The King is Dead.

0733/1848 78/85 Blue Skies ESE10/20 75%H
DOGS 9878 7928 1043 1615.

Greetings from the Hill.

Another beautiful day in paradise,
chimes ringing, roosters singing,
gentle overnight showers...
"And no late night drunks,"
offers the madone,
surley from Larry King
with Ron Paul and Michael Moore
at three AM on CNN.

This years Fantasy Fest seems a bust,
usually a week long party
only a weekend orgy,
the mood darkened
with the death of last year's King,
Captain Timothy Brown.

"Good morning, How are you."

Always giving with love and laughter,
helpful with happiness,
so rare among the selfish,
a very rare bird.

The oldman will miss the man.

Another week and the ruse continues,
more coverups about fuckups,
the gaming without blaming
the banksters and corporapists,
the lawyers and lobbyists
who contrive then bribe,
the checks and balances
are payments to politicians.

Greenspan with Pimco
and 'the other Paulson'
"How low does 'it' go."

"Could there be a revenge of the others,
that half downtrodden by men
with fat wallets and stiff dicks,
'The Pissed Off Party of Women',"
muses the oldman
thinking of Brooksley Born
lecturing the FDIC
on the disaster of derivatives,
"I told you so!"

The bully Summers advising Obama.

"Of course if middle class women
hadn't wanted granite kitchentops
and husbandless wives swimming pools,
the mess would have never occured,"
claims Jeff Beck.

Busy street at noon, even motorcycles,
not a parking spot available,
soon the power will go out,
"The Conch's revenge."

The ConchTrain passes full.

"The Audacity of Fraud Street,"
claims Mish, pissed with the pack
of moneyeaters gorging
at the Trough of Debt,
pigplanning the next meal
in 'the derivative steal'.

"Where is the Outrage,"
rants Denninger in Market Ticker,
attempting to rattle
the addled brains.

"Hedge Funds will fall in the winter,
with Citi returned to the same games,
seperate companies controlled by the same
who are responsible for 'it' all,"
claims Cramer the seer,
a Goldman Sachs queer,
his last comedy tips
before moving to the Weather Channel.

The Three Headed Dog has now one head
and getting smaller each day
while GMAC goes looking
for an Obama bone.

"Why does he not make me mad,"
sighs the oldindian passing
the joint with an excuse
for part payment...
"I'll pay the rest tomorrow."

What can an oldman do
but sigh in the sun.

A charming con who acts the part,
plays the role with the look
of sincerity and soul
while busting the check book.

"Where did he learn to salute,"
growls the madone watching
a clip on the tarmac.

An interesting reunion of the past,
thirty years of FantasyFest
and how many alive,
who did survive
the party of Death...
AIDS.

The event evolved to a fundraiser
for the victims of an unknown,
a curse, perhaps revenge...
"Queers can't love naturally,"
claimed a certain preacher
who bungholed a whore
and paid cash
from the collection plate.

"What's it all about...Baarrry,
are you sorry you were a Sorieto,
did you never love Granny Dunham,
tough having white parents,"
growled the madone
sipping a cold pint
at two o'clock
in the balcony breeze.

"Pretenders in Paradise....."
mulled the oldman thinking
about the visitors drinking
and laughing across the street
with seasonal owners.

The gardener stopped for a spell,
before taking a rideabout,
smoking a butt, sipping a pint,
then off with his camera...
"But, they're all old and ugly,"
those who survived
and never arrived.

As Mayor McCoy said
thirty years ago,
"We'll have sunset condos
for the old and the rich."

CitiBank charges 30% for your DEBT.

Blue skies and beautiful.

Inside the Reef.

Above the Horn.

Just another Sad Song.

0728/1854 75/85 Blue Skies E15/25 85%H
DOGS 9913 8290 1060 1750.

Greetings from the Hill.

An average day in paradise...
weatherwise.
Seems more like a perfect day
for sailing, golfing, diving,
even fishing
or reading a book,
perhaps jogging at Nude Beach
flopping the tits.

Morning sunlight on the balcony,
cats on chairs sleeping,
chickens on the railings
to sneak in the catbowls,
"Fuck off, you parasites,"
the madone hosing them to flight
dive bombing passing cars...
"Chickens do fly."

The oldman was distressed
with the mess,
no comics with courage,
no singers with heart,
no satirists with sear,
"Gutless dicks and shrill tits,
who hires these actors,
the casting department
'needs a makeover',
Wall Street on Madison Avenue,"
thinking of ryhmes
with the musical chimes,
a gusty beeze
in the keys.

The Big Urgency has disappeared
as the government agency
into banking appeared,
more coverup with TARP blankets,
but commercial arms
sticking out
in rigor mortis.

"Talk, talk, you braindead fools,
no Charlie Rose in your weedpatch,
liars, cowards and whores,"
rants the madone at CNBC
with the opening bell
for traders from Hell.

The ten o'clock sun accented
a dozen oregano on the balcony,
time for the winter seedlings,
"Yeah, something to eat,
not just gawk at,"
grumbles the nasty one.

Today seemed a good day to live,
maybe write a country song.

"Okay...pick up a chorus."

'Down to my last buck..
and I don't give a fuck.'

"Oh oh, despair and foul talk."

'All my payments are late
my current account past
don't know how much longer
my credit cards will last'

"Hey hey, country and middle class
with a little trailer park trash."

'My banker on Main Street
sold my mortgage to Wall Street
who peddled it in tranches
to worldwide branches'

"Oh, oh, a little esoteric like Bob Dylan."

'Now that sputtering Barney Frank
and the fulminating Dodd
conspire with every bank
in the financially engineered fraud'

"Pooh pooh, stretching for a ryhme,
and what about the chorus."

'Been working all my life
for the red white and blue
but I'm losing my home
and my union job too'

'Out on the street soon
sleeping under the moon'

"Well, that's a stretch...
maybe Charlie Daniels
or Arlo Guthie."

'Blame it all on George
but Bill signed the bill
that made Wall Street
King of the Hill'

'A conspiracy by the few
or mathmatics gone mad
politicians and bankers
all greedy men gone bad'

"Hey there Horatio, what's up,
is this some jazz poem now,
a liitle Miles Davis bitches brew."

'All Hope is small Change
from a smooth talking leader
down to my last buck
and don't give a fuck'

"My my heavens, what to say."

A beautiful breeze
in the florida keys.

Inside the reef.

Above the Horn.

Something beyond Economics.

0725/1900 82/88 Blue Skies SSE/5 75%H.
DOGS 994 7490 1051 1751.

Greetings from the Hill.

A good day for an adventure,
gardens watered, cats fed,
time to visit the outside world
away from the home arrest,
the selfimposed observer.

A month of creative gardening
changing dereliction to beauty,
"I do 'it' because I enjoy 'it',"
laughing and smiling,
an attitude forgotten
in a culture of greed,
a nation obsessed with billing,
overcharging incompetence,
served with an insult.

The fellow possessed an overview
that allowed him to see as an artist,
not anothers' design or plan,
simply the thing itself
unfolding on 'its' own,
without some asshole
imposing will.

A photographer who takes
the perfect shot because
he thought with patience
and a gentle kindly sense,
not dollars and cents.

A quiet morning street but for
"Those fucking roosters talk
to each other, nasty birds
that only interrupt to mock,
reminds me of certain people,"
grumbles the oldman gazing
down the street at the dead lady's
empty house, keeping sorrow
private and never discussed,
a walk in the garden
to test the legs.

The street was oddly active,
dirtbags up early scrounging
off the cruiseship walkers,
gawking in Tshirt shops,
the oddest collection of tourists
for a 'Five Star Destination'.

"Not Fat Mac's dream no more."

Passing the Green Parrot bar,
the oldman barred for life,
just as well...

"Hey, Jack, don't slow down now,
we got another mile to go before
we shoot the cannon, Hoho,"
concerned about the
wobbly legs,
the faint heart,
and dizziness.

"Where did this water come from,"
resting in the cool of the brick,
a few decades since the last visit,
wondering if this would be
the final.

This was Tony's part of paradise,
facing Matamoros to the west,
fifteen hundred miles
of water...
the same to New Orleans.

"Well, its a lot closer to Havana,"
laughing in the sand...
"Key West is a beeetch,"
mocking some song or slogan.

The oldman had made the voyage,
his last breath beneath
the palms and pines
hands in the sand
soul in paradise.

"Hey, Mad Jack..how are you,
I heard you was dead...
have a cold beer, man,"
a voice from the past.

Inside the Reef,

Above the Horn.

A Tree Grows in Paradise.

0724/1901 82/88 Blue Skies E5/10 65%H.
DOGS 9818 7316 1067 1762.

Greetings from the Hill.

A lovely morning in paradise,
classics and 'Law and Order',
chimes ringing, cats sleeping,
green tea with the laptop.

Blue skies and beautiful.

An Australian pine grows
on the abandoned Flagler Railway,
trees unwanted at Fort Zackary,
by know it alls with caps,
"An invasive and not indigenous,"
something like a tourist.

"Imagine that...a peace price
for conducting two wars at large
and the Hopeless War at home,"
snorts the madone annoyed
with this pompous jackass
who pontificates to the masses
as were they ignorant asses,
lecturing to the uneducated
of government corruption
and corporate fraud
while representing the elements
of the most sinister of cabals.

"A fucking shill on the Hill
playing frontman to the public,
while ignoring the moneymaster
manipulations of M123,"
growls the oldman
getting testy
from sobriety.

The secret deals not so secret,
the stock deals with Barclays Bank,
Goldman Sachs and BlackRock,
a few shares of the Lynchpin
to tie to BofA and CountryWide,
all holding hands walking down
MaidenLane with Tiny Tim
and Larry Fink.

"Bite the billet....
blow your strumpet."

The public speaks and votes,
15,446 registered voters out
of 20,000 sounds fishy...
2777 elect a new mayor
by 51%, avoiding a runoff and
Big Mac and the gang of bullies
are exchanged for another
group of hopefully decent
uncorruptible spirits
with "Natures Bounty."

Imagine the Kings at lunch
discussing their favorite soup,
'Chinese derivative Aigdrop',
Blankfein laughs to Dimon,
"What about those gold derivatives
you dumped on the little buggers,
'they' threaten to renege
and ignore their obligation,"
slopping soup on his tie.

"Not a chance, theyr'e still hiding
the junkbonds from CountryWide
and those ratass MBS derivatives
that Ken got from Lynch, as well
as Freddy and Fanny crapbonds,
communist capitalists are no different
than socialist capitalists, Ha Ha,
TLC, thieving, lying cheats,"
enjoys the king of JPMC.

"Say Ken, that hundred mill payout
to retire silently is sucky, not enough
to start a MooGoo fund, Ha Ha,"
chiding the older man.

"Jamie, your'e getting drunk again,
you know Ken is major short on BA,
we've pumped 'it' up with that
fucking AIGshit for the fall in fall,"
always playing the clever jew.

"You know, I never thought banking
would be such a destuctive profession,
risk management was a hedge originally,
now a casino that games us all,"
a good man not cruel enough
for the primary dealers club.

He would be the Thanksgiving Turkey.

"Hey, 'its' all bullshit, engineered spin,
convince the sucker to buy something
all the time, oil the machine, grease
the wheels of the deals of money,
those sneaky masons used silly George,
gave him an apron and rich wife,
while Ben danced in Paris,
and the Rothschild family watched.

That time of the year again, mindless...
golf, baseball, football, hockey, basketball,
a couch and a cellphone, the Plasma TV,
even brokers sportbet, the bookies heaven,
Vegas betting on betting on betting...
imagine if the Mob was to reappear,
certain assholes might disappear
in dark toxic pools in the shadow
of the Goldie Sox Tower.

A falling dollar, market nervousness,
bank stress levels, price volatility,
investor aloofness, economic stagnation,
horrifying unemployment, tighter money,
sluggish growth, and diarrhea...
of the mouth.

Talking Tits and Jim Cramer.

Hang on to your toilet seat
before FantasyFest.

Fill up the pantry,
stock up on beer,
stop smoking.

A beautiful breeze
in the florida keys.

Inside the Reef.

Vote the Assholes Out!

0721/1908 82/90 Blue Skies ESE/5 75%H.
DOGS 960 7145 1028 1701.

Greetings from the Hill.

A perfect morning in paradise,
oddly busy on the street,
perhaps the early voters
absenting the scondrels from power.

The effects of the recession
seem oblivious to the town council
as plans go forward
for TWENTY MILLION DOLLAR offices
to operate a ghost town
with cruise ship fees.

Kings and Princes of Duncedom
following the great leadership
of Obumboy from whence all comes
through DEBT.

October, the usual month of business,
partimers grooming homes for FantasyFest,
once a weekend, now a monthly
celebration of delusion and illusion,
this years' theme....
BuckFucking.

"Certainly appropriate to Barney Franks
and Bendover Obama, hofuckingho,"
laughs the madone watering roosters
on the sidewalk sending them
flying in front of cars...
"Fly fly, far away from the rooster hag,"
below on the porch enticing them
with her cursed flute.

The roosters were occupying the block
and the empty houses,
perching on the railings,
shitting on the porch floors,
six soldiers sqawking
on each side of the street,
their pecking ground the only
hundred foot lawn in town,
the corner lot.

The school board scandal with
the asshole Acevedo family,
bubba'd in with Fat Mac
who seems to empower influence
despite a hopeless failure at everything,
the corruption of bureaucracy
that sustains through incestuous
blackmail, bribery and patronage
flourishes as an immortal saint
of the Conch Republic.

"Fuck the government, piss on the feds,
take their money and remember to forget,"
the usual theme song of locals
regarding any intrusions of elements
beyond the county line,
public or private.

The hippies had found paradise...
far out islands and choice buds,
Big Mac was in the gang.

Gayboys found the Columbian Connection,
fruity old men gentrified houses,
partying at LaTeDa.

The Days before Aids.


"Thirty years after and your'e alive,
must be a virgin and a drunk,"
suggests the madone,
seen it all, heard it all.

Another week of bullshit from Obama,
"Focusing your life solely on making a buck
shows a certain poverty of ambition.
It asks too little of yourself,
because it is only when
you hitch your wagon to something larger
than yourself that you realize
your true potential."

Once again that mysterious 'it'
and the Wagon Trail.

This silly ass must write
these sorryass scripts himself.

Snorkling in a Sea of Debt...
Treading water in the Toxic Lake.

An amusing site, Stupid Quotes,
by famous people, necessary reference.

"Financial Markets are inherently unstable
and there are social needs that cannot be met
by giving free market free rein.
Unfortunately their defects are not recognized.
Instead there is a widespread belief...
that markets are selfcorrecting,"
George Soros, killer of Jews.

"It is not the resposibility of the Federal Reserve
nor would it be appropriate to protect
leaders and investors from the consequences
of thier financial decisions.....
I expect there will be failures,
I don't expect any serious problems
among large investment banks
that make up the substantial part
of the banking system,"
offered Chairman Ben.

"'It' is one fuck of a mess and less known,
chasing down David X Li
and the Gaussian Copula
or finding the counterparties
in Greenberg's AIGF,
another CFR spy....
and what about the owners
of the twelve Federal Reserve banks
who worry Alger Hart,
yes indeed, that scary unknown
could make one fart
in the black of night,"
worried the oldman,
thirsty at noon.

Hardly a breeze
in the keys.

Inside the Reef.

Above the Horn.

Final Words to a Dying Dollar.

0718/1913 75/85 Blue Skies SW/5 0%H

DOGS 9574 702 1003 1651.



Greetings from the Hill.



Another month in paradise,

the garden a delightful change,

improvements of love and beauty,

without the buck's derange.



"There was no buck to arrange,"

snides the madone concerned

about the large type

wondering about the glasses.



The oldman was bored with blogging,

overfilled with the deceit of all,

statistics to boggle the mind,

semantics to confuse the brain,

talking tits with white teeth

sounding bossy smart

to emasculated men.



All a great piece of propaganda

to disguise the War of Poverty,

the demise of consumers

and the middle class.



"Replaced by Big Government,

the All Consumer," growls

the madone.



"If GM had kept up with technology,

like the computer industry has,

we would have $25 cars

with 1000 mpg," says Bill,

adding sagely,

"If you can't make it good,

then make 'it' look good."



So much for the richest man

in the world.



The old fart from Omaha

who disdained derivatives

yet holds tens of trillions

claiming to be a five year keeper

of all things American offered,

"If past history was all

there was to the game,

the richest people

would be librarians."



Certainly makes one wonder

who's ideas 'they' steal

and the lawyers protecting

the theft.



The ingenuity of financial engineering.



"This crisis exposed

very significant problems

in the financial system of the US

and other economies...

innovation got too far in front

of the knowledge of risk,"

says Treasurer Timmy,

"Hofuckingho, because of leverage,

like forty and sixty to one, assholes,

Canada at sixteen to one

has avoided the blind risk,"

the madone enjoyed reports.

"Fucking asshole machine."