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.