How was your Decade?

0710/1748 59/74 Blue Skies NE15 70%H
DOGS 10543 7945 1095 1230.

Greetings from the Hill.

A beautiful day in paradise...
seventy one degrees at noon
after a double comforter night
with windows closed and cats inside.

A day reading comments on 'Zero Decade',
Crudman's NYT ostentatious yuppie barf,
insipeous wanting attention remarks
without any sense of reality,
or simply edited for LaLa world.

"The fucker has conned the world as well
as the dickhead masses on hardon pills
and obamaphones, the black professor
of the American Constitution, my oh my,"
growls the madone disgusted with 'it' all,
this sordid affair between government
and the investment bankers manipulation
of the central banking system.

Representatives of the people....
certainly true for the limited few,
those five million families surviving
on 100T to 1M annual income,
executive managers of the show,
while 120 thousand families exist
on 1M to 20M annually.

"What about those four thousand families
with over twenty million a year,
and where are they today...."
growls the oldman
always amazed with ignorance.

A politician for every three Goldman Sachs
thieving cheating lying partners...
and that's not the Dimon grifters
or petty crooks like the Countrywide king,
635 elected assholes pretending to know
about balanced budgets while living
ungainfully from the 'perks' of Office.

"My my my...is anything left to borrow on,
the roads, insurance policies, the air we breath,
ho ho ho, a carbon tax and death derivatives,
privatization for tollways, squeeze what you can,"
the boys who fucked Mexico are doing 'it'
to hapless hopeless Uncle Sam,
the old Rothschild game....
buy those bonds and wait a few years.

After all, new management is always lurking.

A Zero Decade for struggling families
who earn between five and thirty thousand,
not much for half the population,
fifty million families must be growing herb,
and sixteen million underclass living
between 500 and 5000 dollars annually,
the same sixteen million in middle class...
30 to 50 thousand bucks a year.

"Who the fuck invents these figures,
Ben Bernanke or that stooge at FRBNY,
say goodbye to unions Mister AFLCIO,
Dimon's mentor holds the wand.

"A flaw, I have found a flaw, but...
I don't know what 'it' is," stumbles
the wizard of risk prevention,
the promoter of derivatives,
the inventor of financial chaos,
the creator of Fedspeak.

"A lovely model."

"But she has no tits,"

"Fatten her ass."

Gullible's Travels forewarned the greedy,
a clever publication for the curious.

"Oldman, you're not doing very well,
there is no subtle message or joke,
poetry creates pictures, comedy a laugh,
your snide remarks on photos..."
the madone was tired of chasing roosters,
the oldman knew this was not the day
to uncover the true criminals
behind banksters, corporapists, fraudsters,
the book of Law is written every day
by shysters and shylocks.

Blue skies and beautiful
with perfectly clean windows
open for the breeze.

'It' was a very good year.

Christmas Turkey and Pie in the Sky.

0709 1746 72/80 Cloudy SSE 5/10 90%H.
DOGS 10423 7650 1100 1729.

Greetings from the Hill.

A month away from searching and snooping,
seeking the invisible thieves in the banks,
the facilitators who manage the drainwork
down which underlying assets disappear
into the dark opaque toxic waters
of cisterns beneath the shadow offices
of OTC and DTC now connected to FRBNY.

"We have learned how to manage risk this time,
there will not be a second wave....."
assures the Master of the Treasury looking funny,
as if he were a lying politician promising hope,
or a general assuring victory in Afghanistan,
perhaps a waiter at Happy Hour.

Of course the water is rising in Arizona,
over the heads of homeowners
with no equity life rafts and no walkaways.

State income down twenty five percent,
back to 2002 levels before the boom.

Actually the same when Bill was on the Hill.

"Who the fuck created this mess and who
has profitted from the financial engineering,"
sneered the madone well aware of the criminals
who talked and walked the same game,
played boldly without shame,
those who held the trust of a nation
to adventure in speculation.

"Kings of the Street, Masters of Fraud,
Manipulators of Governments,
Treasury Agents, Keepers of the Fiat,"
scoffed the oldman awakening
from a morning nap.

He had dreamed Hillary came for lunch
and told him about Bill and Phil
conspiring with Wendy and Enron
to alienate Brooksley Born,
permitting the explosion of betting
without table stakes,
the word of a turd
in the derivatives Game.

Within two years, the remarks...
"A trillion here, a trillion there,"
were now unregulated quadrillions.

"Deer hunting with Jesus,"
mused the oldman over his gift,
a present to himself.

The stylings of Joe Bageant
encouraged him to dream of Truth.

The Weather Channel in the bedroom,
classics from Havana and Big Mac
in the Presidents' room,
cats and roosters on the balcony,
thirty five years looking out
the same windows...

"Paradise is still Paradise."

"What about that little worm, Larry Fink,
the smartfuck kike from Boston
who can't control his bitch,
the elite cunts needing age rage counselling,
watching the men of power glower
in skyscraper erections.

The very idea that a man of humble status
could comprehend the mechanics
of computerized algorithms
without a nightcourse from MIT
or a day job at McDonalds....
"Is fucking Absurd,"
laughed the oldman
after smoking a joint with Alger
and sipping a cold pint with Tony.

The turkey was simmering in his mind.

The last vestige of hypocrisy is now in danger...
"Horror of fucking Horrors,
that black boy went berserk....
but he's only part black, the bad part,
a big stick went to his head,
he'll caddy for the President somewhere,"
saddens the oldman wondering
if the worst has past
and no one is cleaning up the mess.

A humid day in paradise

beyond the reef

above the horn

Happy on the Hill.