D3SP1T3 TH3 D3ST1N4T10NS...

despite the destinations 
we’ve been directed towards, 
we can always unfollow 

W3LL-M34N1NG 1NT3NT10NS C4ST...

well-meaning intentions cast 
with cinderblock surety, still 
end up as rubble some day 

SONG OF THE DAY: El Tren (rebajada)

Walking slowly through the yard when the veil between day and night is thinnest, with kudzu creeping in from one side and gentrification from the other. Hadn't gotten to the point the worrisome gentrifiers call the cops on footsteps in the yard, but they don't like making eye contact from their side of the wrought iron fence, pretending I don't exist, a rough-edged blackberry bearded man wandering through the last remnants of industrial revolution's detritus at the fringes of late capitalism imaginary empire of eternity. Their ways are far less sustainable than mine, even as my beard turns grey this remains true.

I mark my various prayers on the steel carcasses, already well-tattooed with the prayers of others like me, from across this old mycelium network of rails. Some of these vandalous saints of the yards have practiced their devotion, and developed full-color master peaces, and others like myself are esoteric minimalists with a more primordial traditions, scribbling our hopes into unmarked corners. All of it is just cries against the foolishness of being a productive member of an industrial society, and also yet somehow more attuned to that than the blossoming townhouses and pastel-colored homes renovated beyond affordability or practicality for regular folk. They have their full-color murals on that side of the fence too, but it's not done by saints of the late American yards, instead professional artists are imported from affluent families to bedazzle these neighborhoods with giant visuals hearkening back to a past that has been stomped on by poverty and bleached from actual representation in the neighborhood itself.

Thinking about this, I write "just another mark" on a CSX hopper, tucked in between two pieces by Moms Worthless Sons crew members. We are all just marks here at the dying American carnival of the 21st century... it's just some of us have deeper pockets to pretend the kayfabed mythologies are real. Others of us have always known it's all a fucking lie, no matter how often they switch the barkers around between booths. Fuck America, I am a god of destruction.

TH3 M1NVT3S CR4WL 4R0VND TH3...

the minutes crawl around the 
clock when you’re doing shit you 
got no love in your heart for 

SONG OF THE DAY: Sonnet 33 and 55 / Friendship Dance

Haven’t felt all that artistically inspired or challenged lately, which stems from in real life. I could definitely use a circle of more ridiculous and possessed artists, at least at times like this, when I’m feeling rundown or stuck in some ruts. Where I live is overly saturated with boring and mundane artists doing boring and mundane work which is idolized by boring and mundane people. I see people posting shit in their social media that’s supposed to be deep and brilliant, and it feels so forced and egotistic and pathetic. But people lap it up. I ain’t trying to be a hater, but damn, don’t we hold ourselves to a higher standard than that? Does the artistic urge dry up? Do people stop feeling compelled to create shit and then just sit back and barely work on a project while they fondly reminisce about their glory days 15 years ago? That shit feels wack to me, and irrelevant. Then again, maybe I’m wack and irrelevant. That’s how I feel, to be honest, which is fine, because feeling like that forces me to try and find inspiration in some other fucked up shit, switch up my own bullshit patterns. Art should not be boring, ever. What the fuck? That’s like having shitty sex, why the fuck bother? Creation never sleeps, if you are tapped into the universe the way you can be.

L1V1NG L1F3 0N 4 D41LY...

living life on a daily 
basis, trying to ignore 
calendar boxes flipping 

VNB1ND1NG MYS3LF 4S 4...

unbinding myself as a 
daily practice, scattering 
thought seed bombs with abandon 

D0M3ST1C4T3D B3Y0ND...

domesticated beyond 
our desires, which remain wild; 
hearts and brains think different