TR34T1NG 0VR 0NLY KN0WN H0M3...

treating our only known home 
as a recreational 
vehicle hurtling through space 

34RTH'S 4B1L1TY T0 H34L...

earth’s ability to heal 
us easy to overlook 
when we think we control things 

M1CR0PL4ST1C R3L1CS 0F...

microplastic relics of 
historic atrocities 
buried in our sediments 

0VR CVLTVR3 1S 4 L4CK 0F...

our culture is a lack of 
culture… identities bought 
and sold with a heartless ease 

SONG OF THE DAY: Computer Love (kudzu'd)

I probably should've posted yesterday's post with today's song, but today's song wasn't the next one to post yesterday. So I didn't. Most everything I do is the intersection of multiple constant practices, and it leads to intersections, which occasionally end up one block over from what would've been perfect to see. But that wasn't my path to take, so its perfection was just an after-the-fact footnote. And ultimately, nobody reads the footnotes, except those who are forced to by academic delusions.

THR34TS 0F C0NST4NT SVRV31LL4NC3...

threats of constant surveillance 
are superficial worries; 
internal jihad remains 

SONG OF THE DAY: PE vs. the JBs (DJ A-L remix) (kudzu'd)

"Deep down in the bowels of our internet, America swims in the electric drool of self-inflicted dementia."
That's a quote from an Adrian C. Louis poem, but I changed "televisions" to "internet". I tweaked my back earlier today, getting the biggest bag of dog food I could from Sam's Club. 52 is a far different movie than 22. There's a lot less action, but the plot moves pretty slowly as well, slow enough you can anticipate the dramatic moments, but you're so lulled into sleepwalking that you still somehow miss them. I took a couple generic Advil because I keep a small container in the glove compartment these days, until the temperature changes congeal the pills into a solid, cracked out mass. Then I replace it at the Family Dollar.
Because my back was tweaked, I decided to take a hot as I could stand bath. My house is old, and one of the benefits of this is one of them big clawfoot tubs still crawling along in the upstairs bathroom, likely dragged up there when they got indoor plumbing. This house was an executive type house for the old Schuyler quarry company at some point, right next to the President's house, so it was surely a major aspect of fine comeuppance for whoever was living here at that time. Now, it's a remnant, but one I love. I got some nice sea salts a while back, from what I hope is actually a Palestinian company and not just cover for Israelis squeezing cash from the Dead Sea, and I use them to mimic the feel of the hot springs up in the mountains. It ain't the same, but it's still pretty good, and I test the limits of my hot water heater to fill the tub and lay in it 'til it all goes cool hand luke. I dug around the stacks closest to the bed for a poetry book, Adrian C. Louis, and thunk briefly to take a picture of me in the tub with the book and make some sort of social media post about "poetry in the bathtub". But before I could find my phone, conveniently misplaced as I am wont to do on Sundays, I realized the human error involved in doing so. Having my phone in the upstairs bathroom would sully the simplicity of the old ass tub full of searing water, and laying there with nothing to do but hope my back got better and read poetry. Luckily, my heart chopped back the infringing kudzu of ego, and I did not try to find my phone.
Poetry in the tub was just what I needed, though it's pretty cold, so the water didn't stay as hot as I would've wanted for as long as one would hope. But Adrian's words were a tonic to my mind, just as the rosemary mint sea salted bathwater was for my body. Like good poets do, he saw beyond the superficial, and I'm thankful my phone wasn't there to hijack the thoughts his words blossomed in me into Instagram ads for frybread t-shirts, or etsy patches of purple thunderbirds. Once I'd had my fill, both for mind and body, I tapped the drain with my heel to let the water free, and it all flowed slowly because I have olden plumbing fixtures in this tub, beautiful and metal and vintage and caked internally with the sediment of age itself. Instead of getting up and drying off, I just laid there, letting the water disappear, and the wetness on my skin to slowly be absorbed, til I was laying in nothing, as I let these words unfurl in my mind, playing with their order, enjoying the way they felt, knowing that by the time I got around to finger poking them into a devilish machine, that exact flow would be altered ever so slightly and it'd never be as perfect as the moment itself. I didn't even dry myself off, just tugged flannel pajamas on over my damp body, and late fall teases of a bitter winter were pounding on the windows, desperate to come in (and winning in neglected gaps). But I felt great, absolutely at peace with the brokenness of it all.
(And as I finger poked this into the devilish machine, I thought to look up whether clawfoot bathtub was "clawfoot bathtub" or "claw foot bathtub" or maybe even "claw foot bath tub", even though there's a giant 1983 library-sized dictionary in the next room. And immediately, before I got an answer, there was a sponsored result that promised "luxury clawfoot tubs", to anyone who could afford to click the link.)

C4M0VFL4G1NG MY L0V1NG...

camouflaging my loving 
heart with gruff exterior, 
but these dimples betray me 

1N TH3 M1DST 0F M4NM4D3 W0LV3S...

in the midst of manmade wolves, 
surveilling the flock from a 
panoptical illusion 

SONG OF THE DAY: Love Come Down (kudzu'd)

A woman nicknamed "Champagne", dropping knowledge.

D34TH W1LL H4RV3ST 4LL B0D13S...

death will harvest all bodies, 
one by one; where our essence 
is released is up to us 

SONG OF THE DAY: I Won't Love You Again (kudzu'd)

The horns at the beginning of this one are crazy. Like, almost too much, but then it levels out right before you're about to have your head explode from the ancient brown-eyed soul electromagnetic frequencies. And somehow they've just mystically channeled your ass into perfect mental position to enjoy the song. That's a next level of creating music that I've never come close to before. I respect it deeply.

4CC3PT 1T'S D1SC0NN3CT3D...

accept it’s disconnected, 
and understand the desires 
planted in mind distract you 

SONG OF THE DAY: My 45 (7 Inches of Love) (kudzu'd)

I still find myself craving the approval of earth tone normalistic Whole Foods faux witchy white women, but I also realize that's enculturation meant to instill self-loathing in myself, not actual love. It's just grudgelust at this point, so I've learned to not try and act on it, and it makes me happier. It's not uncommon... most of us tend to sow our own failures, seeking the approval of those we already know don't want us. We're all pretty heavily steeped in wanting what doesn't make us feel fulfilled, those of us trapped in western culture, which is actually a lack of culture that channels your cultural hopes into consumption instead. You gotta buy an identity, and if you can't afford one, you feel like a piece of shit. And if you can't afford a new one now and then, whenever the old one loses its shine, you also feel like a piece of shit. Luckily I've realized my craving of normalistic witchy white women of a certain earth tone presence and that lavender mothball vaginal smell is a distraction meant to have me crash on the rocks of failure. It's the siren song of quirky conventional attractiveness, to feel like I've accomplished class transition and the granddaughters of the wizards who were slaveowners but "the good ones" have finally accepted me as worthy of their love. It took a long time to refine my love from that poisoned grudgelust though, and along the way, I'd mistakenly believe I was attracted to crazy women. But I'm not; I'm attracted to wild women, actual wild not pretend wild. I like fucking on picnic tables and watching an ass tattoo jiggle after I slap it. I also like to lay there together watching the little prisms on the windowsill make rainbows in the cobwebs at the corner of the ceiling, while softly rubbing your thighs and stomach. I'm a lover, and as a lover, lovin' only makes me stronger, in the heart muscle but that's a pretty dope muscle to be flexing and growing, without the aid of synthetics.

PR0M1S1NG 4 C0NN3CT10N...

promising a connection 
to something larger than self, 
except it’s disconnected 

SONG OF THE DAY: Girls, They Love Me (kudzu'd)

I never fully understood why my hillbilly murder eyes never got as sharp as my pops' Charlie Tuna's did. He was the second generation removed from the mountains, but them eyeballs of his could get that laser focus of mountain folks where you could tell he was in a certain mood, and danger was afoot for whoever crossed whatever lines in the unseen sand had been drawn. Don't get me wrong, he had good times, too, and I remember many mornings of him goofing off, and laughing, and the eyes softening. But as he got older (which never ended up being all that old, since he died at 46), and he'd done the job to the demons he was wrestling with way too consistently, those hillbilly murder eyes were what most of us saw.
I got 'em, and can fire them up at times, if necessary, like a rattlesnake's tail, just to let someone else know, there can be immediate and undesirable consequences should all of us present choose to continue down the path we're currently on. But my dimples have always been stronger, and as I get older, I can see the joy emanating out from my face... eyeballs, dimples, all of it... far more than it used to. It's not because I've beaten the demons I'm wrestling, because they're still in there. But I tag the angels in as much as I can, five times a day if possible, and invite their glowing energy to help keep the preponderance of devils at bay. And the thing I love most about when my dimples got their glow (which is also reflected in my eyes) is, there's a certain type of woman out there that loves them, and responds to them. Thankfully, it's exactly the type of woman I love to be loved by.

B31NG T0LD T0 3NJ0Y MY...

being told to enjoy my 
own manufactured slow death… 
ride sugar highs straight to hell 

RVSTY CH41NS ST1LL ST1FL3 TH3...

rusty chains still stifle the 
soul’s natural direction; 
breaking free begins in heart 

SH1FT1NG L4NDSC4P3S 41N'T 34SY...

shifting landscapes ain’t easy 
for those raised inside stables; 
for me, I love wilderness 

TH3 B0DY 1S 4 PR1S0N...

“the body is a prison” 

is a truth, but there’s blessings 

to be found in abundance 

SONG OF THE DAY: Lay Back and Chill (kudzu'd)

I got too many balls in the air sometimes, because I get into a zone, briefly feeling synchronized with the Universe’s inspired creative energy, and I’ll keep putting balls in the air. But then the fatigue will creep in, and I’ll realize I need to let some of ‘em fall. So I do. I try to warn other folks affected, but I ain’t got but one me, and even though living on Earth in the human body is a prison of sorts, the Power of Lounge compels me to make the most of my time. Not in a productive ass mechanistic way of thinking, but in making sure my heart feels the warmth as much as possible, even during dark times. Especially during dark times. Thinking like this has earned me haters along the way, but I can’t be concerned with hate. This world we live in manufactures an abundance of haters, mostly because it don’t wanna love. I try my best to do the type of thinking that keeps my heart full of warmth, especially during dark times. But a warm heart is content, and the global economy is built in lack of contentedness, so the hate gets manufactures, and the fog gets in our brains, and we forget about our heart, and start feeling entitled to delusions. Anyways, I’m about to let a couple balls drop, and soak in the bathtub upstairs in some rosemary mint sea salts, and try to get my ass to bed super early, hopefully for the next five nights in a row, so I can start dreaming a little better again. And sometimes in order to get to where you’re synchronized with the Universe’s big bang essence and can put a whole bunch of balls in the air, like your little fleck of stardust version of planets floating around the sun, you gotta lay back and chill.

SONG OF THE DAY: Cosmic Blast (kudzu'd)

Not nearly enough people rap about outer space anymore. That's like the other end of lack of empathy, because just as folks can't seem to recognize other humans deserve basic shit like food and shelter, we also can't seem to accept how infinitely giant the Universe is, and how we're just barely a quarter fleck of a grain of a sand within that. You can't brag about cosmic swagger unless you consciously accept your limitations as being human. Shout out to the real MCs, envisioning distant galaxies instead of becoming living fallacies.

SONG OF THE DAY: Eighteen With a Bullet (kudzu'd)

To be completely honest, playing old doo wop and oldies 45s at 33 speed makes about the most perfect sense ever. That totally recognizable stuff sounds hauntingly chill, and I am forever confused why people don’t hire me to DJ this shit every other Thursday evening at their bougie restaurant or throwback dive bar. It’s the perfect drinking music, too, but feel-good drinking music, not “let’s get mad about the world and pick fights with the other assholes” drinking music, which – from my understanding – is what most establishments shoot for. Oh well… born behind ahead of my not quite time, like always.

SONG OF THE DAY: After Laughter (kudzu'd)

Got some bad news at the doctor yesterday, though my doctor is just sitting underneath the biggest birch tree back in the woods behind the house. But my labs came back and my fuckitallism levels are way too high, and I need to bring them down. Historically, this usually triggers a burning bridges mentality in my people, and when my fuckitallism levels are like this, I tend to lead towards saying unhelpful things to people who lack any sort of skin to absorb such comments. And more often than not, them folks usually got more control over Things (the larger organized society type Things, not magical unseen things), and even though they lack the heart to actually let their tongue speak their thoughts, they then stifle my ambitions and goals with their little snake brains (the liberal “don’t tread on me” class). Thankfully, my doctor is a good doctor (at least a hundred years old), so I just sat there for 99 minutes, and ran through dhikr over and over, recalibrating my heart by clicking the sacred abacus around my neck (in my hands during the process). My fuckitallism levels went down in the moment, but of course, most human structures in America are full of Yakubian screens in every direction, and it manufactures an imbalance where those levels start to rise again. I just gotta be more vigilant about having more intention with my attention. My doctor (the birch tree) told me that most cases of too high fuckitallism levels are due to Intention Deficit Disorder, which is an unnatural result of all that we’ve cultured.