Grandfather's Economic Post

Greetings from the Hill
65/75 N/5 Grey skies 0711/1805 90%H

The mood seems to follow the falling DOW,
watching the fortunes of working slaves
eaten away by the parasites on cellphones,
the computer ghouls at trading desks
dealing in the american product...DEBT.

This beast evolved from own with a loan,
masterminded by backroom Fink's
and the merchants of death with debt
and hedged with insurance...
"Yeah, yeah...let the government take charge,
and charge and charge, all guaranteed by fiat,
and that ain't no car," rants the madone
while watering the oregano and floors,
the gardens below and passing tourists.

"Learn from history, hofuckingho...
the young dunces are the stupidist ever,
the worst in the world, hardly able to
operate a cash register, but all transactions
will be plastic, the ultimate banking,"
grumbling in disgust as a young couple
pass below each talking on their cellphone.

The afternoon sun buoys the attitude,
cats on the scaffolding watching
the lovedoves eat their food,
across the street the lime tree losing leaves
...the end of winter...Key West seasons.

The oldman was facing the ultimate choice
and as always would procrastinate.

"You're so full of shit, tax time and another
birthday, more moving to Cuba tales,
put a big fat mortgage on the house
and see the world, hofuckingho..
got a passport yet," snapping two pints.

Of course the idea of raising funds to play
in the game of acquisition is a temptation
what with the given equity...
"Right on oldman, start your Vulture Fund
and pedal it to chinamen on bicycles,"
laughing out to the balcony.

Classics from Havana, Cary Grant in black
and white TV31, papayas bulging outside,
the old cat sleeping on the printer,
clean windows and shiny floors,
the machine to play with...
hard to leave paradise.

"A twenty percent adjustment in real estate,
prices will reflect reality.."
the oldman snorted at the talking teeth
on the downstairs television,
not permitted in the flat...
"Oil prices may come down
if the dollar levels out and the markets hold,"
the spin was getting thin,
as thin as Goldie Socks' ice,
may the crooked cocksuckers drown
in their pools of toxic waste.

Have a nice day,
not a breeze in the keys,
above the florida horn
and tropic of cancer.

Save canned food.

Eat at home.

Drink tap water.

Wondering where the other sock is.

Greetings from the Hill.
62/70 Cloudy NE15/20 0712/1759 75%H

Grey skies and cooler, hardly very inspiring,
the past week reading doom and gloom
every day and hearing it each night,
"It's giving the oldman such a fright,"
grumbles the madone in pants and socks.

"It's all bullshit, always has been,"
spitting out the open window,
the neighbour sweeping his roof,
the poinciana leaves had fallen,
winter arrived with bare limbs.

"Getting too smart and too bloody old,"
the oldman was losing humor and hope
and had smoked up the dope.

"The fucking gangsters sell it and short it,
individually wrapped or truckload lots,
all those 'it's', all those commissions,
lose or win you pay, 'The Vulture Funds'
and the million realestate whores,"
flicking a butt in the garden.

"Hey, oldman, you shouldn't read all that crap,
it was forty years ago when you joined
the boys on Bay Street, they are all dead,
maybe you could tell some tales,
hofuckingho....and what was the DOW,"
the madone joined the cats on the balcony.

The world was getting funny and shaking hands,
enemies making deals and freinds decoupling,
russian gas for an indian car in China...
french electricity for modular housing in Iran,
american war materiel for arabs and jews.

There must be an analogy somewhere
a metaphor for the derangement
a phrase for the madness
a quote from the bible
..."I told you so."

The addiction to gambling and the absurdity
that mental choice transcends physical labor,
the short term attention dwellers
living in the cellars
of their minds
while renting out their eyes
and ears
to the advertising man.
The one eyed monster
barking bargains
in pixel land...
where all is invented.

"Hey, honey...
I've got a great idea...
we can mortgage the house
and buy a SIV," watching Kramer.

"But dear, we just bought a SUV."

"Ho ho, silly... and just plain vanilla,"
a coservative republican.

"Hummm, are there any strawberry sivs
with a long straw,"
wondered the other half
of the consumer market.

"And honey, take the garbage out
on the way to the store."

The way we live is
the way we think we live...
a fucking commercial,
buy the product and become the creature
in the ad, a beautiful skinny model,
rather than dumpy fatfucks
always waddling to the bathroom.

"Norman...the bankerbrokerrealestate man
is calling again," the inlaws down the block.

"Whats happening my man, todays the day,"
the executive turned huckster,
"Big shorts on RMCDO's on the OTC
and fat puts on the Korean derivative market,"
offered the opportunity for advancement
in the global connection.

"Norman...please don't mortgage the cottage,
and take the garbage out on the way to the store,"
sweeping the floors and feeding the bird,
watering the dog and cutting a log
for the chilly afternoon
far from paradise.

Where the sun shone through the window,
a slight breeze in the keys,
at the top of the florida horn
above the tropic of cancer.

Time for a walk to Faustos

catfood and dovefood
and foolfuel.

Sell your car and buy canned goods.


Yo yo mas.

The Roady's and two dogs Arrive.

Greetings from the Hill.
66/76 Blueskies ENE5/10 60%H

A good day with breakfast in bed
while finishing the book on Hess.
Chores done in an hour,
irrigation on.

The Internetting is interrupted
by two dogs and the travellers,
a swirling dervish of chaos,
the mentor and his nephew...
their home..
a black and white Ford Shelby,
perfectly disguised.

The officer graduate from Annapolis
restrained the dogs while Big Trick
rolled from his westcoast bag,
the dogs crashed on the pinus elliotti.

Happy Birhday, Miss Vickory.

Greetings from the Hill.
48/55 Blue Skies NE10/30 o715/1730 40%H

A very cold day in paradise,
cats fed and kept inside,
plants watered, floors swept,
windows cleaned,
reading in the balcony sun.

An invitation from Mr. Bedgood
for a birthday visit.
My dear neighbor of thirtytwo years
is one hundred and one.

The home a work of art
the man created for the lady,
the real queen of Love Lane.
Bless you Douglas.

Warm and toasty,
elegant and comfortable,
a home not a house.

"She doesn't hear too well,
but reads perfectly," he smiles
as she reads her cards,
"One hundred and one,"
she beams to the oldman,
beside her.

"What do you think of that, Jack."
too stunned to reply.

Pleased to be
on this florida key.