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.

More Congressional Corruption.

0642/1740 68/76Blue Skies N5/10 80%H
DOGS 10230 7699 1116 1716.

Greetings from the Hill.

A comfortable day in paradise,
a cool breeze from the north
for the milliondollar machines,
big spenders from the elite world.

The town grasping at events
to add to a diminishing cash flow
while retailers disappear in the night
unwilling to pay exorbitant rents.

"The signs are on the street
and more and more unlighted,"
snorts the madone.

"Empty seats at the World Series,"
shrugs John, visiting for the day,
a ticketholder himself...
"The bastards are cleaning us out
and nobody cares, you gotta think,
the mafia had morals, these pricks
are bloodsucking leeches,"
sipping a beer on the balcony
then heading into the coastal storm
returning to HedgeHog City.

More and more each day the fool
reveals himself beyond control,
becoming an embarassment,
a babbling pretentious imposter
as leader of the World...
Commander in Chief of a military
in another losing adventure
that profits only the privateers
and the drug cartels.

"Public memory is deleted nightly."

Too big to understand, too much to know,
those who toil for the soilings of others
can only dream and never chance to scheme
in the financial engineering of fraud.

"This fucking contagian is a disease
that was created in the minds
of mathmatical manipulators
for fast talking marketeers
of the swine pits of Lehman
and the cages of Bear...
'make a deal, how much can I steal',
the mantra for vultures and hogs
offering twenty percent gains
with bribes on the side ",
fumes the madone pissed
with liars and cheats,
embezzlers of the soul,
thieves of Trust.

"Yeah fucking yeah...
in Fraud we Trust,"
grumbles the oldman,
weak, sick and emfeebled,
body and mind diseased,
without insurance to cover
the catastrophic costs
of sustaining life...
allowing nature to determine
one's time on the planet.

A cool breeze on the balcony,
classics from Havana and CNBC,
cats on the chairs, doves on the railings,
roosters never silent,
a cold pint at noon...
Warren, the wood turner
downstairs on the lathe,
Tony protecting his garden,
the flautist silent.

"So what about this bigeared jewess
who engineers the law
for the Goldie Sox Gang,
this bitch must control Masters
and her derivative scam
with all the other crooked twats...
dried up cunts taking over
the Viagra dicks,
hohofuckingho,"
laughs the oldman
over being nice to anyone.

The Bribees in Congress sucked ass again
under the leadership of Bunghole Barney,
two stupid bills empowering Fraud Street
to fleece the naked sheep again,
"These fucking derivatives that no one
understands or wants to for fear of stupidity,
after all what does 'it' mean...
insurance on shorting an investment
to hedge against loss and gain
in the offshore havens
of the British Mavens,
controlled by
'The City of London',"
cunts from Caimbridge,
pimps from JPMorgan,
traitors like Dimon.

"Go get them, Janet."

The bitch in the White House
pedals a healthcare plan
for cellphone drugdealers
and Acorn nutcases,
pathetic and preposterous,
the schill on the Hill.

One down and more to go,
Corzine and his largess,
New Jersey a mess.

Blue skies and beautiful,
a breeze in the keys.

Beyond the reef.

Above the Horn.
or

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.