Back on the Hill.

Blue skies and beautiful
a gorgeous day in paradise.

No photos yet.

Waiting the engineer...

Then the Editor.

solaris hill notes

madonthehill.blogspot.com

pretty fucking funny for a senile
seventy year oldman.

High on the Hill.

Back on the Hill.

A Chilly Day in Paradise.

Greetings from the Hill.

Perhaps the time has come to edit
the learning experience.
Not much else since ignores
an uneducated oldman.

Solaris Hill Notes arises as
madonthehill.blogspot.com

Does 'it' connect...
send a comment or email,
madjackgunn@gmail.com.

"Is anyone out 'there' or
indifferent to CHANGE
or the HOPE of the DOPE",
growled the madone.

Blue skies and breezy
above the Hill.

solaris hill notes madonthehill,blogspot.com.

Greetings from the Hill.

Due to technical problems,
Mad Jack has the above new spot.

Kind of hard to find????

Chilly day on the Hill.

No help from Blogger!

0704/1817 70/75 Blue Skies SSE20/25 75%
DOGS 10035 7271 1077 1530.

Greetings from the Hill.

Pissed off with Google...
the assholes can monitor every message
but not return help email,
Suckspies for the CIA.

bXcqnn4m, you fuckfaces!

joebageant.com on CounterPunch,
socialist ragbagger.

Continued from before the fuckup.

Money was the rule, the law the fool,
class separation in the cocaine nation,
as Ronald mumbled and Nancy smiled,
technology was creating the communication
to network the world...
The Wall crumbled as Capitalism
invaded Communism...
who would have believed
except Mitchell and Schultz.

This peculiar process of making money
by dealmaking had infected the economy,
financing became the profitable division
of the multinationals...
"Hey, fuck 'it',
why make it here, too many problems,
unions, benefits, pensions, insurance...
cheap labor and shipping,
warehousing and retailing."

The financial engineers designed the economy
according to Ann Ryand's secret lover
and Atlas Shrugged
as America got mugged.

And Boob Tubes were made by Mexicans,
then in Korea for the Japs,
then China for T Bonds.

"What a concept," enthused the senile Greenspan,
with Rubin and Summers,
mass producing derivatives
to ensure the insurance
against default and protect the bet,
hedging the hedge, both short and long,
bundling the tranches from the cellar
to the mezzanine...
shit in a steak sandwich.

"Billy Blythe, aka Bill Clinton
sold out for a blowjob
and a library, white trash
jiving like brother Barry,
Liars in the White House,"
fumes the madone,
disappointed with sellouts,
and pathetic actors,
politicians playing games
while Demons Rule.

No pictures today.

Blogspot a snot.

Greetings from the Hill.
bXcqnn4m attack?

The mind is overloaded with bullshit,
the continuous crap prevaricated by media,
commentators and journalists afraid
to explain the facts...
pawns of their sponsors who create
the fantasies of free markets
and an honest government,
both trustees of public monies,
schememakers of consumer fantasies,
the middleclass dreams of upperclass illusions,
a fine wardrobe and fancy car
covers a dumb mind...
A gullible brain who borrows his tomorrows
to pretend tonight,
cinderellas with granite countertops,
hardons with Viagra pills.

"A better life for the children,
a finer education and aricher lifestyle,"
my heavens, but wasn't that a fifties dream
that produced dropouts of the sixties
and drugdealers of the seventies,
assholes who made money breaking the law,
bending the law spending
on crooked lawyers.

Not enough Warriors to be Saviors.

0711/1803 62/75 Blue Skies NE10/15 77%H
DOGS 10561 7696 1112 1802.

Greetings from the Hill.

A beautiful day in paradise,
reading the New Yorker on the balcony,
classics through the open window,
in the morning sun...
CNBC fools ignored in the bedroom,
roosters across the street,
away from the madone's hose,
cat's sleeping in chairs of their own.

Swaying palm trees and quiet streets.

A message from Alida, the hot dog lady,
when Carter was President...
an entrepreneur with the aluminum wagon,
"Steam your buns
and relish your wiener."
She had a dream to be city manager
and change the conch corruption...
hearts are broken in paradise
minds turn to alcoholic slop,
and hope exists in dope.

"Hey, asshole, only for those who stay,"
laughs the madone, seen it all,
watcher of fools fall,
and the brokers call.

"Yeah, fucking blah, 'it's' all bullshit,"
said Billy to Henry Fonda,
when Scott Brown sucked ass
in the state senate, another Guardsman,
a JAGmaster and no kills,
strange religious background
that didn't get him into BAIN
and Romneys' circle.

The oldman watched him embarrass
his lovely daughters on National TV,
"They are available..."
even George Stupid Bush
wouldn't pimp his daughters,
this fuck is a fool.

And the grinning President pumped hands
in another losing show of support.

An earthquake destroys an already ruined nation.

The Three Stooges agree to help.

Three Assholes who have ruined America.

One wonders if the spokesman
is always the jokesman,
comfort the audience
and smile at the ladies,
humor the fat fool
paying the bill...
the credit card consumer...
"Spend, spend, spend,"
encouraged George after 9/11
on the road to debt heaven.

Clinton released the Three Headed Dog.

This verbal flowmaster believes his own shit,
whoever unleased this monster of deceit
will find the dog of CHAOS
with a fix on the River Styxx...


"Imagine what happened this year,
Hope and Change in Obamaville,
this jivetalking halfwhite geek
made whitefolk ghettos
out of suburbs,"
growled the madone
hating the Joker Clown.

FCIC to understand what caused the theft
of wealth and assets, the fortunes
of middleclass masses without cable,
for the Super Bowl...
a month to go before outrage
"And outage."

The Consumer Cow is out of Milk.

Curdled and girdled on wobbly legs,
too weak to eat green shoots.

"Sell your stock, take the walk,
or is 'it' all in name
of Cede and Company,
the shadow holders of all,
the bogus trust of DTCC,
a game one cannot see."
growls the oldman not blind.

The classics get static at sunset,
grey skies and palm leaves,
Angora squeezing through the louvered door,
cat food in the President's room,
Tony finished in the garden,
Alger at his computer,
this house not for sale.

"Make 'it' a home,"
said Mrs Albury,
when the oldman was young.

Viola jumps through the empty pane
broken by a raving rooster,
the attacks from unwanted birds,
pets of the indian woman,
rejected by Hollywood
and the neighbor on 'The Lane'.

Perhaps a star is needed,
a quarterback
not an Ombumboy
for George Soros
and the Moniests

Above the Horn,

Beyond the Reef,

On the Hill.

.

Bankers at the White House.

0712/1758 50/60 Blue Skies NNE15/20 75%H
DOGS 10598 8025 1136 1846.

Greetings from the Hill.

Blue skies and fifty degrees at ten o'clock,
cats taking the sunbeams in chairs,
classics from Havana in the blogroom,
windows and door closed...
Tony's special chili simmering
in the microwave,
palms swaying outside.

"So this is the big meeting of the minds,
the leaders of corruption and fraud,
the innovators of financial engineering,
the creators of wealth management,
caretakers of the commoner's currency,
manipulators of mortgages,"
snorts the madone always curious
of swindles and lies,
moreso the gullibility of the conned,
those believers of something more
than what they are getting,
those wannabees in SUV's.....

Imagine if Obama asked for answers
not explained by journalists,
not argued by commentators,
not wondered by pundits...
"What the fuck are derivatives
and how could there be
a quadrillion dollar market
in insuring default on debt
in the trillions...
and why were counterparties
paid with government monies?"


The current crop of crooks
had not the experience of politics,
being part of Change without Truth,
deregulating tiresome interference,
technoregulatory arbitrage...
financial fraud,
innovation allowing the forbidden,
getting around the rules,
bending the law, fixing a ticket,
"Get a good lawyer, hofuckingho,
if you want to keep your house
and find your pension funds,"
shysters and shylocks,
Citibank at thirty percent
Zero percent from the Fed.

"Duh duh, 'it's all beyond me,"

Imagine 'this shit' started
with Reaganomics when the president
was a convincing fellow in a time
of peril and financial worries,
a man of delegation, he allowed
his advisors to execute and effect
administration policies ....

"Sounds good to me, Olly,"
a little trade here and there,
"Good David, Nancy likes 'it'."

And Stockman still lurks about.

"It is all about Efficient Market Hypothesis,
intellectually sounding phrases about
managing risk by turning volatility
against 'it'....
the Theory of Heterogeneous Expectation,
longing an exchange trade and shorting the OTC,
and Madeoff ran the Nasdaq.....
pink slips for jew lips..hohoho,"
the madone was learning his lines.

Back at the White House the mulatto
had on his thinking cap wondering
about directorships and speeches,
he had a way with words
but was never good with numbers,
he could learn fedspeak...
but would there be a Federal Reserve,
even if he retired after one term,
'that fucking Ron Paul',
and that bald headed little jew
makes sixty million in salary,
god knows how much hidden everywhere,
grinning at Blankfein to confuse him
and frowning at Dimon,
his finger in the FRBNY,
fingerfuck, both hands.

This new guy at the Bank of America,
a little too agreeable...
the monster was a wreck like Citi,
and too many of those things,
fucking derivatives, bets on bets,
and now death, air, and our roads.

"Is nothing sacred from your gambling,"
the President posed to the banksters
who as one sat silent.

"The Fink started 'it',"
sneered the man from Mellon,
the Ten Trillion Dollar man.

From First Boston to Lehman,
to Blackstone then Blackrock,
ML,PNC,Barclays eighty percent
and still in the chair.

Runs AIG's collection of shit
for the Treasury and Tiny Tim,
where was 'he' today.

"Brrrrr ohfuckingbrrrr,"
laughs Tony with cold beer
and a sandwich from BO's,
joining the oldman at noon.

Chores in the afternoon to repair
the damaged plants from roosters
scavaging the balcony beauties,
his precious cuban oregano.

"No one tells the Truth...
does anyone really know anymore,
is 'it' all offshore
beneath an invisible island
in a carnival cavern
run by the pixelman,"
muses the oldman coming alive
with chilibeans and beer,
a grouper fish sandwich
with french fries.

The media is controlled
by senile old fools,
Murdoch and his chinese spy,
a pussypipeline to the Reds,
hahaha, an anachronism...
but maybe not.

"Whatever, whatever, the dorks
watch FOX while dudes read WSJ
and the DOW keeps records...
Roger Ailes makes 23M making FOX
700M, more than the others combined,
kind of says it all,"
sniffs the knowitall madone.

And Redstone is not the
daughter haters real name.

"Mr. President, sir, wakeup....
Derivatives are rational instruments
for unlocking latent value
in financial transactions
through mathematical logic...
a net value creation derived
from an underlying asset
exchanging cash flow
or equivalent assets
over time based contracts..."

"Without leverage,
the Derivative Ballroom
will have no dancers,"
echoed a voice in his mind.

It was time for Lincoln's room.

Above the Horn.

Beyond the Reef.

Inside the house.

A Quadrillion Here or There.

0712/1753 50/60 Blue Skies N15 70%H
DOGS 10511 8176 1129 1804.

Greetings from the Hill.

Shoes, socks, sweater and coat...
closed windows and cats inside,
no heating in this old house,
two comforters and no spouse.

Classics from Havana and swaying palms,
"You lying old dog, you have a heater on
in the President's room,"
laughed the madone,
sipping hot chocolate.

The oldman was studying derivatives again,
Barry Obumboy promised to intercede
on this perplexing problem not understood
by the oppressed masses and horse's asses,
those elected officials.

The very idea that someone could conceive
of such a scam to circumvent debt
seemed beyond fair and honest accounting,
more likely a limey plot by City of London...
and American investment bankers,
to perpetrate one world currency.

"Hey asshole, a Visa card does that
with a higher net profit than banks,"
laughs the madone amazed
at a public gone dumb.

The bitch was now running the commodity racket
for Jamie Dimon and the Cap and Trade
beyond imagination ripoff...
"Could anyone believe this scam,
Greenhouse Alfucking Gore,
dumb as they come,"
snorts the madone,
pissed with another asshole
speechmaking for Goldie Sox
and the Wall Street pimps.

The media has enough whores
flashing thighs eying the camera,
interrupting shrill cunts,
talking over emasculated dicks
who weakly concede,
not a man left standing.

"A K Street whore,"roars a man
still shouting from Florida,
a dissenting man who resents
the Federal Reserve System,
the private company of Thieves,
Liars and Cheats, twelve disciples
of economic deceit.

"This Robertson slut was in the bag
with the Gramm's , Rubin, Summers
and Blowjob Bill...
deregulation on the Hill to save Citi,
and now Obama sucks tit,"
growling in the dark,
the oldman was mad.

Little Ben, the pathetic academic
who pretends so well to try,
suckass fuckfaces using words
of excuses for failures...
worse than a preacher.

"Pump the printer, buy T bonds,
stash them in the Funny Bank
with F and F's toxic waste
and the Big Twelves shadow debt,
leveraged bets gone bad,
while the Hedge Hogs wait
to change the signs,"
muses the oldman
as the cat shits in the corner.

A savior to this calamity, this outrage
to the believers of goodtimes for all,
supporters of optimistic futures,
comfort and decency in old age,
small fortunes to pass on....
"Hofuckingho, asshole,
get a grip on reality,
there is no heaven or hell,
jews run the CFR,
and you have AIG on your face,"
snorts the madone
hating that kike Greenberg
who caused 'it' all.

Of course 'Tiny Tim' will save the world
from the imaginators of wealth,
engineers of financial products
that promise rewards beyond before...
and of course protection from loss,
the age of risk management
when the largest company in the world
"Goes fucking bankrupt....
Up up and away in your new Chevrolet."

The oldman was disgusted with the gutless.


The sellout started with cheap goods,
the power of a world reserve dollar,
military intimidation and information,
spies went to the skies
and no man went to the moon,
since then every president
has been a goon.

This one merely educated,

Beyond the Reef.

Enjoying the Hill.

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.

Vote the Assholes Out!

0721/1908 82/90 Blue Skies ESE/5 75%H.
DOGS 960 7145 1028 1701.

Greetings from the Hill.

A perfect morning in paradise,
oddly busy on the street,
perhaps the early voters
absenting the scondrels from power.

The effects of the recession
seem oblivious to the town council
as plans go forward
for TWENTY MILLION DOLLAR offices
to operate a ghost town
with cruise ship fees.

Kings and Princes of Duncedom
following the great leadership
of Obumboy from whence all comes
through DEBT.

October, the usual month of business,
partimers grooming homes for FantasyFest,
once a weekend, now a monthly
celebration of delusion and illusion,
this years' theme....
BuckFucking.

"Certainly appropriate to Barney Franks
and Bendover Obama, hofuckingho,"
laughs the madone watering roosters
on the sidewalk sending them
flying in front of cars...
"Fly fly, far away from the rooster hag,"
below on the porch enticing them
with her cursed flute.

The roosters were occupying the block
and the empty houses,
perching on the railings,
shitting on the porch floors,
six soldiers sqawking
on each side of the street,
their pecking ground the only
hundred foot lawn in town,
the corner lot.

The school board scandal with
the asshole Acevedo family,
bubba'd in with Fat Mac
who seems to empower influence
despite a hopeless failure at everything,
the corruption of bureaucracy
that sustains through incestuous
blackmail, bribery and patronage
flourishes as an immortal saint
of the Conch Republic.

"Fuck the government, piss on the feds,
take their money and remember to forget,"
the usual theme song of locals
regarding any intrusions of elements
beyond the county line,
public or private.

The hippies had found paradise...
far out islands and choice buds,
Big Mac was in the gang.

Gayboys found the Columbian Connection,
fruity old men gentrified houses,
partying at LaTeDa.

The Days before Aids.


"Thirty years after and your'e alive,
must be a virgin and a drunk,"
suggests the madone,
seen it all, heard it all.

Another week of bullshit from Obama,
"Focusing your life solely on making a buck
shows a certain poverty of ambition.
It asks too little of yourself,
because it is only when
you hitch your wagon to something larger
than yourself that you realize
your true potential."

Once again that mysterious 'it'
and the Wagon Trail.

This silly ass must write
these sorryass scripts himself.

Snorkling in a Sea of Debt...
Treading water in the Toxic Lake.

An amusing site, Stupid Quotes,
by famous people, necessary reference.

"Financial Markets are inherently unstable
and there are social needs that cannot be met
by giving free market free rein.
Unfortunately their defects are not recognized.
Instead there is a widespread belief...
that markets are selfcorrecting,"
George Soros, killer of Jews.

"It is not the resposibility of the Federal Reserve
nor would it be appropriate to protect
leaders and investors from the consequences
of thier financial decisions.....
I expect there will be failures,
I don't expect any serious problems
among large investment banks
that make up the substantial part
of the banking system,"
offered Chairman Ben.

"'It' is one fuck of a mess and less known,
chasing down David X Li
and the Gaussian Copula
or finding the counterparties
in Greenberg's AIGF,
another CFR spy....
and what about the owners
of the twelve Federal Reserve banks
who worry Alger Hart,
yes indeed, that scary unknown
could make one fart
in the black of night,"
worried the oldman,
thirsty at noon.

Hardly a breeze
in the keys.

Inside the Reef.

Above the Horn.

Final Words to a Dying Dollar.

0718/1913 75/85 Blue Skies SW/5 0%H

DOGS 9574 702 1003 1651.



Greetings from the Hill.



Another month in paradise,

the garden a delightful change,

improvements of love and beauty,

without the buck's derange.



"There was no buck to arrange,"

snides the madone concerned

about the large type

wondering about the glasses.



The oldman was bored with blogging,

overfilled with the deceit of all,

statistics to boggle the mind,

semantics to confuse the brain,

talking tits with white teeth

sounding bossy smart

to emasculated men.



All a great piece of propaganda

to disguise the War of Poverty,

the demise of consumers

and the middle class.



"Replaced by Big Government,

the All Consumer," growls

the madone.



"If GM had kept up with technology,

like the computer industry has,

we would have $25 cars

with 1000 mpg," says Bill,

adding sagely,

"If you can't make it good,

then make 'it' look good."



So much for the richest man

in the world.



The old fart from Omaha

who disdained derivatives

yet holds tens of trillions

claiming to be a five year keeper

of all things American offered,

"If past history was all

there was to the game,

the richest people

would be librarians."



Certainly makes one wonder

who's ideas 'they' steal

and the lawyers protecting

the theft.



The ingenuity of financial engineering.



"This crisis exposed

very significant problems

in the financial system of the US

and other economies...

innovation got too far in front

of the knowledge of risk,"

says Treasurer Timmy,

"Hofuckingho, because of leverage,

like forty and sixty to one, assholes,

Canada at sixteen to one

has avoided the blind risk,"

the madone enjoyed reports.

"Fucking asshole machine."

Dharma Bums to Pharma Bums.

0716/1927 82/88 Blue Skies E10/15 75%H
DOGS 9739 610 1016 1695.

Greetings from the Hill.

A beautiful day in paradise,
classics in the president's room,
chimes ringing in the breeze,
ties and tits lying on TV,
cats fed and the oldman alive.

The gardens lovelier every day
from nightly rain and morning Tony.

"Too gorgeous a day to get mad
at the fools on CNBC,
it's golf day for the Fedex Cup,
15 Million deferred, hofuckingho,"
laughs the madone in a good mood.

Internetting with the foreign rags,
much more truthful in reporting
than on this soiled soil.

The great symbols of american status
all gone and going from the graft.

"Goodbye Caddilac, Hello Geely
at every Chinese embassy in the world,
the game is lost by the grifters,"
sighs the oldman recalling California,
little red books at Berkeley,
little girls with Mao infatuation
never imagining the outcome
of the revolution,
the marxist capitalist mixture
that would rule without weapons,
using ideas and originality
and the classrooms of Harvard,
Stanford, UofC, MIT, Yale...

"No American will invest where a dictator
can take his investment away,"
and now the 'free market' dictators
of Wall Street and Washington
have rendered the citizens'
pensions and healthcare worthless,
future obligations not payable,
no longer refinanceable,
DEBT defaulted.

Of course Golman Sachs invested
bailout money and 2009 profits
in Geely International,
communist profiteers,
"Money carries no flag,
certainly not the Goldman Gang."

Palm trees swaying in the blue sky,
an hour before tee time at East Lake,
classics and golf in the afternoon,
the oldman was lucky to survive
and contented to be alive
in these contengious times
where twenty million families
cannot pay their bills
while thirty golfers play
this weekend for first prize
of FIFTEEN MILLION dollars.

Dancing contests in the depression,
dancing in the dark,
no mugging in the park,
stoned at home alone,
bean soup
without a ham bone...

They, They, They...
Who the fuck are They?

Lehman suits at JP desks,
Bear Stern ties
at Goldman computers,
Drexel derivative dames
now Washington commuters.

Pimps and whores
at WhiteHouse doors.

The Joker telling the youth
to strive beyond uncouth,
transparency and fake opaque,
the TRUTH and Babe Ruth.

In Clevland, an empty Ford factory
becomes a Roller Derby Palace,
the times are familiar
for oldfarts with memories
and the young still curious,
been there before
be there again,
those benefit packages promoted
by crooked unions conning
Joe Paycheck for deductions
to crooked politicians...
"All for a golden future,
a condo on the beach,
the hospital nearby,
a drugstore downstairs,
and insurance
for the loved ones...
unless Goldie Sox gets it,"
growls the oldman
at seventy.

Boomerboy...
the DEBT you have today..
is your grandfathers,
and your mother and fathers,
better get a snorkel.

The DEBT market, in olden times
the Bond Market before
the financial engineers
with fancy words
improvised from Greenspan
and Ayn Rand,
back to Objectivism
and the secret plot...
"Secure the loan
by spreading the butter thin,
make the jam synthetic,
sell the sandwich twice,
but keep it in the fridge,"
laughed the oldman.

The dilemma in the DEBT
was refinancing things that
were never repaid, only
carried forth by counterparty,
perpetual guarantees to pay
as long as insured by AAA.

The Day is now to Pay.

A sunshower before noon,
roosters crowing,
cats contented.

Inside the Reef,
Above the Horn.