The King is Dead.

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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.