dykes in jockey shorts,
music by Geffen.."
how many of those pansy's
are putting shorts
in your long pants,"
cackled the madone....drunk.

The oldman belched...
a beautiful afternoon
with a breeze in the Keys,
another four pints in reserve
to ignore the Day's Deceit
"Markit, Markit...
you fucking morons...
Bet on Lance the Looney,
the dark avenues
towards the culdesac ofOTC."
pissed of with ignorance.

Sink the Vandenburg.

Use Big Mac as an anchor
with local banks
as dying bait.

Don't eat local fish.

Don't swim in the waters.

Drink at home.