Free at Last....Free at Last.

0637/2010 78/88 Blue Skies E5/10 60%H

Greetings from the Hill.

No Fridays Lies today...
just money in the bank,
donations for the household,
keeping the lights on,
cats and birds fed,
crappers flushing,
hotless water flowing.

The financial engineer was 'tight',
orders on the Internet had stopped,
the phone silent...
he had spent the week with family,
a rented home in Charleston,
playing golf with Dad,
and brother Jack,
the otherjack.

"He reneges, lies cheats,"
snorted the indianwoman
after a game of cutthroat bridge
in the 'RogoSuite'.

"Of course, of course,"
the oldman smiled...
"Usually off course."

His most worshipfull of shitmaster
took on the judge with delay,
the courts delay and stalled
the system through mirrors
of the secret clan
unseen by the common man.

"Elitest shithead pretender
to the warbase of rangers
and fatass computer scouts
who fantasize of 'Being Crazy'
raising a mob to Madness....
Not a fuckingchance.."
the madone still investigating
P I BILL.

The Cheerleader controlled the Mob.

"What could that mean...
a redneck Texas cheerleader at Harvard
snorting coke guzzling whiskey
playing queer mocking Dad,
nasty little pecker kicking
his sissy brother at home
with the ragheads...
No movie I ever saw,"
shrugs the oldman ready,
especially at three in the afternoon
on a gorgeous day in paradise,
breakfast on the balcony,
cafe conleche and a booger,
internet and emails,
perhaps another blog.

The Poinceanna sprouting delicate leaves,
two nights of rain,
green weeds on the corner lawn,
classics from Havana,
a brancheater on the corner,
Canada day this weekend,
Judge Overby dismissed the case.

Blue skies and beautiful,
where Life is the Breeze.



Recycle and bicycle.

Sunday on the Sunnyside.

0638/2008 78/88 Billowing Clouds SE5/10 70%H

Greetings from the Hill.

Sunday morning in paradise,
sunshine and shadows,
Segovia from Havana 59AM
John Wayne on FreeTV,
roosters crowing
for catfood,
bars closed.

Clouds drifting southwest
through the front windows,
floating northwest
through the side windows...
"Holey horsefuck, that's a storm,"
laughs the madone
ready for the rain.

"And tomorrows a bank holiday,
the last for banksters and hedgehogs,
the summer of discontent
brewing in the engine's roar
as Detroit gasps 'it's' last...
ragheads stuffing their pipes,"
grumbles the oldman,
a pint before noon at home,
within the law
for now.

"Yeah well fuckingwhat...
that evil little prick won't leave.
A setup for martial law.
Economic collapse
Dollar collapse
Civil war
Detainment of insurgents
Antipolitical actions
MexCanAm ...MACDOLLAR.
Blackstone, Blackrock, Blackwater.
The Kingdom of Duncedom
the reign of Insane,"
limping downstairs
for beer and grease.

The oldman read the Fed speeches,
tried to understand the 'models'
in 'Liz' Laderman's reports,
an admission of intent
by the economists
to dictate policy
beyond reason.

"A fucking mathmatical model
with government figures
approved by investment dealers
rated by subscribers
unknown to all
but an MIT acidhead,
the 20/20 Club,
Bet on a Bet on a Bet
to the last dollar,
the home is gone,"
sighs the oldman
ready for the rain.

Butter on toasted black rye,
wide sliced homefries
with Visalia onyins,
fat sliced Homestead tomato
beside an omelette
of green onyins and cheese
under the house eggs,
another pint,
a roach with a belch,
brunch at noon
cooked by the indian.

Life on the Hill.

always a breeze
in the fabulous keys.

Recycle and bicycle.

Save cans...
beer cans.

Happy Holiday.

Memorial Day Blues.

0639/2007 79/88 Hazy Hot S/8 70%H

Greetings from the Hill.

The thirtythird of this holiday weekend
in paradise, these thrice blessed keys,
islands of the eternal sun...

"That's Honorary Conch Shit,"
laughs the madone celebrating
with a pint for lunch at 92 degrees
and 24.6/81.6 generalities.

The oldman was crippled again,
falling on the new plywood floors.

His right side too, the typing arm...

"Apple Blossom Weekend,"
smiled his mother enjoying the ride
around The Falls into Buffalo
to visit Aunt Effie and Uncle Frank,
a bookiebank and mobman.

"We Like Ike."

Chocolate bars and baseball cards,
angora sweaters and ducktails,
Bill Haley and The Comets...

"What the fuck happened then, oldman,
the frigging neutron bomb,
rock and fucking roll, or ........
the birth control pill, Harfuckinghar,"
cackles the madone,
as roosters crow
and hens fly to the scaffolding
eating dove and catfood
while the indianwoman plays the flute,
smoking Poker cigarettes,
snacking Ben and Jerry's,
feeding steak to the dog.

"Camelot and a parking lot
for plazas and suburban sod,
commuters and looters,
bomb shelters made into
backyard pools,
safe from 'the commie threat'
until 'that ride in Dallas'."

"She was jaded and callous,
had left her oldman,
dead in Dallas...
and married 'The Greek',
Jackie the Wacky and Wall Street,
just the beginning,"
mused the oldman in the heat
of the afternoon,
the dog eating chicken bones,
the stupid oldcunt up the street
leaving her pets alone
to bark and bark.

"But, I never heard my dogs bark
when I was out."

Americanfuckingassholes playing roles.

Red Sunset Depression Blues.

Greetings from the Hill.

0641/2004 76/86 Blue skies and breezy SSW 10/20 70%H

Another splendid day in paradise in the President's room,
cobalt blue skies and lush green trees
thirsting for a springtime shower,
the neighbour's corner lawn..brown.
The oldman watered everyday.

"Hey, how's the new setup," offering pleasantries
for change in the neworld of Kindness,
a radical new approach to Greed
and the peckers of coin.

The oldman had accumulated extensive notes
the past week recuperating from work,
the day of Miss Vickery's wake,
"No noise during the memorial,"
growls the madone
never trusting the engineer.

Seventeen sheets of plywood,
unloaded, cut and screwed
on the second floor
covering an oldman's dream...
"By Order of the Judge,"
laughs the madone.

The oldman never made it inside
reminiscing on the porch
with a ghost and a dream,
such a work of art,
balance, style and color
oversized for the special
centuryold hundredweight,
"Now, look at that, Jack,"
the teacher teaching observaton.

Looking is listening to the sound
of nature seeing color.

"And not listening to rich oldcunts
pretend they're not horny,"
cackles the indianwoman bringing
bread, juice and milk with...
"And I'm out of pot,"
shuffling out followed
by the dog.

"And I'm out of water,"
talking to the fifteen steps.

"What's 'it' all about,
Who are They,
and Where,
When will 'it' happen
and Why?"

wonders a stranded motorist
on USOne.

The breeze rattled the window,
the gnarled poinciana was bloomless,
southwest was the Yucatan,
a thousand miles of water
before Tampa
and The Foreclosure Coast,
Key West had it's own troubles,
subprimes were backing up,
the waters were becoming toxic
"It could get in your hair...
It's in the air,"
mumbles the indianwoman
with a lunch treat.

"Any idiot can figure 'it' out...
a simple equation based on the model,
Smets Wouters 2003 DSGE/AWM
analysing the optimality of stratagies,
a newer model interelates real GDP,
consuption, investment,employment,
real wages, inflation and
short term interest
as opposed to
Bayesian estimation and validation
and vector auto regressions VAR's,
HOhofuckingHO."

The voice in the hallway of thirst.

"Hey, oldman, what about Janet Yellen
up there (B.C.) with the CFA, Yuck, Yuck,"
sneaking in his notes again..
"Events are roiling US markets,
turmoil in all loan forms as a result of
Financial Engineering and the 'model',
'The Originate to Distribute Business Model'
admitting to 7M subprime in the air,
defaults in ABS, MBS, CDO, and Muni's,
interbanking and counterparties reluctant,
the TAF, TSLF, PDCF bailouts a last window,
blah blah fucking blah."

Walking downstairs with the credit card.


"Investing in Treasury futures using CBOT
contracts and propriety model to identify
discrepancies in value against the yield curve
entailing arbitrage strategy...Yofuckingyo...
all to swindle administrators
and other traitors of Trust,"
sighed the oldman
late for lunch.

"The jury is guilty too."

"The boss is crooked, so is everyone on the take."

"Eight years of Failure."

Stay with canned goods.

The floors are safe.

Paradise ain't cheap.


Laura must be a bitch.

Skateboards for Baghdad.

0646/1958 Blue Skies ESE10/15 80%H

Greetings from the Hill.

A lovely day in paradise
reading on the balcony...
the diary of Henry Wallace.
A reincarnation for the times.

Imagine ugly skateboards, 100,000,
going to Baghdad to promote
the Disney Skatepark,
or boardpunks avoiding deadheads
and those without beds.

Could this promotion of the 'Occupants'
be bizarre or the fantasy's
of the King of Duncedom.

"Another fucking week of Bullshit
and Bushturds,"
grumbles the madone pissed
with monitoring the lies
from banksters and corporapists,
the spin from pixel land,
CountryWide on cheap TV,
and now the Garden gone
for a theme park

"A pathetic collection of cowards,
the men pretend to decide upon
the input from women too old
for their sexual fantasies,
coupled households
and obeise brats,"
sighs the oldman thirsty
for a coldone
but too weary
to be disturbed.

The fools of local government
closed the newly built SkatePark
to fuck the kids
as well as Harry and Pritham...
"And just who might those fools be,"
snorting at such lowlife,
the fulltime bureaucrat and other
brokers of favors,
a system so slimey that all
are contaminated in crime,
guilt that runs corruption
and makes a fool
believe
in god.

"Take a walk around the block,"
growling to the oldman,
something very suspicious was
happening in the financial markets,
obviously a sinister plot so far beyond
the banksters and fedsters
the hedgehogs and raters,
equity and debt,
canned goods and cash.

"It's the Rapture or a Rupture,"
smiles the oldman to the cat behind him,
a warm night without breeze
and the feel of thunder,
too long without rain
and too many things
out of harmony,
too long living the lie
of another' dream,
greed's scheme
of the lender's cream...

"Fuck you allllllllllll...
Subprime and Sour Milk,
SIV's in the dark
and CDO's that bark,"
laughing in the moonlight

on a tropical night

with hardly a breeze

in the quiet keys.

Lyndon LaRouche
supports Hillary...
whatfuckingnext.

McCoy is eighty.

SKATEBOARDS IN PARADISE...Where???