Forty years in the Shadows.

0706/1950 82/90 Blue Skies SE5/10 75%H
DOGS 9505 7028 9442 1460.

Greetings from the Hill.

Up early before a sunset walk,
the CNBC gang eulogizing Ted,
always the advertising for oneself,
idiots in the game of fame,
dating only their rating.

The oldman lived the dream of Camelot.

Santa Barbara in the fifties,
San Francisco in the early sixties,
those Kennedy boys with Marilyn
and the pimp, Peter Lawford.

A gracious young mother in the White House,
Jack's sluts sneaking in all doors,
even a Chicago mobman's mistress,
and always Barbra pulling his honk,
while Teddy took his chair
too young but 'so what',
Papa Joe watched over.

The young man had opened
his first golfcourse that november,
"Who the fuck shot Jack,"
wondered a stunned nation,
shocked and numb,
the beginning of media dumb,
Ford presides over 'the report',
whitewashing all,
the mafia and Castro,
the CIA and KGB,
Johnson and Nixon.

"Maybe 'it' was the hippies,
drug crazed revolutionaries,
undermining Camelot,"
said the warmongers.

Lyndon turned white and quit,
leaving Bulldog Bobbie to challenge
the invisible powers of war,
Teddy running a campaign.

The young man was president
of California Graphics Limited
when the blood flowed again
and black and white dreams
both ended with assasinations,
a nation in chaos.

Dark forces and trained killers
adding acid to the minds
of the dumb.

"Who killed Bobby and Why?."

Teddy never asked.

The middleaged man was married
with three children
living on a lake
smoking pot with Barry
when Teddy went off the bridge
and created the poster,
he was a poster king.

Nixon, Ford and Carter pass,
perhaps the curse as well,
could the drunk sober up and run,
at least stagger through the motions
of reliving the dynasty,
"No fucking way, a loser, a lush,
tar him with another brush,
refugees and amnesty,
eviscerate Intelligence,"
leftwinged liberal.

The patriarch of the family fortune
that no one seems to know about,
the bootleg fortune...
"Horror of horrors, the little boy
who saluted his dead dad
died....that fucking curse
that lets the worthless live,"
growled the madone recalling
that week ten years ago.

The Kennedy's couldn't take the Clintons.

Strange how these shifting dynasties
buttbacked by the Bushes
have brought down the House
of Uncle Sam by Uncle Tom.

By the Jewish House of Goldman.

By the Council of Foreign Relations.

By middleclass morons
believing beyond their means
and bankers providing
the DEBT.

Blue skies and beautiful,
hardly a breeze
in the fabulous florida keys.

Under the Table. Smoking Outside.

0705/1953 82/90 Blue Skies SE5/10 80%H
DOGS 9506 7235 9550 1410.

Greetings from the Hill.

A bit humid in paradise without breeze,
classics to the west, CNBC in the east,
cats on the railing, doves on the table,
the oldman pecking on the Toshiba,
was 'it' just another day...
"Or the end of the Recession."

Echoed the talking tits and twisted ties.

That little halfblack boy
is the most powerful man
in the world.

"Imagine fucking that,"
wonders the madone.

Of course who could believe that only one
might have such power to change
the direction of policy,
that one man could unite all americans
in many beliefs...
then suck up the banker's asses
with hedgefund managed reliefs.
"And this phoney health plan,
fake and pass, a jivetalking ass,
dead bodies fighting a drug war,
trillions of dollars and not one
major infrastructure project,
'it' is all about moving money,"
growls the madone
pissed with liars.

The oldman stretched and walked the balcony
looking down the hill to Bonny's,
empty since her death,
the matriarch of Soleris Hill,
the oldman's friend
since Ford was President.

Across the street,
Dead Ned's house was empty
and also for sale...
only for the ghosts.

The mansion up the street,
empty and now for sale.

"Two million too,"
snorted the madone.

The KCFedparty
at Jackson Hole portended redundance,
"The financial storm that reached
gale force this time last year...
( read a year ago hofuckingho )
has not yet subsided and it's effects
are becoming apparent in the form
of softening economic activity
and rising unemployment,
adding inflation and global commodity boom
creates the most challenging economic
environment
in memory."

"IN memorium, you asswipe,
you fucked up royally, should be fired,
but no, the Obumboy for the thirty jews
directing the CFR, applauds his fuckup
with reappointment for the higher plan,"
two pretentious academics quoting
melodious memories to a hearer
who listens not.

The most insidious tax of all unfolds,
a temporary guest who stays forever,
a relative with a trailer...
"Inflation for the nation,
cigarettes and booze state taxes,
dining and bedding next,
a fee, a charge, a billing,
the agents for the nation's
cashcows, those cash flows,"
spits the madone
at a rooster below.

Record keeping, the biggest lie of all,
"How much did you do today?"

A retailer cheating himself,
a wholesaler paying cash,
a manufacturer outsourcing,
the banker offshoring...
all crooked record keeping.

Enter another superstar from Canada,
this fellow from B.C. went east
to Bay Street and Wood Gundy,
then CIBC and TD, then Europe,
spun off his group to specialize in....
"Those fucking Derivatives."

The oldman had been watching Lance Uggla
since setting his secret little scheme
to become a leading provider of
independent daily portfolio valuation
and OTC derivative trade processing,
after all if your partners provide the info
to the world of billions you may go,
while recording trades in trillions,
within seven years, less than Bush,
a market exploding to 62TRILLION,
figure that number if you own
CDSindex, IIC, ITraxx, IBoxx, CDX,
ICE Trust,on and on....
so some smart fucker convinced
eleven of the biggest houses
to buy ownership
and provide information to
Mark It, now Markit,
fuck you, AIGFP.

Of course, of course, Off course,
what if the Big Lie got out,
imagine if all those dreamers
wanted to dream again
and found out the bankers
had gambled their trust
"And gone Bust, Haha."

"But 'it's all numbers, mere pixels
moving through an electronic world,
and what if some foreign spy
frigged the fuckwadder, but no fear,
the smartones are always near,
those California brains now have
'the Lossy Difference Aggregator',
that's Goldie Sox's alligator
diagnosing fine grain delays
and paquet losses through
hashbased primitive routers
one per million per second,
what a fucking relief,"
laughs the oldman
nearing the Truth.

Sympathy for the Devils.

0703/1957 82/88 Blue Skies ESE15/20 75%H.
DOGS 9300 7263 9465 1390.

Greetings from the Hill.

A breezy beautiful day in paradise,
chimes ringing, CNBC whining,
classics from Havana, cats fed,
Tony seeding the putting green,
Bill gone out to sea,
leaving the home undamaged.

The oldman listened to the Toshiba,
a habit vowed never to do....
"Yeah, yeah, but he was great,"
agreed the madone sharing an hour
with the professor from Montreal,
Global Research.ca.

"Financial Disarmament....",
mused the oldman enjoying the analogy,
the dumbones cannot recall the sixties
and threats of nuclear extermination,
the big bombs on big targets,
"Like Wall Street and Las Vegas,"
thinking of how 'it' was.

The current weapons of mass destruction
are no longer housed at Twin Towers,
a perpetrated terror ruse,
now kept away from the Goldie Tower,
beneath the New Jersey farms,
the financial bomb of econmics,
those fucking derivatives,
strange contracts without accounting,
"Because pirates abide no laws
but the rules of the Seal of the House."

What the fuck are these bets on bets,
gamble on a stock not delivered,
increase holdings through margin,
protect losses with short accounts...
simple shit from the seventies.

Insurance and risk management,
fund managers on marijuana,
salesmen on hash,
investors on acid.

"Hey, there is more money in financials,
spin off the manufacturing and keep the paper,"
the paradigm shift from doers
to dealers.

"Buy, buy, buy..."cackles the Fool in the White House.

Indulge the rape of home ownership
after paying for the prom
and the shotgun wedding.
Privatization and globalization,
old soldiers and bankers
given the keys to the central vaults
in Iraq and America,
"It's all about oil, stupid,"
more media lies.

Greenspan claimed derivatives were 'it',
the magic for risk management,
the world spread of risk,
the gee whiz cheese whiz,
"House prices never fall."

Financial products without regulation,
then the april'04 ultimate bank leverage,
"Thirty fucking to one fractional banking,"
snorted the madone about the con,
done before in Mexico,
mastered in Asia,
now targeted for America,
"The fucking traders are the traitors,"
Blankfein and Dimon pirate scum.

The booty kept in underground caves
beneath the Cayman Islands,
the fourth largest financial centre,
and British Owned.

"Debt is the answer to our wealth,"
agreed those greedy heartless cunts
behind the scheme to ruin the dreams
of blacks, illegals and trailer trash
who dreamed of fireplaces,
SUV's and PlasmaTV's,
a two story McMansion
with Big Macs
on a diningroom table.

"Sign here my man, no worry,
you have privacy rights,
granite tops and a pool,
a backyard with a view,"
the originator
of financial paper.

"What the fuck happened,
a few foreclosures don't mean shit,
something else sunk a ship,
the pirates have no honor,
sink the Bear Stearns and steal
her booty the best traders,
down with Lehman Brothers
and change the flag of Merrill
consolidating the risk of peril,
keep the secret and the model,
don't ever lose the router,
Sniffing and Phisching,
the sisters of Snoop,
ETF's scare you to death,
but something went wrong,
or was 'it' financial engineering,"
wondered the oldman.

"Bonds never default
and homes never lose value,"
now the vultures turn to
servicing of events
of origination...
derivatives appropriately
gambling on spent air,
and carbon waste,
any indice will do
for gambling fools
without brains for tools.

"Well, well, trailertrash, you had
no right pretending,
you could see Elvis in Las Vegas...
you lost your mama's money,
but not your nagging honey."

After the market bell,
beyond the Reef,
above the Horn.

Hurricane Preparations.

0700/2003 84/90 Blue Skies E10/15 85%H.


DOGS 9409 7032 9504 1454. LIBOR 0450 SP 1010.





Greetings from the Hill.





A very warm day in paradise...


faint winds from Havana,


not even the classics,


CNBC muted for the weather,


Hurricane Anna off Africa.





Tony improving and securing


the Love Lane gardens


ignored by Detective Bill,


off with another dream,


chasing another's scheme.





Two months along without a storm,


not even springtime showers,


the only thing flooding


the drains is money,


Obama Money...


Junker money,


an antique honey,


but mostly american trucks


traded for japmachines.


"Hey, HalfWhite, you dumb shit,


Mister Chicago School of Economics,


Professor of Constitutional Law,


son of two doctors who


bred a bastard,"


growls the madone


pissed with the fraud,


disgusted with an actor


imitating an African American.

"That's enough of the disgusting rants,

and I hate double spacing and machines

I do not understand,"

growls the oldman.

From

Lobsterfest and half full Conch Trains.

0658/2005 84/92 Blue Skies ESE 10/15 75%H.

DOGS 9370 7047 9560 1462. LIBOR .046.

Greetings from the Hill.

A gorgeous day in paradise...

if one were deaf.

The walking talking fools,

idiots riding mopeds,

drunks on bicycles,

"Fucking asshole tourists,

too drunk to drive back

and too cheap to rent a room,"

rants the madone,

pissed with daytrippers,

passed out crashed

on someone's porch.

How wonderful to take a drive

in an american sportster,

Mustang limited edition for whom,

certainly Steve Bing and Jay Leno,

collectors of the rare

and men of the dare...

americans who share

the spirit of freedom.

"Hofuckingho, dream on oldman,

you haven't had a licence

since Ford was President,"

mocks the madone,

"Barefoot Jack in paradise."

Reading the Fed reports this week

and wondering about the governors

of the economic balance that

levels inflation and employment

and promotes prosperity...

"The Twelve Heads of Duncedom,"

interrupts the cynic knowing

the language of Fedspeak,

the terminology of Greenspan,

the weepings of Bernanke,

the changling lies

of Geithner.

"Love Lane...", gushes a drunken twat,

dreaming of something other

than than her trailer park,

a baldheaded biker shuffling

beside her in sandals.

Walking to Duval Street and the past,

with nothing but memories

and no credit cards.

"Paradise ain't cheap,"

laughs Tony with another fourpack.

"I'm off to the beach,"

loading up the bike,

his van parked below.

An interesting week in the world,

Bubba Bill saving Asshole Al,

who should have been president

were 'it' not been for Crooked George

and the Harris Connection...

would the Miami condos be empty,

should derivatives have become

the diet of banking,

the dessert of Goldie Sox.

"Would, could and should,

if the SEC had not allowed

on 4 4 2004 permitted

bank leverage to 30/1 giving

Paulson the store of DEBT

to Wall Street wholesalers,"

fumes the madone

pissed with lies.

Dear friend Barry back from SF,

returning to Oshawa,

the home of Camaros,

one wonders where the Mustang

is built.

"IT's all about corruption,

wormfucks and conchslugs

thinking no one watches,

no one knows about the ways

of inbred retards with credit cards,

the cock of the rock

and his football flock,"

snorts the madone

walking to the dock

at four o'clock.

"Hey, oldman, have a beer

and forget about the shit,

come take a ride

in my foreign machine,"

laughs Doctor Coy

returning from

Bagdad.

Good friends on the Rock,

always meet again.

Above the Horn.

Love that Bubba Bill.

0657/2007 77/92 Rain and Blue Skies ESE 10/20 80@H
DOGS 9257 7081 9660 1495

Greetings from the Hill.

A wonderful day in paradise,
gusting wind and torrential rain,
blue skies at four o'clock.

Classics from Havana,
Burn Notice in the bedroom,
Tony watching golf in the study,
cats on the balcony.

The oldman brousing the Web,
selecting photos to uncover
and perhaps discover
the Truth.

Watching Current TV online,
the girl is great and convincing,
certainly more balls than
Al who is but money rinsing
through his Goldie Sox guys...

these parasites are all invasive.

"Yeah, check out the directors
of his investment fund and
his Carbon Cap sorryass rap,"
growls the madone
wondering why Bill
saved his lying ass.

Perhaps his service to the country
for two months as a journalist
strengthened his patriotic duty,
while others fought for years,
one of a dozen from Harvard.

Home to Poppa's paper,
then the divinity...

"All for the ratings,"
mused the oldman
watching the reportings
in Mexico and Brazil,
the girl has guts,
trying to outfame her sister.

A day away from the frothing fools
on CNBC, just USA..
NCIS reruns at five
with the roosters.

Kind of strange how Obama
authorizes a mission of diplomacy
circumventing usual channels,
then involving Dow and Bing
coordinated by the common man,
to arrange the old bird's dream,
"A date with the "Hollywood Madam,"
laughed the madone
knowing the Truth.

Blue skies and breezy,
another balcony day,
in the fabulous
florida keys.

Inside the Reef.

Above the Horn.

Exculpating the Derivative Excresence.

0656/2009 84/90 Blue Skies SE10/15 65%H
DOGS 9235 7130 9580 1425.

Greetings from the Hill.

A beautiful day in paradise,
blue skies and perfect white clouds,
a flag in the putting hole
in the artscaped backyard,
Tony, the golfcourse lover.

The guest who filled the pantry.

One wonders what the Fink's discuss
alone together if ever,
the man who knows 'it' all,
and will not tell,
the innovator of risk management
back in Boston days past...
"Imagine Joe Kennedy at the Bay,"
muses the oldman,
considering the master
of deceit.

Larry is managing the funds
for the three stooges.

"Pretty fucking funny,
the biggest hedge fund
running the Treasury and Fed,"
snorts the madone amazed,
amused and annoyed.

FDR put the biggest crook
to run the SEC, Joe Kennedy,
a criminal consultant.

Another of those derivative dames
has a crew of the Leftovers
from dead investment banks
charting courses for corpses.

Just sitting on his throne,
not yapping like dog Dimon,
apparently beyond the dumb,
those simple shits who know not
of forwards, options, swaps
or time based contracts
on the OTC...

"The Nasdaq blows it's bubble,
hofuckingho, that pirate's den
where Madoff presided learning
his craft of grifting and lifting
the last dollars of suckers,"
rants the madone drinking
warm Miller pints
before dinner.

Six o'clock advertising on CNBC,
GM, ATT, TDTRADE, and Dan Marino.
"This asshole has brainloss, a mockery
of the financial foundation of the nation,
entertainment for Airheads,
MadTV and Goldman Sachs,
where are the skits,
bring on the fits,
send in the clowns,"
fumes the madone
at fuckhead Cramer,
a posing loser
bankrolled by
the shorters.

The dick should be in leather
in a street parade.

Some silly old man
picked up a Miami whore,
took a pecker pill
and went running at sunrise
at the Nude Beach,
'it' was still up at sundown.

"Where was the Viagra cop?"

Swaying palm trees surrounding the house,
fucking roosters always crowing,
cats sleeping on the balcony,
classics from Havana,
chimes in the wind,
above solaris hill.

"You can't have everything,"
smiles the oldman
to himself.


Above the Horn.

gotta pay the mortgage.

0655/2011 83/90 SE/5 Showers 90%H
DOGS 9096 6450 9720 1450.

Greetings from the Hill.

The oldman was crippled in bed again,
four Hurricanes and a joint
renders his body out of order
the following day.

Raindrops sliding down the window pane,
blue skies to the east with
billowing rain clouds over nude beach,
perhaps a nudecam
for stayathomes.

Thinking about the Great Fraud
and amazed at the extent
of the culpability...everyone.

"Not everyone, just most...
most of the middleclass,
McDonalds and McMansions
'gotta pay the mortgage',
hofuckingho," laughs the madone.

The derivatives coming to light.

Last year a trillion was the new
adventure into a world of worry
and unimaginable debt numbers
created to protect counterparties
who guarantee against default,
if the stock market falls fifty percent,
unemployment rises to ten percent,
foreclosure to eight percent.

"The Models fucked up."

The World of Quadrillions.

Tony arrived with four hundred pounds
of real hurricane insurance,
pantry supplies.

Sunday morning in paradise,
no alcohol til noon,

Good thing there's no mortgage
on this old house.

High on the Hill.