Two Weeks Lost without Internet.

0732/1848 62/70 Cloudy NE10/15 60%H
DOGS 9120 6746 7560 9855...

Greetings from the Hill,
the Dow, Oil, Gas and Silver...DOGS..
arf fuckingarf.

A chilly night in paradise
beneath a comforter
inside closed windows,
not sense last major storm...
isolated without internet,
only the classics from Havana
and cable from America and CNBC.

The oldman was into his fall change,
Law and Order at 0400, then
Bloomberg until 0800,
reading Greenspan, great sentences...

"Hey, oldman, how are you feeling,"
not looking at the withered person
shivering in the heat of the console
bringing the world an update
on the continuing financial rape
of Big Daddy Warbucks
and his retarded son, George...
the oldman nodded
and took the cold pint,
"Inflation has hit home...
Millers went up a dime,
thats 15% inflation at once,
the recession begins for real,"
rants the madone on fixed income.

Two weeks off riding the roiling seas
and the crashing waves of volatility,
200 and 300 then 500 point changes,
the VIXX, 80 points of Volatility,
another indice to bet, oh, oh,
the betting Market...
the drugs are on the street,
credit default swaps and
derivatives no longer the secret,
Markit, Markit, Markit gives
you the prices, have for years,
"Some secret to the dunces,
those payroll slaves in the
Kingdom of Duncedom,
the lovers of George,"
spitting snot over the balcony
towards Bill the rooster,
he crowed in the noon sunlight,
from the porch railing,
blazing colors ruffling in contrast
to the natural ambiance
of the unpainted wood.

The financial news competes
with the presidential election,
lie upon lie upon lie by the best,
Greenspan, Snow and Cox
and the politician waving the Truth,
thank cable for CSPAN...
"The fuckers freaked over that one,
holding up 'the document' of fact,
the True Debt numbers USA,"
smiled the madone shrugging,
the numbers were so exagerated
and words between lying in your eye,
the betting voting fools believe
in their own lies and of course
buy their own bullshit.

John McCain is acting silly being nice,
his voice sounds drugged and he sways,
could he be swooning for a fantasy
in black nylon over thunder thighs,
grade school teachers glasses
and a voice only a deaf man
could love...a shrill shrew,
Palen gets worse by the week.

The halfwhite fellow is syrupy,
trying to be something he isn't
by making up poverty stories
while playing basketball at a private
very elite and expensive high school,
now visiting the dying white granny
who paid for 'it' all and the'uppity'
kept expecting more, spoiled, spoiled,
another mommies boy
with dead daddies in the ditch.

"Well, my heavens, maybe this was planned
by treacherous minds to collapse
the nation by DEBT not BLOOD,
moles inside the FED monitoring the funds
awaiting the timing of events
leading to the declaration MARTIAL LAW,
Hofuckingho and King George for Christmas,"
laughs the madone at the irony.

Solve the whole problem...Warbucks.

The oldman liked to listen to Greenspan,
his past of Ayn Rand and jazz
with the Village background made musical
the movement of trillions of dollars
lost in the past month in equities
while the same loaned back with toxic collateral,
the Twelve Bankers of Fedhell
playing games with the Federal Banking Agents,
JPMorgan on the foodstamp card
"Love that cashflow on plastic,
trunching and tranching, dicing and slicing
those derivatives fly high in the sky
of US DEBT, no lifeboats no anchor,
ports closed running on empty,
the captain in the galley
cooking turkey,"
ready for an afternoon walk.

The curious thing about the Big Rush on the Tarp
was the results of government intervention,
"Everyone is selling and no one is buying,"
oozes the talking tits to TVland, strange...
how can you sell if no one buys,
but then no one owns anything, 'its' streetname,
short what you don't own, who knows,
"The computer knows and operators
make secret numbered trades to protect
those gamblers and speculators of The Market,
that forum of Democratic Capitalism,
the global Fuck of the Buck by 'them',
the secret society of jewish masons,"
growled the madone off to Faustos.

A good day to clean windows.

The indianwoman was working for Doug
and had another 'gig' at Blue Heaven
with a telephone in her rogosuite,
her life was improving in the recession.

The oldman was increasing his reserves.

The FantasyFest was a fantasy fast,
the season was looking bleak,
free beer with a tshirt
and 99cent cheeseburgers
for local McMansioners.

Recycle and bicycle.

A fourpack went up forty cents.

Alcoholfree sundays.

A beautiful day in paradise.

A Bouncing Fevered Market and Frigid Credit.

0723/1902 78/84 Cloudy ESE10 80%H
8451 79 912 11.5

Greetings from the Hill.

Black clouds over the Straits,
static with the classics from Havana,
a cool breeze and a feeling of fall...
"Yeah, fall down a financial hole,
excavated by the 'Goldie Sox' gang
that have kidnapped the Fed
and blackmailed central banks
shorting the 'shit' they sold them,"
taking the warm beer downstairs
to the freezer.

The scandal starts with the nonjew,
token head of the Street, 50M a year man,
who sells his 500M in GS at the top,
taxfree gift from George...
consolidates the investment business,
wipes out competition and banks,
acquires a portfolio of WellsFargo
then resigns by Thanksgiving
taking the turkey and trimmings
from whichever loser...
and takes little Bens' job.

Georgie becomes a supreme court judge,
appointing himself at Christmas.

"Ho, fuckingho, Santa Claus,
Mumbles gets elected, but he's sick...
Wacko becomes Wonderwoman in black
and Pelosi as Speaker becomes VP,
a nation united under WomanKind,
could 'it' be worse than being halfwhite,
with a black foreigner father
and a black alien family,"
chortles the madone
accepting the failure of 'it' all.

A strange week watching numbers and
listening to the talking tits playing coy,
the tricks with the hair and smirk
to the camera, a secret not shared...
always the last word driving
the oldman to drink
by the closing bell.

"They are all Jews from New York,
they sound like Streisand doing
a horse racing announcer,"
he laughed at a funny one.

What a sorryass fuckup George is,
he chairs the G6 in Washington,
gives a speech after the 'bell'
and the 'Market' tumbles
500 Points before rallying,
"Trust me, Believe me,
I won't cum in your ear,"
this dickhead is heading
a World Economy Summit,
"See how we do 'it'."

And next the G20, hofuckingho.

"Tough shit you dumb bastards,
imagine had all your retirement
been invested in equity shares
managed by traitorous traders,"
snorted the oldman bored
with crime without punishment.

This whole pile of shit was predicated
on the odds in the gamble
and the larceny of the House
and the Street and the Strip,
the last a family destination
for Main Streeters,
like sending the little boys
camping in Key West.

"Who the fuck made you think
your home would double
every five years, a little voice on TV,
those moneymaggots convincing you,
'You deserve 'it' because you want 'it',
anddddd, you need it, pictures you see
on Big Screen slopping pizza
and guzzling beer with the men,
while the little woman connives
with other wives...
another conspiracy, the worst,
mendacity.. what a word,
you can see it drooling
from Orson Welles' lips,"
snorted the madone
checking the freezer.

The old indianwoman was in bliss,
a breeze blowing through the window,
cigarettes, grapes, avocados, a mango
in bamboo trays, a filled fridge...
she was the foodstamp
Queen for a Day.

And played her flutes
for the fruit loops
at Capt Tim's political rally
for King of Fantasy Fest.

"Rally round the Faghags, guys."

"What the fuck, I remember when
we'd bumfuck a whitegirl caught
screwing a spearchucker,
those black boys don't like
the Hershey Highway,"
laughed the madone
remembering days past
growing up in Detroit.

Times had changed or something else,
acceptance and compromise
seemed to be effected by bloatedness...
the american public was fatter
not in the bank but in the ass,
not in the stash but in the gut,
piggy banks had become food banks.

And overfilled septic tanks.

The blabbering idiots talk about polls,
the odds, the bet for what...
only stupid ass americans would
bet on a losing race...
"Guess what...
The American Race is Over,
no cars, no drivers, no gas,
no Track....no fans,"
spits the oldman
on a sleeping cat.

IT was all bullshit, a good word
said Henry Fonda to Billy,
an ability to tell a lie
when one knows the truth,
to tell the truth knowing a lie,
with a trusting eye.

Financial instruments of a bygone era,
common stocks and debt obligations
have been augmented by a vast array
of complex hybrid financial products
which allow risk to be isolated
but which in many cases
seemingly challenge human understanding.

Hofuckingho, wrote the jazzman,
a lover of Ayn Rand
and the spreader
of financial disease,
all bullshit.

Blue skies and beautiful.

Fuck Bill,
bunghole Hillary.

Palm trees swaying
and three weeks
before Martial Law.

A Trillion here, a Trillion there.

Memories, sweet memories in Paradise.

0722/1908 78/84 Blue skies ENE10/20 80%H
DOW 9447 down 508 OIL 89 GOLD 887 SILVER 11.6

Greetings from the Hill.

Blue skies and beautiful unless...
one invests with numbers,
maybe weather derivatives
or other bets on bets.

"Hey, keep 'it' in the bank,
your safe secure local branch."

The oldman deposited his first check
from Capt. Tony for 'a gross' of shirts,
the man had style and gambled
that printed shirts would 'be the thing',
and millions later still are.

Banks just change the signs.

This oversight committee is pathetic,
certainly Waxman suckassing
to the sleezeking Fuld
who emanates boiler room mentality,
the prick hired George Sr to lie,
then dipshit Jeb to peddle toxic bonds
to state pension funds.

These keepers of the public trust
are now taking a break for three months
while the nation goes to hell...
"Hello, hello, is anyone at home
while corrupters seek reelection,
vote every scumball out
and have 'Real Change."

"Credit Default Swaps, my oh my,"
says the black lady, a lawyer as well,
knowing the bet on bets and
insuring the insurance over and over,
"In a Casino Type mentality, Woooeee,"
finally the awareness is being communicated
that chief officers of the companies
were culpible through interbanking,
"Woooee, counterparties and derivatives,"
putting a stain in Fuld's pants.

Who could say, who can say...
forty five years ago and still a dream,
"I have a Dream..."
well, this dream could be
your worst nightmare
when civil rights are lost
by all but the rich one percent.

And overhead small planes approach
an airport incomplete and shamed
where once 727's landed
and times were different...
the natives were not slaves
to a greedy needy daily dollar
enjoying time to enjoy
life in paradise.

Storms would come and go,
before million dollar houses,
not homes for living,
but trim and spin,
the real estate whores with
bed partners in the bank.
"All One Family Together."

Nothing stays the same, times change,
nature has 'its' way and day,
buildings too tall can fall.

A good rain can clean the streets
and chicken shit from a car,
emblazon the poinciannas
and burst a backyard orchid...
island living with
as Frenchy would say,
"The Carribbean Soul."

So the stock market is falling,
room rates or rent won't,
nor will gas or milk or cigarettes.

Don't drive, fart or smoke.

Live beneath your means,
walk to work'
go fishing.

Have fishburger on Sunday.

Life is a breeze
in the florida keys.

The Roof is Falling, Run to your Yacht.

0720/1910 78/83 Grey skies E10/15 95%H

Greetings from the Hill.

Overcast and a grey cover above,
perhaps God has put a TARP overhead
to create a proper mood to begin
the financial fall, a golden autumn,
silver moments for sunset years...
"But in your paper dreams,
nothing is real, we will insure your hedge
against moneyworms," laughs the madone
beyond 'it' all.

A dear friend arrived to take the oldman
for a famous hogfish sandwich
overlooking mangroves and still waters
and his the only cellphone...
keeping track of what was left
after that 777 day of doom.
"And just the beginning, this is fraud,
I know, you know where I live,
'the HedgeHog town, Ha Ha...
I like that, maybe put up a sign,"
his broker called between beers,
no martini lunches for this
morning fisherman...
he lived there before the hogs,
the honest years after Nixon.

"No one is going to learn about this scam
and no one wants to know, cover it up,
your 'it' will go away, or..."
shrugging and pouring from the pitcher,
it had a bag of ice to keep it cool
and half full, four fucking cups
for eight dollars, little cups
the lunch was sixteen bucks each.
"Hey, don't worry, I'm paying
and this is worth the flight,"
always at home in his dream.

"You know everything is half price
for cash," he laughed and frowned
wondering how far down,
things were not good in town,
restaurants and bars half full
at happy hour, no one laughing.
"It's getting like the seventies
before drugs and samesex,
money and perversion
and then corruption
with government hand's out,
now 'it's' handouts,"
leaving the out islands
for a stop at Home Depot.

"Three registers, that's all,"
always watching things,
"And at Walmart in Homestead
when I got the catfood..four,"
emphasizing the signs of the times.

"Might as well give the country
to the janitors and the cashiers,
moneycounters and floorsweepers,
the service industry," snorting,
"In service of slavery."

Away in the rental and off to Miami,
a drink in Atlanta and homeward
for fishing in the morning
off the banks of the green witches,
the greedy wives of Hedge Hogs.

The oldman was drained from a week
that was lying words of worry
by those talking tits dreaming
of their ratings and fucking Warren,
models expert with the look
and sidekicks as stupid as weathermen
comic relief and silly gaffoons...
"Oh oh where can we go, ask Jim,"
the idiot savant playing court jester
for blue collar investors
trading SUV's for SIV's,
buying CMO's for maturity,
and coffee and oil options
from Goldman Sachs,
all online of course
from a laptop on the golfcourse.

"It ain't over yet,"
said John Wayne in the rain.

Of course of course, off course,
the baked alaskan wonderwoman
turned into a shrill knownothing
with an even dumber daughter
who couldn't cross her legs
to a hockey stick.

Mumbles wife loves the family,
she upgrades the slow witted,
the poor and the handicapped,
and loves dayglo green.

Fast moving grey clouds passing
over the hill, static with the classics,
the weather station a relief from CNBC,
anxiety over roof leaks
and not dollar dam breaks.

Bernanke and fellow stockholders of the FED,
that private company acquiring the DEBTS
of this nation of FOOLS as well as assets,
those specific contracts available later,
after the bankruptcy proceedings
of cities and counties...
"Hello assholes, remember Orange County,
the biggest, the richest in the WORLD,
the Keating Five and who got away,
Honest John and Senator Glenn,
but not Mike, he did time
and kept the money,
a trail through the Grammholes
and Enron with the dish of delight
DERIVATIVES....
'too fucking complicated', claim
those occupants of Foggy Bottom,"
ranted the madone pissed with liars
who hire expensive lawyers
or own the law firms
and change the LAW.

The smirking murderer walked
and strutted florida free
for thirteen years when justice failed
and now traitors will trade away
the soul and heart of everyman
who dreamed beyond his means
then schemed with coconspirators
who knock on foreclosed doors,
and peddle on the Internet
opportunities to own
the AMERICAN DREAM.

Too many crooks walking,
too many lies talking.

Too few angry pissed off people.

A nation of gutless wonders
with big bellies.

Enjoy the breeze
from politicians passing wind
not LAW.