We’re back on the routine of waking at 02.40 — somewhere in this scene we’ll move on ohho Lordy lordy — We’ve heard that in the foxhole there are no Atheist — why should there be since in very many cases — the soldiers They were put there by some god — or maybe a belief system that disagrees with freedom — so long as you follow orders and call em as they bleed em. — Anyway, it’s another Monday and the name it has been dubbed — They called it Cyber Monday when Americans they shopped at work on line — even if there’s no money — they have credit cards they’ve copped — it’s just another form of slavery and you better believe there’s no way out — It’s just another addiction — something we’re trying to do here — To get back into some mode of being some clerk — it’s shameful and disgraceful to let Santa do the work. — Officially it’s Christmas — and joy and hope pervert — any chance of changing — this really is a NUT Cracker suite. Tradition, tradition that’s all there is to show — we’ll be back in a little while — a driving we must go. –We’re Back in the fourth grade when Hoss built a platform Christmas garden. — A work of art we’d call it with American Flyer trains and little plastic houses — tiny molded people went about their work. Cars and trucks drove on streets that were made of Morton salt on the platform painted green — it had evolved from messier versions where everything had been poured and scattered. — There really is no disconnect there — a lawn was in the future scene. Hoss also built plastic warships — he liked to work with his hands. Christmas was a season when he truly was a family man. The platform was three feet off the ground and wrapped in brick colored wrapping paper. In time Hoss found a log loader and a mechanical coal dumper — One engine was a smoker and the other a Royal Blue — tracks would switch and whistles blow as a train would go through a tunnel or two. — Against the wall were mountains — created from mountain paper — and we really did believe in Santa Claus and everything else in our childhood caper — there really was a fairy god mother who left a nickle under the pillow and magically the tooth would disappear — a piece of our journey through childhood. — Part of our Christmas season was a job at the Steelworkers local Union Hall on Biddle Street — where Armco Steel to us was massive — it wasn’t as big as Sparrows Point where the Patapsco River dumped into the Chesapeake Bay and all the cars were colored orange and what happened to the crabs and oysters? Twenty-four hour operations where many people worked — most could buy a house somewhere though perhaps the air was slightly tainted — we believed in everything — especially America — but the school across from Saint Patrick’s still had eighteen foot fences and was only there for colored — another street name was jigaboos — what was an education? Anyway, once a year we went to the union hall on Biddle Street during the Christmas season — We helped pack red mesh Christmas stockings for the annual Christmas party — there were only tough white men and sons if we recall correctly — the stockings were stuffed with candy and cheap tiny toys that were all made in Japan — the wars were over we had the Bomb and we had learned to duck and cover. At the stocking stuffing no one spoke about the Wars where those who were still living had a job and they were lovers. Of course there were the elitists who made more than an hourly wage — but this was blue collar Baltimore and they made stuff to build the stage. Industry and shipping was the port of Baltimore — though the streetcar tracks were disappearing — train tracks still ran down certain streets. The automobiles kept coming and bathed us in Texas oil — “You can trust your car to the man who wears the Star” and bigger was better became the Standard. Joe McCarthy did his job when he was the Commie Hunter — he wiped out many creatives and from shore to shining shore — helped to ramp up Capitalism in the name of DemoCrazy and ignite a colder WAR — the balance was disrupted and the choice was only one — either with us or against us — in the expansion of the economy — and give everyone a gun. The military industrial complex was really on a roll — though the idea of freedom and equal rights though embedded — were nowhere sincerely spoken as some democratic goal. — The creatives of Hollywood smoke smoked those cigarettes — they could keep on creating as long as they remembered the truth and where to place their bets. Even the criminal element was part of the equation for stronger law enforcement in every situation. Though we were very unaware of the mind control twas practiced — the goal of expand the economy was in our Christmas stocking — with a Japanese transistor radio. The Negroes in the South they were still being lynched — even on Maryland’s Eastern Shore in Snow Hill some of them were pinched. Christmas time on Broadway even in Baltimore we’d run up and down the crowded sidewalk and buy gifts with Dad’s Christmas Bonus — he gave to us and BB every year all that he was given — We used the bucks for Christmas gifts to our family with we be livin. After Yabba Dabba came along — were those the good old days? By the time he was old enough for a share everything was changing. The population of Baltimore was shrinking and rearranging. But back then we’d wait until right before Christmas Day to buy our Christmas tree — at the tree stand on the edge of where the colored school kept — the kids behind the fences at the corner of Broadway and Bank next to the police station on Bethel — on the opposite side from Saint Patrick’s Church a place where the real God slept. It wasn’t that far to carry a tree back to the former funeral parlor. The huge Christmas Tree on Broadway at Eastern had been put there by the merchants — though we saw no coloreds shopping and they worked the neighborhood with ponies pulling wagons collecting stuff a hauling down the street to Bohager’s Scrap — the collectors and Arabers must have felt very good — they were working in this absolutely fabulous country — there were even a few colored lived on Dallas Street where Frederick Douglas had lived — The very same alley Street where lived Frankie — the kid hit and bloodied by a brick after the Church had been put asunder and before the Bank Parking lot was cordoned off and the Banker chased us with a stick. Though we had no clue where they came from or went to after school — Every Christmas morning we’d listen for the rumble of colored kids rolling down Eastern Avenue’s asphalt in groups on roller skates — unless there was a White Christmas because of snow — and we knew nothing except that if they weren’t Catholic it’s to Hell that they would go. Rupert L.T.Rhyme

It’s okay if no one reads this — that’s not really the point — interaction would be welcomed over a vodka in some joint — the fun is in the writing and the doggerel we compose — we stopped looking for an audience a long long time ago — because there’s fighting in our minds numbness in our toes — the fact we like to argue and that’s uncivilized — unless you’re on reality television — and we know that reality ain’t necessarily so — once the camera’s rolling and potential stardom realized — The masks are fixed and plastered on and it’s a director’s economic decision. The new Mythology that people live by — they find it on TV — or maybe in a theater where a movie shows us how to be. — Think about the video games and technology of war — The children are learning younger to kill — than they’ve ever learned before — the joy stick is sex and power without any humanity thrill. — We guess it’s better than getting hit with a rock — or beaten with a paddle or stick — that would be too personal and too many soldiers still go into shock — so we’ll try to make our fighting robots kill others with a mouse click click — for the new generational flock — and smoosh the animated enemy — we’ve created with special effects — just like in the movies with some pretentious fierce context. — The New World Order is being created — by writers and directors — the intelligent design they speak of is pretty over rated — it’s only smoke and mirrors and delusional reflectors. — But way back in the Fourth Grade at old Saint Patrick’s school — we said our prayers, went to church and thought Maynard G. Krebs was cool. If everything hadn’t been such a great big lie — like heaven, hell and freedom — 0n the other hand that’s not the point — it’s still a way they leadum. And everyone does really die. We delivered a mouse out near Belair — earlier this morning. — Earlier yet dropped off Tania to where she’s a baker somewhere other than over there. — We just got back from lifting her home and Rousseau gets more affection — he’s a much loved pooch but still we know if needed he’d be protection. — We bought a paper on the street from a guy out on the corner — but the Sun has fallen so far down — they’re waiting for the coroner. — The written word and photographs take too much time to understand — especially when clowns like us on some unmarked soap box stand — or maybe it’s an Apple box — because selling soap makes money — and the foggerel of this doggerel on this bloggerel isn’t always funny. — Once again we reiterate we’re not living in or wishing for the 1950s era — We can deal with now and believe the future has greater possibilities of being fairer. — The excitement of the possibility of another great extinction — because of human beings and the spaceship earth to keep a clear distinction — between taking responsibility for the lives we live and some mythical Armageddon. — The mind is capable of great knowledge both take and yet for given — it’s time to take a break again and Rousseau and we will pickup — the Gypsy and drive him into town and we must be careful we don’t trip up. — We be on time. — We ain’t seen the Guv in awhile — but we’re certain he’s okay — gotta go but we’ll be back– either tomorrow or later yet today. Rupert L.T.Rhymes And all of this is practice for the time when we think there may be a point where the voices in our chorus sing one song not out of joint and our reference to mythology is something we refer as a path that we have followed which to others was a blur. Therein is the secret and an idea that someone else can never steal — though lemmings follow lemmings a human’s life is their own reel.

The day after yesterday is is is always better than the Day After Tomorrow — if we remember correctly, the latter is a movie title of great sorrow — where the tide comes in and freezes — then survival becomes much different — as though some God just sneezes — and there is no trial for criminal intent. — Some it is said are above the law — like Cheney, Bush, God and Reagan — The perfect juries would be made of twelve — other gods some claim as Pagan. With greenhouse gasses choking and the Camels still be smoking and twelve-twenty-one-twelve is not that far away. Today is not tomorrow and tomorrow never comes — but yesterday was still Thanksgiving Day. — Anyway, the food was great — Brother BB’s ex-wife Glenda and good husband Pepper did cook — and everyone contributed dishes both traditional and off the hook. — BB and Glenda’s two daughters were there — nieces we guess to call them. — and Sister Cherie with husband and son — say nephew — and a friend — and now we’ll cut off from our brain stem. — So many names to remember and we do remember quite a few. — Some things we’ll have to get back to — for the sake of not simply listing through. — Glenda’s daughters with their husbands got bunches of kids and Cherie has only one. — Us and Heather and Julia had Rousseau along for the ride — Though he’s a dog he’s our son. — Rousseau made new friends: Sadie another dog who is only a dog because the others have so many children. — Rousseau also played wit da kids and took us outside where he ran and I could chill then. — A wonderful couple Barbara and Peter sat at the table close by — they brought the Brussels Sprouts and though we like them anyway — were the best we’ve ever tasted. — We even bowed our head to pray. Though everything we tasted was really out of sight. — We tried to argue for nostalgia sake and perhaps it’s in our being — recalling the great discussions on Anne Street — when Hoss still had it in him — but no one there would take the bait to participate in the art of seeing. — We and Sister Cherie came close but Saint Dave her husband stepped in and simply agreed — Ain’t got a clue to what we agreed upon but we shut up to relieve some stress. — it’s a world of non-confrontation — except on the battlefield of politics and war — So we’ll continue to shoot with a camera and fight with a pen — and be thankful they even let us in the door. — Anyway, the time that we be working on is still back in the fifties — when arguments happened for argument sake and the pressure had some place to go — they kept it all in the family — in America the murder rates were low — now people thinks it’s uncivilized to raise a voice in passion for show — So here we are in America where the justice system is overloaded — and the murder rate is through the roof and Americans are fat and bloated. — This is civilization in the richest country in the world — at least for the few that benefit from what the quiet and civilized do. — The protests are by tea baggers — who are against equal rights for gays and a health care public option. — If they want to protest with hairy balls dangling in the mouth — teabagging — why not give gay rights a choice for a marriage and adoption. — Julia was adopted — we’ve never mentioned that — she was born as Heather — she wasn’t born yet in the time we’re working on, the early fifties, though we do bounce around quite a bit. — At least we didn’t know of her at the time– the fifties. — Heather’s is a book in its own right, no shit — and her writing is truly sublime. — The point is we found out Glenda has a son as old as sister Cherie — and though BB would roll over in his grave — and the earth would shake and rumble — if there was any connection to the coffin buried — and the essence that leaves in the tumble — when we die, ya know. — Glenda’s son Kevin was born years before BB came on to her scene — and Glenda put Kevin up for adoption — it’s a good thing if circumstances prevail. — Julia found her birth mother in 99 — and the relationship hasn’t grown stale. — It’s great when these reunions somehow workout for the best — but not always does that act of courage be fine. — So we’re still back in the fourth grade — at Saint Patrick’s old Boy’s School — with the girls on the other side of the yard except on movie Fridays , once a month in the old Saint Patrick’s school hall. — There were four Movie Theaters on Broadway within blocks — but for Children of Fatima we were on call. — They didn’t serve popcorn and we all fit in — boys on one side –girls on the other we’d sit — Saint Pat had his own 16MM projector but the Xavarian Brothers had the sharper wit. Those Nuns, those nuns — oh those nuns– with flowing black dresses, white Halos and rosary beads — We didn’t mind being separated from the girls — though the Brothers beat us — well mostly the others — the Brothers were into sports and filled the needs. — Mind, body and soul were the targets — to make everything strong — with the exception of the whacks and propaganda — they really did nothing wrong. — Rupert L.T.Rhyme P.S. We always hit publish on the first draft and go back and fix it later — and then again at another point in time — out of the public forum we’ll make it worser or greater. — No matter how it turns out — it will still be our point of view — a collaborative adventure by all of us and what we see is true — in some alternative dimension to give Rashomon its due.

We picked up the kielbasa from Ostrowski’s on Washington Street — you can’t find it in any grocery store — that’s a completely different meat — Like many ties that bind — as time goes by there is friction — within and without so many different families — somewhere along the line — the same last names compete — eventually if there is a family gathering — name tags need be used on every seat. — Anyway, today we’ll find bagged sauerkraut that at one time fought off bird flu — at least that’s what they said on the interweb — actually you can find anything there that you might want to do. — Even though when you say the right buzz word, NSA might listen in with a listening gun — still we’ll write our doggerel just because it’s fun. — There certainly is we do believe — some strange noises and acts of observation — Still the black helicopters haven’t hovered overhead with storm troopers crashing through the roof –without any preparation — as long as they’d repair the leak we’d try to stay aloof — that brings us to Peasant Roofers that did our original Rubber Roof — and told us it was our fault after the Mountain Jew his ladder and tools did bring — he tried to localize the spot where the water seemed to come in — We wanted to give a friend money to help support his habit — of staying alive like everyone else though he was living in a hole with some strange rabbit. — Eventually we called the original guys back and they said our warranty was null and voided — because we had this unfriend help us when he actually didn’t know but still enjoyed it. To get down to the skinny the original roofer said — there was extensive damage from the wind that in the Spring we had — so a claim was filed for a new roof — the insurance company sent someone else in for a second opinion — and it turned out that the only thing wrong was the rubber thing wasn’t done right in the very rubber beginning. So here is the dilemma — let’s call it trickle down — since the beginning of 2008 there’s been death and mayhem and a target on our head — and there’s no money in being an unknown clown who sometimes believes he’s really dead. And the roof’s got a misplaced infringement and we possibly might drown — hence the trickle down. Anyway, the Cat’s Eye’s got the Jazz on every Monday night — the Guv called us, including Rousseau, to come and drive him home and get there right. We don’t have to disguise Rousseau to take him into the bar — because he looks like ruck — we say he’s the Guv’s younger brother even though his nose is longer and he’s too short to drive a truck. Rousseau likes the Jazz night — especially all the horn — he sat there for the last song directly in front of the stage — as though this is where he was born — Jazz is big in Paris and Rousseau’s real grandfather was Voltaire, who could satirize political rage — Rousseau tried to pick up women but we told him Heather may care — if any new women came back to the house at practically anytime or any other where — it could affect our shelter and relationship for sure — we think Rousseau got it — that Heather wouldn’t want to share. It takes the Guv a little time to wind it up and say good bye to all of his fan — finally we made it out the door and getting the Guv fed was part of the plan. — We often stopped at MacDonald’s for a burger burger or chicken and chips — the late night menu is limited and the routine was making him sick — the Guv spent a few days in the hospital last week — we now stop in a place where we both eat and sit — and there’s a little time for us to relax and for the Guv to speak — after his night of sipping wine and drinking bourbon and coffee — he’s only eighty something and his stories are detailed and always with a very sharp wit. We know the way our memory fails — The Guv’s stories all seem authentic — and the Guv knows all the ins and outs and if and ands and butts. We really do intend to get past our fourth grade before we become too eccentric — or is that totally nuts. After the SIPNBITE for the second night in a row — after eggs & scrapple and coffee — to Walgreens we did go. The Guv he needed cough drops and something called Tiger Bomb — one of the girls asked if we had a Tiger and why did we need a bomb. We said we had a lion and showed Rousseau off in its place — then drove on through the Fort McHenry tunnel — in the heavy rain there was lots of driving space. We got The Guv over to his house in PARADISE on the other side of town. — Rousseau takes up the entire rear of his Cube and occasionally he even sits down — otherwise his eyes, ears and nose — probably in the opposite order — take him from side to side — he’s learning his way around the city and he’s looking for a bride. Rousseau seems to enjoy his life with the cats and Heather and the rest of us — but after all he’s a champion and his energy is his only fuss. Duda and Norman and Fred and Amos and all the remaining and secretive people — are still searching in our history — we decided we didn’t want kids — there are too many of us already in this mystery. — Heather and Julia are fine with that and Rousseau has no need for Yale or Harvard or anything that’s steady — like his predecessor Mister Justice Brandeis — the general butterfly — who died a couple of years ago — pleasantly in the bathtub at home — is there a better place to die. Anyway, we got the Guv into his house and he thanked us for the company and ride — after we told him the Brandeis tale — Guv said “I only have a shower.” We arrived back on the East Side with still a half an hour — in time to brew a pot of green tea — and give Tania a ride to work around a quarter to three. This morning we fixed breakfast for Heather, brewed coffee and practiced tai-chi. Now it’s time to take Heather to work and that’s the way it be. Maybe later we’ll get back to our exploration of our history and all of the others in our side — it’s good to be writing again and it’s very cool to have an intelligent and patient, understanding, beautiful bride. We really didn’t do anything wrong — it’s simply our new medication — we have no desire to cook the sausage too long so we’ll stop right here after the slightest hesitation. –Rupert L.T.Rhyme

The steaks were thrown on the grill last night and Hammer cooked the fries — Heather and Rousseau talked to Ozzie Osborne the bird — and that bird don’t tell no lies — sometime after dinner Larry dropped by the Castle on the hill and dropped off Ginseng Berry Juice and a jar of root ground up in little capsules — it be from American Harding’s Woods Grown/Wild Simulated Ginseng Farm — on the mountain next to JRHammer’s — after a short visit it was time to go to sleep — While we sit here punching keys and rambling on this morning — Heather and Hammer are drinking coffee and listening to a Television Preacher — talking bout God and Capitalism and how God makes all things better. On the other hand if you send him cash this will increase your chances — of making lots of money if you do one of the God dances — The surprising thing is not once did he mention the name of Jesus — until the end when the pitch came for da contribution and commercial for his books — he’s a minister from Tennessee or Texas — and we know about the Texas mafia and George Bush and Lyndon Johnson and a dead gas guy once called Sammons — sounds like Carl Rove is his adviser — broadening the market of God is on your side — with positive reinforcement — so praise the Lords and pass the ammunition and leave it for the analyzer — pardon our dust but first bring the soldiers home and the let the lemmings follow the road to their salvation — whatever floats your boat Molly Doc would say — all roads lead to new horizons and some sacrificial configuration — if you keep your head wide open and move back to the herbal garden — but it’s time to move on down the road and see if B’More or Less is still standing. Way up here in Garrett County B’More or Less seems quite senseless — we be Baltimorons without hearing any verdict rendering — about the Mayor’s shopping habits — but we are taking no chances and propose that if they found her guilty — she pay the restitution to da children besides her own and be given community service — let her finish with a conscience clearing — and kick her out in the election. She was elected in the big election with 32,000 votes — many people just stopped voting leaving it to natural selection. When you have a few rights still left and voting is one pretense feeling — stand up and be counted — while the country does its healing. This is simply doggerel that bounces roughly along — but it’s time to roll back down the hills and end our country song — we say we’ll fix it later when we’re back on our own machine — but THAT NOW it just ain’t happened yet — and maybe it really is a dream. We never do keep rolling — bouncing is our game — so we stopped off in Grantsville one more time to visit That Fella again. We thought they shot him at his poetry reading and his stuff was really quite good. It seems that he’s still living and doing very well as near as we could tell — though a bit under the weather — at least he wasn’t dead. When we shot his movie Tribute while he read to cows — when he finally read to people somebody upped and shot him in the head — we swore he was cremated with ashes spread by Buck Six on the mountain top next to Al’s. We even saved the coffee can and it sits upon the mantle — Seems like That Fella found a good woman and moved into a house. Now we’re back in B’More or Less and we learned there be no verdict in the gift card caper — Guess we’ll be here when the jury is hung — we might even pick up a paper. Rupert L.T.Rhyme

DANNY E. NIKLOW, ROSS FIKE, CHARLES W. HOOK, ROGER GARLICK, NORMAN E. THOMAS, and THOMAS FIKE are memorialized on Hammer JR’s Harley — just a bunch of guys from Friendsville who in Vietnam they died. The tragedy we be talking here is Friendsville’s population is maybe bout 600 folk or so — so it’s hard to forget their people if you stick around — don’t go. We didn’t know a single one but JR was in Nam also — for many years Hammer’s been trying to erect a memorial to those youngsters lost — he keeps running into barriers like government, people and cost. Now JR’s son JRJody is off in Afganistan — he did a hitch in Iraq came home and as a Marine went back before he lost his tan. JRHammer got a call last night that his son was MEDIVACTED and so far that’s all the news we have and BAMA LLAMMA ding dong is still distracted — we know that the prez is a diplomat and tries to think things thru — it’s a complicated world out there and we’re in a war or two — unless he fixes the shit at home in the good ole USA — the conservative agenda he’s been handed — will take back the world on their next election day. In the meantime, Senator BABS Mikulski, though Friendsville is on the outer edge — way up in the corner — they gots an actual percentage of their population from Vietnam who died and they should be remembered –somewhere else besides the gas tank of JR’s spiffy Harley. While we be sittin here lookin out the window at rolling hills and fields of green and occasionally punching keys — JR came into the room with news that Jody fell off a mountain — but the tough young kid and platoon leader didn’t break a bone — so pretty soon he’ll be back in that senseless game — fighting for Afghan’s rights to stay corrupt — in a never changing conservative shame. Build a factory to process their drugs and give their people money — send over a few of the overpaid CEOs to correct the infrastructure and legalize all drugs right here in the good ole USA — take the thugs off of the streets with another game to play — education — with the drug prohibition ended it should also end the recession — like maybe it had something to do with ending the Great Depression. The War thing doesn’t work no more — it simply feeds the fewer — in the military industrial complex that is flushing us down the sewer. So we’ll spend a day in Friendsville and continue with our bouncing — maybe Rousseau won’t get eaten by a bear and still have fun in the fields trouncing. Anyway we understand the difficult times in the other countries — the tea baggers are gettin itchy from the hairy balls in their face — we gots to bring the soldiers home fix things here in our country — and maybe then return to the broads wit da burkas over their faces — and help them the right way with rights like a few other places. JRHammer says it’s time to go and visit Twila’s Place and grab some breakfast and coffee and reremember all the time. – Buckwheat cakes and sausage , bacon eggs and potatoes — but Twila’s in West Virginia past the federal prison rhyme. We came back to the castle and found our way into town and sat awhile with Ina when in walked one who turned around. We mentioned Rousseau was from a breeder and decided not to cut his balls — the girlie said with all the rescues available we should be ashamed. We expressed that they eat dogs in China and many other places and then there the cannibals that eat the body of Christ and go on and drink the blood. Anyway, we ain’t lookin to be very popular — we live in a tiny house — and though we need no excuses Rousseau is quiet as a mouse — unless someone come to the front door — Rousseau is the first to let us know — Living in B’More or Less this is sure to save ammo. We crossed the road and drove up the hill and down Good Hope to Buffalo Run — and sat and talked with Smith awhile before he went out for high stakes poker — he likes to shoot his gun, sing, build things and bounce around grand kids — we sipped some bourbon, stopped in town and S&S cut up some New York Strips — well we believe they taste better than Rousseau would but there are many hungry people where hunger would be conquered if a cooked dog would pass their lips. We love animals just as much as much as we love our vegetables — when we be cremated after they kill us — we’ll end up as some plant food. In the meantime, in between time — ain’t we got fun. And ain’t the chicken good. Rupert L.T.Rhyme