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.