SONG OF THE DAY: Hardcore Flow Expertise

(fuck it, a freestyle sonnet today, off the song title) 

Attempting to flow, though the internal prose hose 
tends to be clogged by all this logging on logged long 
hours every day, despite shortness of life; pose 
and posture for digital vultures, right and wrong 
reduced to virtue signals and dog whistles; fuck, 
ain't shit to do but lol while stuck in declining 
empire of diminishing returns, hope long struck 
down by this mundane dystopia refining 
the algorithms to channel our rage into 
page views and boosted posts... The Discourse piledriving 
dead horses through a most predictable purview, 
once again arriving at nothing, surviving 
the days in cyber daze with brain fog engineered, 
wishing civilization's set path quickly veered. 

SONG OF THE DAY: Burning Shit With Dried Up Dreams For Kindling

This is another Boogie Brown Blue Globe Beats track. Brown remains prolific as fuck. I took some news footage of a junkyard fire, with burning Cadillacs, to make a video for it. Then today I was feeling pretty shitty about everything, so I wrote a depressing fucking freestyle sonnet. For such a large world, we sure did build a system that crushes people's spirit. What the fuck? Anyways, did something different with this sonnet, with a pair of 4-line stanzas, then threw a 2-line stanza in the middle, technically rhyming knot with not, like I'm Bushwick Bill or some shit, then flexing into a different tone for the last 4-line stanza, which recognizes everybody out here struggling. This is a poem, which my mind wrote in the very moment, posted into the digital oblivion that is a blogspot in 2021, thus will never be published anywhere else, and only you and the few other eyeballs that actually read this will ever see it. Making tiny ripples in oblivion.

Dreaming of relaxation and actual rest 
without incessant testing of whether I’m bad 
or good enough to deserve to not feel compressed 
by constraints, depressed by position, wanting pad 

around the struggle to fight well-designed riptide, 
wishing for a safety net hammock as I punch 
the lottery machine, hoping my stars collide 
into big bang of that bank balance number crunch 

not still twisting my insides into anxious knots, 
trying to remember my haves more than have-nots. 

Just simple fatigue growing into exhaustion, 
definitely physical, perhaps meta- too; 
thus, listen to expressed frustrations with caution, 
as I can imagine the same is crushing you. 

SONG OF THE DAY: Saghmi Yessir

[freestyle sonnet today] 
Wandering through life without concise direction, 
but expectation of path is a devil's map 
charting you towards disappointment. Projection 
of destination too far in advance will trap 
focus beyond moments at hand, to be enjoyed 
with full joy and immersion. No purpose is found 
beyond here and now, which does not mean dreams destroyed, 
but rather don't let master plans enslave the ground 
you're currently walking. Remain grounded without 
fears triggered by clocks ticking or thoughts of flipping 
calendars. Destroy time's manufacture of doubt 
which crushes joy and creates white knuckle gripping 
at days that have long passed. Cultivate whimsy 
and joy, amidst these manmade systems so flimsy. 

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 number thirteen "how I feel"

[pre-traditional traditions are probably going to be the way to go; 

American history which our culture worships is 

only small part of the history; 

pre-Columbian studies available 

in the woods everywhere] 

Loosen shit, with resistance for minds like machines, 
intuition thick with (by science) unexplained 
inputs; science is a trick, as man intervenes 
in matters not his, it's justified by big-brained 
self-referential platitudes, good follows bad, 
over the edge of earth flattened by stripped minds inclined 
to engineer demise - complicated and mad 
confused as intelligence; simple mud refined 
into brick walls built as most civilized facade 
of progress and benevolence - I steal back breaks 
in mundane days to sit there scribbling down my odd 
internal banter on notecards, until time shakes 
me back into work routines, staring at flat screens...
another year alive, wondering what it means. 

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 number twelve "east mcs"

[the month is gone but the heroic crown ain't done nor did I post up all 13 tracks; fuck borders, even self-made] 

Keep middle fingers wiggling in ev’ry loose brick, 
sick to my gut intuition about living 
in western decline’s doomed shadows - let it fall quick; 
people that’s been through struggle are more forgiving, 
though many days feel like barely breathing; still strive 
to strike with spark to keep heart lit like solar facts; 
choking on Yakubian tricks but still alive 
so gots to create these illegitimate acts 
of anti-heroic artistic existence; 
trapped inside digital labyrinth of zeroes 
and ones but try to create ripples with persistence - 
marginalized outsiders long been my heroes, 
breaking down walls necessary, by any means; 
loosen shit, with resistance for minds like machines. 

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 number eleven "when the shit hits the fan"

[an '80s classic, when all this political chaos people think is brand new was happening before; an early classic of folk punk?] 

In other direction right quick with outside wit, 

trying to somehow thrive during these end-ish times, 

though “end” is self-centered Earth dominion bullshit, 

since Earth shall still exist once industrial crimes 

claim their “civilized” victim - people; anyways, 

the newly broke is suddenly woke as if Trump 

is aberration and not just symptom; this phase 

been happening since the ‘80s - Earth turned to dump, 

capital prophets entrusted with nations’ keys, 

unchecked as system, imbalanced psychology 

of eternal expansion of production… please, 

free market forever is death mythology 

boring into all lives; devil math’s greatest trick - 

keep middle fingers wiggling in ev’ry loose brick. 

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 number ten "sjb's"

[love trash music when slowed down, 

like fried fish for the eardrums] 

Skidding along outskirts, laughing with lunar tic, 

serotonin on the mind, inclined to unwind 

along back roads I’ve never known before, brain thick 

with wanderlust, plus regular lust, try to find 

divine path down dirt roads paved but been forgotten; 

that’s fine… in shadows, margins, and fringes, folks can 

still cultivate loungin’ lives while world’s gone rotten, 

but fuck it… enjoy life better with lesser plan, 

avoiding downpressor man, living off the phat 

of the nether lands; dirtgod is back roads by birth, 

feel more at ease where the shine is gone; y’all chase that 

blood diamond polish, I’m good griming back to Earth, 

tripping along this wayward path, ready to split 

in other direction right quick with outside wit. 

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 number nine "outskirts of life"

[GG Allin acoustic spectrum 

on repeat when around too much 

fake shit, which I seem to be, 

perhaps mistakes made 

in path trusted, but fuck it] 

The easiest way to get free is to just git, 
always choose the margins - I don't even write real 
poetry or do real art, just simplified shit 
unrefined thus never "fine" nor found; but genteel 
shine is pyrite promise, I'd rather pirate away days 
looking lazy and out of place beyond good grace 
of inside system's so-called safe space; y'all give praise 
to a Freedom that's brand-name only, which shineface 
voting bases both right and left still slurping; I'd 
rather not become absorbed by or with facade 
of exceptional life realized (lies), steering wide 
of y'all's beaten path of devil math; it's dirtgod 
jihad, internal/external, freebird mystic 
skidding along outskirts, laughing with lunar tic. 

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 number eight "bozo texino (get live)"

[one of my own fuckin' songs, which feels stupid, 

but I synced up some bozo texino doc 

to the track and it's nice; 

been working on new shit musically, 

some of it I like 

some of it I don't... 

nature of the creator]

Getting real freedom means letting go what you clutch, 
don't give a fuck about much too superficial, 
with the metaphysical try to stay in touch, 
man is judgemental but universe judicial; 
and quick to straighten shit out; underneath crows' prose 
beside James River flows I compose cryptic marks 
upon industrial carcasses where freight slows 
to stop, where dirtgod heart makes ripples and sparks 
which spiral wherever - no plan, just man compelled 
beyond control to explode with creation; 
despite power grid imposed, big bang's still upheld 
by getting live, cultivating constellation 
of self-science and arts to guide self through this shit - 
the easiest way to get free is to just git. 

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 number seven "payaso"

[y'all fuck with Tego? 

you should.] 

Returning to the mud, getting lost in the weeds; 
soy un payaso estupido por creer 
en la meritocracia; forced english feeds 
perpetuate clown thought - necesito leer 
mas Galeano, mas Vasconcelos, plantar 
pensamientos de raza cosmica en 
mi cabeza (y mi corazon), levantar 
filosofias de Sumak Kawsay; and then 
once payaso del diablo blanco conquest 
of false progress utopian thinking's been hacked 
with metaphysical machete, achieve blessed 
state of less stress, less mess, plus more natural fact
simplicity as universal good life touch, 
getting real freedom means letting go what you clutch. 

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 number six "winter in america"

[any time you see a Gil Scott-Heron 

dusty vinyl long-player jam 

with Brian Jackson, 

it's a guaranteed classic; 

this song so fuckin' great 

and so fuckin' still relevant, 

we seem stuck] 

As possible, attempting to feel real world's touch, 
on this continent named America despite 
pre-Columbian presence lacking western clutch 
desperate for wealth; the Earth can always make right 
what's gone wrong, don't let fear entirely commandeer 
all probable futures - truly exceptional 
checks and balances super natural, austere 
to dominion-minded brain, forcing sectional 
thinking where holistic existed; Land of Free 
press release and advance publicity lacking 
in substance to back the hype; back to simple me, 
attempting to live more (less) simply as can be 
in overpolished world with myriad of greeds, 
returning to the mud, getting lost in the weeds. 

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 number five "excellent"

[couldn't really find full version of Princess Nokia's "Excellent" song, which had me contemplating uploading it, but then I wondered if maybe she didn't cease & desist all the copies of it online because maybe she doesn't like it; why should I force it back into the internet if that's the case; also the only video that does show up is this one with her nieces, and knowing little girls with house full of daughters, I could imagine her nieces being like "what if we could be famous on youtube?" and then Nokia was like "okay, let's put this video of y'all up on youtube and I'll make it so that's the only version of the video that shows up" and then that's what happened and the views keep going up and those nieces are stoked; who am I to deny that either? so I'm just running with this video even though it doesn't fit my desires as a dumbass person with a website project about music every month, what the fuck do I matter?]

Because the gridlock's plots don't address my real needs, 
ambitions and accolades practiced from within, 
cheffin' in the kitchen, always cooking with weeds, 
calculate with intuition, guts without sin 
because that gut flora morality goes deep, 
goes ancient, goes excellent, goes ever-present; 
it's never pleasant to separate toxic seep 
into my conscience from poison culture; peasant 
beginnings within this pyramid scam, yet no 
doubt, still blessed with privilege at the same damn time; 
my future likely robotic, with pharma flow 
forced into bloodstream if I let them; dirtgod grime 
resists shineface power structures applied as much
as possible, attempting to feel real world's touch. 

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 number four "damn weeds"

[I'll be honest, what ppl try to convince me Sturgill Simpson is, I already got Malcolm Holcombe for, and Malcolm's not a cop] 

Getting too easily lost in consciousness stream, 
struggling for space to breath easy but trapped in place 
that don't feel like home no more; fuck it, reframe dreams 
into singlewide, take pride in natural grimeface 
existence, never one to shine with perfection, 
I'm a lounge in progress (fuck work), stacking milk crates 
too high with piecemeal second-handed possession; 
once I got spot to spread raven wings without weights 
of what really ain't, my illegitimate art 
will grow like dandelion and kudzu vine, climb 
through the cracks in concrete, extending dirtgod heart 
into larger world more fully, like fool, full-time 
around-the-clock don't stop explosion of thought weeds, 
because the gridlock's plots don't address my real needs. 

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 number three "s4m st0n3"

[DJ 1000 Featherz exclusive 45s on 33 jam! s4m st0n3 from the 7-inch collection in the white camper trailer, slowed down as far as wrong speed + 10% pitch modulation on USB turntable will allow; HOW LONG BEFORE I OPEN ONE OF THESE TABLES UP & MAKE THE THING SPIN SLOWER THRU INTERNAL SCIENTIFICS? (also, had to make my own video for this since it was a vinyl rip I did at abnormal but more appropriate speed... if you used to listen to Solaris Earth Pipeline perhaps you recognize this speed because it was used as "Trapped Inside Clouds")]

Raven Mack refraining from living life with fear, 
a voiding of addiction protocols, transplant 
poison ivy genetics into path more clear, 
not sure whether career or careen, and just can't 
seem to dream; there's a hole in daddy's life where all 
the money comes from, but gone before Monday's dawn; 
thankful the fog's lifted but struggle with this stall 
in direction lost when not reckless - broke ass spawn 
escaped hopeless perspective, but not enough stone 
in my life, too many abstractions just as bad 
as medicated blurs at making falseness known 
as truth; so I here I sit, stone cold sober dad 
struggling to do right while still holding onto dream, 
getting too easily lost in unconscious stream. 

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 number two "parkside 5-2"

[timely track, with psychic props to Philly]

Biggie’s voice echoing with “it was all a dream...” 
Deck laying out "Earth no different from a cell..." 
Method Man explicating capitalized "C.R.E.A.M."... 
"it's like a jungle sometimes" booms gruff Melle Mel, 
"makes me wonder how I keep from going under"; 
grounded by my early boom baptism, pounding 
forties and blunts, 'til my upright was asunder, 
from '73 'til infinity, sounding 
furiously; "Signifying Rapper" Schoolly schooled young 
mack to other mythologies, moralizing 
me beyond white western propaganda well-hung 
but easily made impotent since disguising 
old masters' plans; small town mind gone by world premiere... 
Raven Mack refraining from living life with fear. 

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 number one "syrup splash"

[met a white girl who rapped in Chinese 

at a tea house who reminded me 

Spark Master Tape was good like 

cup of warm kava on 

dark nights of the soul] 

Forty-five years and counting, but still stuck right here,

feeling as unheard as ever, wishing for that

slurred escape, pharma-fog to blur/make disappear

absurd life, living false, sittin' on nothing flat,

how did I get there? Can't remember precise path,

forgotten forks? Fuck it though, spoonfeed me codeine

and let me overdose on clouds, sweet grapes of wrath

flavored syzzurp to create blizzard of this obscene

abomination against the Power of Lounge

called civilization, mislabelled as progress;

rather be wobbling through woods, letting fingers scrounge

white trash quartz, stack dirtgod altars against noblesse,

making syrup splash in poisoned consciousness stream,

Biggie's voice echoing with "it was all a dream..."

JJ Krupert Feb 2018 intro

[nonsense gibberish oracle, 

turning one project into another, 

now this is sonnets too] 

Another year alive, wondering what it means

as them dreams get further buried in sands of time

while most my minutes spent paused mimicking machines,

moments lost forever hoping somehow I'll climb

out these numbers stacked against me, which prevents me

from moving quite as freely as my heart's wishing,

modern human condition - just trying to be

more real me, less human resource. Big boss phishing

for ways to keep me productive and occupied;

I remain resistant, within barbed wireless fence

wrapping circumference of brain, trained to divide

Earth into parcels, while heart intelligence

pumps "fuck that!" reminders, desires to disappear...

forty-five years and counting, but still stuck right here.