SONG OF THE DAY: Black Hole Bop (kudzu'd)

There is a meticulous form of avoiding doing something that is involved in digging through two baskets of unfolded clean laundry, to specifically find a certain colored pair of socks, of which the first one comes easy, but the second is a stubborn trick from the Universe, and you sort through sheets and towels and track pants and shirts and a thousand other socks that easily pair themselves but in the wrong perfect color for today, as a test to your ability to avoid folding the goddamned clothes that have been accumulating here in the living room in your last two laundry baskets for the past couple weeks. The first time through is a rough sort, because you know the sediments, and which layer of load the sock should be in. But it hides, and the initial search turns into a more meticulous second search, where everything is piled into one basket and moved haphazardly into the second, on top of that little pile of clothes you actually have folded but not put away. But it still doesn’t show up, and you contemplate just wearing a different pair of socks, except you’re already wearing a garishly orange t-shirt, and your garishly orange socks are really the only correct choice here. So you go back in for a third deep dive, touching each piece of clean laundry, which at this point is already accumulating a stray animal hair or two, and testing the definition of “clean” before it even got folded and put away. Not only do you touch each piece, but you shake it, to make sure the perfect missing sock is not tucked into a crevice of sheet or ankle zipper of track pant. And still nothing. But just as you are about to give up, there it is, a sliver of blaze orange salvation, which you tug, and surprisingly this time is not the same Adidas GK top you thought might be the sock 17 times before, but is the actual sock. So you are finally set, and you promise the piles of laundry you have neglected, which serves you so well, and makes you appear fresh when out in public even though they know the secrets of your dilapidated raggediness you hide within your home, so you promise those piles of laundry you will fold them tomorrow, in nice ordered stacks, and return them to their beds in your dresser drawers and closets. But secretly you are also thinking about going for a drive tomorrow and taking pictures of the half-abandoned downtown storefronts of nearby towns, since it’s going to be a beautiful day. That would be pretty fucked up though. So I hope you get up early enough to give the unfolded laundry its due.

G1V1NG 1T 4LL VP T0 F41TH...

giving it all up to faith 
in Universe ain’t the same 
as abandoning control 

SONG OF THE DAY: I'm A Hobo

Just a little Sunday hobo throwback track, because even if the world falls apart, you can hopefully still walk away and disappear. They can never cancel the right to disappear from civilization.

SONG OF THE DAY: Ain't No Big Thing

3-day weekend, if you recognize calendars, or time, or recognize both and are trapped in the status quo schedule of life events. Gonna play shit like this all weekend long, sitting on a milk crate in the abandoned factory of the mind. I wish you all well. I hope you are not wrongly perceived.

a freestyle sonnet about being truly forgotten (non-politically)

Enjoying the accumulated wild style sights 
of built up sediments in forgotten spaces 
the rat race has deemed useless; left for troglodytes 
like myself, forever cruising wasted places, 

tasting the grace of man and nature still shaking 
hands, knowing that people and the land is kinfolk. 
Sitting on discarded soapstone slab, sun baking, 
listening to my uncle the river invoke 

ancient tongues from before concrete sprung from the Earth 
in shady clusters. I've got no need for progress 
cemented in the delusions of abstract worth; 
y'all putting on collective airs, which more or less 

manufactures stress which our intestines all feel... 
as a natural born loser, I know the deal. 

SONG OF THE DAY: Kudala Sithandana

Let’s occupy the abandoned K-Mart and turn it into an international flea market and have DJs set up in the parking lot on Saturday afternoons. I know I know, it’s too close to Whole Foods and the scrunchfaces will call in the authorities who will exercise their authority and ruin the good times for the good people who don’t have the good luck to be god blessed in this American experiment.

W3 4R3 0NLY GV4R4NT33D...

we are only guaranteed 
this one existence (from what 
we know); no need for squander 

WH3N Y0V'R3 B0RN H4LF-F0RG0TT3N...

when you’re born half-forgotten, 
those with stars in their eyes don’t 
easily recognize you 

1 F1ND MY GR34T3ST P34C3 1N...

I find my greatest peace in 
forgotten spaces no one 
thinks they’d possibly find me 

VN4TT3ND3D SP4C3S G3T...

unattended spaces get 
filled right quick with sketchy shit; 
this is true of heart as well 

M0ST MY P30PL3'S M3N P4SS3D...

most my people’s men passed 
early - tragedies waiting 
to happen from beginning 

0VR VNT3ND3D D1M3NS10NS...

our untended dimensions 
fall apart easy enough… 
fix what you need, fuck the rest 

M41NT41N1NG 1MM4CVL4T3...

maintaining immaculate 
castles made of sand becomes 
difficult work… we’re lazy 

4B4ND0N1NG D3ST1NY...

abandoning destiny 
to indulge in nothingness… 
if Sisyphus had just quit 

4T TH1S P01NT TH3 CR4CKS D3F1N3...

at this point, the cracks define 
the system as much as all 
the alleged safety nets 

WH3N3V3R TH3 D4YS F33L L1K3...

whenever the days feel like 
more of the same, it becomes 
time to do the opposite 

TH1NGS F4LL 4P4RT 4FT3R TH31R...

things fall apart after their 
forgotten and neglected 
(eternal newness ain’t real) 

4CCVMVL4T10N 0F TH4NGS...

accumulation of thangs 
which once filled us with desire 
(stacked up in forgotten piles) 

Y3ST3RD4Y'S M0ST VS3FVL F0LKS...

yesterday’s most useful folks 
are easily forgotten 
as an empire progresses 

4B4ND0N3D T0NGV3S BVR13D 1N...

abandoned tongues buried in 
the sediments of what we 
built over top of, dormant