Sunday, April 13, 2008

Sunday with the Saltman.

0710/1950 73/83 Blue Skies SW/5 60%H

Greetings from the Hill.

The oldman was napping early,
chores done at sunup then
the walkabout three blocks,
one hundred and fifty homes,
twenty for sale....
five in foreclosure.

"What..on our Hill, Solares Hill,"
mocked the madone,
unsettled with 'The Offer',
by the partner of twenty years
to buy the oldman out.

The neighbour Jim had died
forgotten with his possessions
emptied in two days...
for realestate pimps.

"Could there be evil men
in the rein of George Insane,"
mused Doctor Coy on the balcony
inspecting the last leaf fall
from the 'Key Lime' tree
across the street...
tomorrow it would sprout.

"Perhaps, if one thinks a secret cabal
controls world finance, a group of banks
that govern all money flows and dams,
enjoinment with private corporapists
who own the raters, the indices, the agents
of insurance, the moneychangers...
sound familiar,"
tossing catfood to a dozen
hungry chickadees below
in Bill's garden.

"Now is not a good time to sell,
your assets are falling, take a writedown,"
that funny smile of knowing...
"And Bill would be a very cruel landlord
to a dying writer."

Leaving as the Salt Truck returns.

Job's deliveryman returns with a brother,
a Knights Templar...
hoodwinking on the balcony.

"See you later, we're off for a bit to eat,"
cheery and proud to show his work.
An afternoon in paradise enjoying
rather than grunging in the dirt
beneath the home.

The indianwoman arrived with a cold pint,
'it' was chilly between her and 'Billy' as well,
that well of unpotable water
not even hot....
and the new hotwater tank
intentionally disconnected,
"And I won't pay utilities
as long as she is here,"
not caring for
the oldman's

The three o'clock opera from Havana,
John Wayne on FreeTV31,
banging noises from Jan's house,
not Bill today on his 'gayplaner',
cats sleeping on the scaffolding,
doves eating leftovers,
twenty chickens below,
puffballs coming along 'The Cancer'
from the Yucatan,
a lovely writer's flat.

"People don't come to Key West to write,
to type the diatripe of emptiness,
a lifetime of illusion and delusion
by heartbreakers and soulkillers,
those takers of dreams...
....'Pay up or Fuckoff'.
and the home became the banker's house,"
mocked the madone blowing
a snotball out the window
on Bill's blocks.

The MasonMaster leveling the house,
squaring his Debt,
angling his approach.

Imagine all those people
losing their homes,
the pride of possession,
a love of their own,
ruined by a monkeybrain
who became dictator.

Imagine being proud
of being republican
under Shitforbrains.

A beautiful day in paradise,
a bit warm and moist,
think about the three
faces for President.

Don't buy Bushdollars.

Silver or Gold.

Loony's by the bushel.

Love your partner.


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