SONG OF THE DAY: Hard Times (kudzu'd)

Last night was the Vice-Presidential debate, and I suffered through about 15 minutes before I decided it was better to go to bed and read Eduardo Galeano. The pain of watching a pair of bland middle manager types try to appear as inoffensive and competent as possible, without any passion or flair, and with heavy heapings of performative realness… it was pretty frustrating. I went to bed thinking maybe it’s time we give up on American politics ever being reformed, or slowly moved anywhere. These folks are so entirely clueless, but cosplaying as authentic souls in a cesspool of elite narcissism and unaware corruption, that there’s no redeeming it. And I don’t even mean that as a revolutionary statement, because whoever succeeds in revolution seemingly just perpetuates the same damn hierarchies eventually. I know so many folks struggling right now, not just economically but psychically, and there’s no acknowledgement by the political infrastructure that these things are tied to far deeper problems with our society than which jackass is at the top of the pyramid scam. As the devastation in Southern Appalachia made wretchedly clear, most of us actual human beings who happened to be born inside these arbitrary borders are secondary to higher interests that are promised to trickle down to us as benefits, but instead rain down with the opposite effect and flood our existence with struggle and misery. These folks position themselves as binaries to each other, when in fact both of them sit on the other end of a spectrum of privilege from the majority of us. And I just can’t give even a tiny fuck about which of the two spoiled brat children gets to win the fight about who jumps on the far end of a see-saw to violently smash the rest of us standing at the other end unsuspectingly on the jaw, and expecting us to hold back our frustrated screams as we bite through our tongue again (and again… and again). These folks don't know actual Hard Times.

SONG OF THE DAY: Katy Hill Instrumental

I think a lot about how much cultural history was lost by white people who got swallowed up by American concepts of whiteness. Whiteness pretty much just depends on wealth and you can buy up whatever identity you want as it becomes cool, like a capitalist version of colonialism really. But all of us, even “white” people, originally came from some tiny corners of the Earth, and had an indigenous tradition of some sort, somewhere. And I don’t say that as an excuse for white people so much as because lolol a lot of white people should not feel so inclined to call themselves white people. Fuck whiteness, to be honest, as it seems to be the bland absence of culture, and even has bleached it out of people who are considered white.
I also think a lot about how there’s deeper genetics involved in addictions and inherited traumas. Look at how North America’s indigenous population was so susceptible to both diseases given to them as well as alcoholism later on. And as I’ve seen some recent struggles in my own family, where my entire immediate family unit of 5 people all have suffered with addiction and alcoholism deeply, it’s strange to me how some families seem so much more susceptible to that than others. I’ve known folks that can abuse all sorts of drugs, shit way harder than I could ever handle, and it never seems to cause them to go off the rails. But I know my people are highly susceptible to that, and won’t casually survive those dabbles with self-destruction. And it becomes a chicken and egg thing where bloodlines like that suffer more traumas so the susceptibility becomes compounded. I don’t know. There’s got to be a deeper science to it all than we really know, and likely science doesn’t give a fuck to know the real answer because western society at its heart is judgmental as fuck, and wants to paint people who fail as inherent failures who couldn’t excel. If it was scientific why some of us fuck up and fail rather than an entirely free will exploration of existence, then that undermines the foundation of how western culture is this alleged closer step towards the perfect social system construct.
This all relates to bluegrass music because it is pretty obvious that it takes the exact same type of broken mind to play amazing bluegrass music as it does to think methamphetamines are great. These are both white trash qualities that blemish western culture’s hopes for utopian whiteness. Some of us are just too fucked up to be accepted, and we play music too fast and love drugs that make our brain spin on fast cycle. And I’m almost certain there’s got to be some sort of science underneath it all, but the only people who can afford to support that type of research would rather all the rest of us just keep looking like pieces of shit.

BR0K3N W1ND0WS TH30R13S M0ST...

broken window theories most 
often perpetuated 
by them with exclusive views 

ST33P3D 1N TH4T H34D F1RST 1NT0...

steeped in that head first into 
any and every wall 
mentality (bit too deep) 

H4RD T0 3SC4P3 S0M3 PL4C3S...

hard to escape some places - 
books or bullets both promise 
naive teens tickets elsewhere 

TH3 RVST13ST L34TH3R-SK1NN3D...

the rustiest leather-skinned 
scraps of western whiteness, loved 
only as cannon fodder 

SONG OF THE DAY: I Got Style

You can inherit wealth, but not style. Style comes from culture, often enough separated from wealth these days, and to be honest, culture can’t ever be owned because it’s literal “culture” that ferments within the hearts and minds of folks practicing it. The issue with how “western culture” has developed from English colonialism is that those with wealth co-opt style by purchasing it, and in fact, any of us growing in this “western culture” are encouraged to purchase new identities as often as possible. But this also dilutes the actual culture, and in fact fucks it all up, cheapens it by attaching wealth to it rather than practice. (Practice is always worth more than wealth.) So western culture, which waves the flag of the great melting pot of cultures, also is just as much a consumption of all other cultures at this point as well. It’s like a buffet of culture, with the blandest, least spicy version of every culture, under one big heat lamp, and that’s supposed to be great. I was thinking on this earlier today as I conversed with a young creative cousin about AAVE and a meme I saw about how use of the habitual be was common in both West African and Gaelic languages, and kids shown a picture of Cookie Monster sick with Elmo eating some cookies got asked “Who be eating cookies?” and black kids knew to answer Cookie Monster while white kids answered Elmo. But if the kids were asked “Who is eating cookies?” all the kids knew the difference and answered Elmo, thus bad English actually had more depth and nuance.
Anyways, I’m a first generation college student, and I learned a lot, and was horribly embarrassed about how I was when I first went off to there. But over time, I’ve realized all my style came from before college and if anything I’ve had to make sure I didn’t learn all the wrong shit while learning all those things to get that expensive ass piece of paper that says I was highly educated. I always try to remind myself, as Jerry Clower said (whom my dad played often), to not get educated beyond my intelligence.

SONG OF THE DAY: Don't Hold Back The Rain

Had to go to the Family Dollar, because I was at the grocery store but them motherfuckers wanted $5 for a turkey roasting pan, and I knew it was cheaper at the Family Dollar, plus I needed more gift tags probably, so I went to the Family Dollar. Pulled up and parked beside one of them ‘80s Mustangs, 5.0, sitting on budget chrome, burgundy and black paint job, rear spoiler, looking small town Family Dollar fresh, to be honest. Go inside, and some ol’ boy is leaned up on the checkout barrier to the side, talking to the lady working the register, both of them around my age – that fine line of low life expectancy “middle” age where you’re too old for dreams but too young not to talk shit to the world at large still. I started looking for my shit, hearing ol’ boy talking the whole time.
“They let us out work early today, because wasn’t much going on no ways,” he was saying as I saw they didn’t have any more tags, but turkey roasting pans were $1 each, so fuck you Food Lion. I got two – one for now one for later to sit on top of the fridge and collect dust until another turkey showed up in my life. I got some holiday cards for presents that hadn’t arrived because we all order online at the last minute nowadays. And for some reason I had my dead dad saying, “When it rains, it pours,” in my head, which was never about the weather but about juggling real life shit to navigate being broke as fuck all the goddamned time.
Ol’ boy leaning by the checkout kept talking. “We get paid for tomorrow too, but you can’t call out today or Monday, or else you don’t get paid for it. So that’s cool,” he was going on, and she was responding, but also working, ringing people up or saying likely mandatory greetings as people popped in. I kept looking for mysterious gift tags hiding somewhere on a lost retail endcap, but ain’t find none.
“Alright then, I’ll talk to you later,” ol’ boy said and the automatic door let him out. Wasn’t nobody in line but they still had the barrier to get to the registers with a bunch of useless cheap shit lined up for you to impulse buy. The woman working had a giant splotch of a tattoo on the right side of her neck, and a weathered face, sad eyes, and to be honest I would’ve swiped right on her because I know I’m fucked up – I swipe right on anybody. She started ringing me up.
“Y’all ain’t got no gift tags hiding anywhere, do you?”
She laughed. “Naw. Gift tags and Christmas lights, they was gone quick. We hadn’t had ‘em in a while.” She stuffed my assorted things into the turkey pans and dropped it all into a big bag while I blip blooped my way through the card reader. “Merry Christmas,” she said, handing me a giant plastic bag full of cheap shit.
“Happy holidays.”
Outside, that dude who had been talking was sitting in the Mustang, feet still on the ground, taking his time. “That car is looking clean, man,” I said, dragging the “clean” into more than one syllable because it deserved more in this context, as is the way of my people.
“Thank ya, brother,” he said, in the parking lot of the Family Dollar in Lovingston, Virginia, where people like us cross paths. 
I cut on my Corolla, and “Come and Get Your Love” by Redbone was mid-song on the playlist that was playing. Lives like mine, and his, and the checkout lady, and shit probably you too, are doomed in this America we got right now, and fucked, and yet also somehow still absolutely perfect. Holiday blessings to all y’all that are fucked like myself.

SONG OF THE DAY: Shuckin' The Corn

I saw some banjo academic fucker did a song called the ballad of Kyle Rittenhouse and it was well-done but also so fucking stupid it made me sick. Then I looked up the guy that got killed that the right is like “sex predator/classic leftist” and it’s a guy who had tried to commit suicide twice, just got released from the hospital that day (was literally carrying a hospital bag) and ended up in the protest by accident, having been denied his meds because the pharmacy was closed due to shit going on. Dude goes and starts picking fights with guys with guns, because he was in mental health crisis and wanted to die, and of course the dumbass teenage guy whose mom drove him to the protests with an assault rifle is stupid enough to oblige. Other protesters see this, assume the dead guy is just a protester, so come running in, and another gets killed and one injured. And after all that, because of some guy with a documented criminal history but documented mental health issues as well, wandering the streets untreated, in the midst of a powder keg, featuring a lot of people looking for trouble, shit blows up. We’re really lucky four or five people aren’t killed more often in situations like this, everywhere. We are such a fucking stupid country right now, and heavily armed too, out in each other’s faces, mad about everything, not even mad for real just pretending to be mad because we wanna argue, and hope somebody starts something. We’re one big nation fucking around but yet to find out. Anyways, the dumbass bluegrass shithead who made a song about Kyle Rittenhouse is the perfect example of how academia can go too far, and also made me sad, because the entirety of Americana/newgrass/singer-songwriter shit is privileged kids cosplaying redneck, because all the real creative degenerate rednecks are just writing raps for their next mixtape while in regional jails. Actual white trash can’t afford good acoustic instruments, which means Americana music is now like American soccer, and only rich kids can even bother with it, which waters down the quality, and also makes it all boring as fuck. You can’t get enough quirky tattoos and derivative Americana merchandise from old logos and stereotypical visions of what America was at a Howard Johnsons in western North Carolina in 1966 to give yourself soul. Fuckin’ devils, in every goddamned direction. Y’all don’t even know what shuckin’ the corn means, even though you’re doing it. Quoth Raven, y’all are forevermore shuckin’ the corn.

SONG OF THE DAY: No Home

rootlessness as metaphor
is often used by those having homes,
safety nets they can flip back on to,
family they can hit up if shit really gets deep.
it’s plenty of folks out here that’s actual rootless,
whatever home they had wasn’t safe or comfortable enough
to still be attached to, and them that they shared those spaces
with often helped make it that way,
            so
they do what they can
to carve out a life without them traditional supports
or notions of “home” that they can always fall back on.
that shit is exhausting
            absolutely fucking exhausting
to where you get mad at the sunshine for coming through the window
yet another morning, and you wish
there was a nice dry hole to fall into
for a couple weeks
not even a beach vacation
just fall into a fucking hole
cuddle up, and enjoy the quiet for a couple weeks.
rootlessness often comes with getting fucked up
because not having no home, not having nobody
who raised you to say “this is your home, whenever you need it”
and have it be a warm safe comfortable place
not having that shit will clutch your heart sometimes
by accident, not on no purpose, just grab your ass
right in the chest cavity, and you wanna ease that ache
take the edge off
            creating your own
hole to fall into, to hide out
a couple weeks, months,
            years, generations… however long
                        it takes to pretend you’re home

SONG OF THE DAY: Traffic Sound

 

Sitting in a traffic jam in an old ass beater, temperature gauge bouncing like a club jam is playing, hoping it’s just the thermostat not something worse, running the heater on high to expel that overheating, windows down, wondering if you should pull off or say fuck it and push it ‘til it blows. $500 vehicles in an American society that doesn’t trust anything than five figures.

SONG OF THE DAY: Robots Taking Them Jobs Away

VIDEO 

There's a Greater Appalachian Beer Tree down below where I live now, by the river, fruiting beer cans on branches in autumn. Contrary to popular belief, these trees are not native to the American continent. They originally came from the Scottish Highlands & Ireland, but they were used by the colonial elite, planted extensively just outside the walls of their English gardens in the "new" world, to block the view of the indigenous and enslaved. The trees down where I live are wild ones, mostly found in rural places now, but an organic “micro” beer tree is often used decoratively in gentrifying neighborhoods. It's derived from the same species. 

I took some pictures of the beer can fruit earlier, and then walked along the half-paved, half-gravel road by the river. While I was down there, someone in a gator across the river, up on the ridge, backed off and buzzed away. I kept walking, and dug out a brown stubby quart bottle at one spot, shaking the river and mud out of it, then setting it upright on the side of the road to see and grab on my way back. I'd already contemplated paint markering haiku on it with a dirtgod moniker and trying to trade it to anybody local for some other form of art.

Me and the dog kept walking, to the gravel, found both an abandoned outbuilding to a factory as well as an abandoned house, both maybe worth exploring but hard to gauge the neighboring people at this point. There's a weird mix of locals who probably have been families here for generations, and new school people, more affluent, who bought the nicer houses. A definite class divide, and I'm probably seen as the outsider, rightfully so because I ain't ever lived here before. Actually one of those fellow outsiders, who I knew from years ago and my ex-wife's women friends and their hippie workingman husbands/boyfriends, he stopped and talked for a few minutes. I know from talking to the landscaper guy that used to cut grass here, that those people are liked, so far as they're paying customers for local services. I don't know if the locally disenfranchised, or those who can't calm their wildness are all that accepted by the affluent buy-ins.

We finally turned back around, and as we got to the end of the gravel part I heard a mechanical buzzing coming towards us. A dude on a zero-turn mower turned the curve, saw us walking, waved, and turned back around. Me and the dog kept walking. Two ragged sedans roared through - you could hear them half a mile away, since nobody really drives this route, so the dog and I stepped aside. Both did drag racing takeoffs as best as possible in their dilapidated shit where the gravel turned to straight stretch asphalt. The smell of six cylinders pushed beyond ability burning fuel floated in the air. It was nice; I recognize that smell. I was born under one of those wild beer trees, and I've been working all my life at chopping it down, or at least trimming it back to where it's not in the way of everything.

The brown quart bottle was gone when we got back to that spot; I'd left it in a very specific lay of the land to not lose track of. I could see water dribbles beside where that spot was on the asphalt, and more up and down the road - the path of the zero turn mower. I was kinda like "what the fuck?" about the bottle being gone, but also who knows what that guy thought. It felt weird somebody across the ridge backed off, and then not long after some mower riding dude rode far enough to scope out where I was, but not to come talk. I guess he did wave though.

I was watching everywhere to try and figure out where the mower came from, looking back across the river to see if somebody was up on the ridge again, like a horror movie. Trump just got beat in the election. Those class divides between the affluent progressive whites who can buy shit out in the country, and the poor whites who don't really have shit, is gonna get more plucked now. But nobody was over there.

As I got back to where houses were, the folks across the street had a burn barrel going. I say "street" but it's really a road, and they live down in the bottom by the river just below the bridge that got built after the previous one and hydroelectric dam got washed out by a hurricane flood in '69. They're always buzzing around on four-wheelers there too. But I've been wanting a burn barrel, and hadn't gotten one, so I was admiring their compound from afar. One old trailer, with a blue light bulb on the porch, and a newer, but still old, doublewide closer to the end of the driveway, plus a couple outbuildings and a pop-up camper, popped up. The burn barrel had chairs and a pop-up tent covering over there too - definitely built for steady lounge. I saw a lady, maybe a teenager, maybe not, sitting at the burn barrel fire, all of this a good eighth mile away. I also saw the zero turn mower parked there. So that's who took the bottle back.

I watched, hoping somebody would look my way, so I could throw out a friendly wave. I don't know those folks and they don't know me, and judging by how embedded the trailers are in that compound, they've been here for a while. Way longer than me, two months into a thirty year mortgage I'll never live to see the end of. Nobody looked, and it was too far away for us to be like, "HOW Y'ALL DOING?" anyways. He missed his opportunity on the mower, but like my dog sniffing other piss smells, he was just seeing who I was most likely. I get it. I ain't from here. I mean, ultimately, in the great American context, neither is he, but I'm less from here, in this specific location, than he is. And the land might have thousands of years of history, people tend not to remember shit past their grandmother.

I can find another bottle next time. There ain't no shortage of litter in places like this, both in terms of empty alcohol containers and human lives that got left behind. It might seem weird to some that this dude took the one bottle I set up, while leaving behind all the rest of the litter along the road. But I get that thinking that ain't nobody fucking with my trash world except for me. I come from that, and still possess it. I think anybody who drank from the fruit of those beer trees knows that outlook. I should've known better than to leave that beautiful river trash bottle sitting there on the side of the road upright like that. Might not too many people go past that spot, but I'd be most everybody that does go through there knows what to look out for.

SONG OF THE DAY: The Devil Put The Coal In The Ground

My new house backs up on a quarry company, and is I guess what was known as Walton's Mountain on the tv screen. John Boy's house is literally a quarter mile from here. I can walk up there at night when the moon is too bright and yell GOOD NIGHT JOHN BOY! GOOD NIGHT JOHN BOY! And the cool thing is it's a small town, too small for cops, so only the county cops are likely to come, and they're most likely busy being corrupt with the local drug trades, which they've long been corrupted by. Anyways, I was walking back in the woods to the gulch behind the house, contemplating where property lines may or may not end, and how far I can ignore that to put up some goat fencing, and I discovered a trash pile, probably from the lady who used to live here, who apparently lost the house while she was renting to own because she got popped for two DUIs in two weeks a couple years back, the second of which just straight up going on the wrong side of a four lane highway with giant median strips in the middle of each direction, like those big ass median strips where trees grow and deer live in there and you could probably put up a pallet house if you wanted. I'm guessing maybe during those times she must've started throwing trash down the hill. Strangely this is a country phenomenon with quite a bit of history, where Appalachia meets the South, and them po buckras came to be an underclass that nobody has love for. There's something amazing about having trash and living on the side of an incline and deciding to just throw your trash over the side because fuck it. Of course, po buckra white folks are more earth-based white people, but that same trash tossing down the hill is basically Reaganomics and what the white elite practice as well. They're just not considered po buckra pieces of shit because they wear suits and are Senators and are well-trained in the stealth abstraction of their dirty deeds which has always defined the American Empire's wealth, laundering morality through a complex pyramid scheme where you slap your shitty world philosophies into the bottom and somehow freedom comes out the top.

I guess I'll clean that trash pile up at some point in the next month or two, because it's going to annoy me if I don't. But I also might put goats back there first and see how much of it they eat. I'm gonna see if I can get them to start carrying halal goat up at Ike Godsey's store too.

SONG OF THE DAY: Losing Boy

Some of y’all have never been losers your whole life, and it shows. You think normal shit like voting is magic and will somehow stop the spread of fascism, or the proud ignorance of jacked-up trucks full of blank-eyed young men fed too many 8chan memes during adolescent development, flying giant flags not of a country (though sometimes) but of a person, or weird fucked up fringe things, gawking at the world with dehumanizing glare, ready to “own the libs” by trampling on decency. Some of y’all are basic ass normal folks too used to having reliable housing and cupboards stocked full of food or being able to go to a store for something you might be missing, and feel like the system somehow corrects itself and is actually good at its heart, just been corrupted by some aberrations. Y’all think American democracy is a Santa Claus that’s just gonna show up in November and unwrap some freedom restored.

I’m very thankful sometimes for having been a natural born loser, because it makes not believe dumb shit like that. It also makes me know the end of the world is never the end of the world. Losers don’t get an end to the world, there is no climactic apocalypse for true-born losers. You just keep losing, in different more creative ways, and scratch out small wins here and there. To be a loser is a purgatory of figuring shit out, and in the best of times when you’ve figured it out, you’re still anxious as fuck because you know how quickly it can all fall apart. Y’all “last free election” dramatic motherfuckers should’ve been paying attention years ago. Shit, I wish there was an end of the world sometimes. But there ain’t. You just keep slogging through the bullshit, and try not to drown. Not even sure why you try to avoid drowning, to be honest. Doesn’t seem to be some big payoff anywhere on the horizon. But to be a born loser means you always gotta gamble, that somehow someway you’ll win one day. Blind faith in “fuck it” is all a loser has half the time.

SONG OF THE DAY: Brown Out

There was an article about Ruby Ibarra being a scientist working on a Covid vaccine, which you can easily google and find yourself, and it’s probably behind a paywall so you’ll have to do an incognito window or some shit. Ibarra’s pretty great, and it’s bothersome how immigrants from elsewhere that’s European get absorbed as American but non-whites don’t get that same benefit, and will always have this otherness still attached to them. I mean, it’s like that in European countries as well, and I just started reading Eduardo Galeano’s Open Veins of Latin America, and aside from the normal Galeano ability to have a fucking quotable sentence on every other page that I want to scribble really high up on the walls at my house so nobody can reach it to cover up or try to scrub away, it also is making me want to really re-invision how I think of America, as a pre-existent entity to the United States, and one that will likely exist long after the United States. We get too caught up in our present reality as being dominant throughout time, when really it’s just some shit happening right now. Shit, the United States isn’t even that big of a presence in the history of the Americas. But it’s certainly a problematic one now. But if you take away thinking that shit is all-knowing omnipotent over history, you also take away some of the hopelessness that comes with the bad side. I mean shit, people ain’t even been speaking English all that long here, which is probably why the frogs get quiet when I try to sing with them at the pond at night, because they’re expecting me to be speaking Monacan, but the only Monacan words that still exist are ones that people named places with. And the biggest one I can think of repurposes Rassawek, the big village that existed at the confluence of the Rivanna and the James near present-day Columbia. But the folks who did that named their big ass winery Rassawek and host weddings there. Seems weird to resurrect dead tongues for wedding destinations, but what do I know? I’m just a piece of shit from nowhere shooting words into space.

CL4VSTROPH0B1C R3CKL3SSN3SS...

claustrophobic recklessness

of being broke never leaves

your DNA completely

SONG OF THE DAY: Until Then

Malcolm X just had a birthday… well obviously he didn’t have it, because he was assassinated a long time back, and I often think about how one of America’s greatest most recent philosopher/thinker/activists was taken from us. He was only 39 at the time of his shooting, and had experienced such rapid political and philosophical growth in his adult years. His pilgrimage to Mecca and visit to Africa had been a pretty impactful period on expanding his outlook as well, and that had only happened in the year before his death. It’s also noteworthy because African nations had just begun to gain independence from colonial rule in that same decade. His influence likely would have extended well beyond just African-American culture, or even just African diasporic culture. It all seems so relevant too because we’ve got the same fucking bullshit going on in America, like we’ve been stuck in this cultural quagmire we can’t escape because nobody’s tried to actually fix any of it. The oft-quoted clip from Malcolm talks about healing, and how healing involves pulling the knife out of someone’s back, and letting them heal the wound, when America hasn’t even acknowledged it put the knife in people, nor pulled it out.

But also always relevant to the discussion of Malcolm, and his assassination, is the divisive techniques of the powerful. That famous pic of Malcolm peeping out the window holding an M1 was done not in reference to the FBI or CIA, but the threat on his life that was presented by Elijah Muhammad and the Nation of Islam. Part of Louis Farrakhan’s ascent to power was built off his dedicated resistance to Malcolm. Of course there was quite a bit of collusion between intelligence agencies and police groups back then to fuck up black activists, but if you go pulling the threads of FBI involvement in the Nation of Islam/Malcolm X feud, and even sort of distant preservation of the Nation of Islam, shit gets murky (as all conspiracies do).

Mostly though, I just lament the fact I re-read Malcolm X speeches or essays fairly regularly, most of which composed during the last decade or so of his life. And he never even made 40. Imagining what he could’ve accomplished had he been allowed to continue to grow and develop is a depressing stream of thought. Lots of times, in our American-centric perspective, we tend to lump Malcolm and Martin Luther King Jr. together, but I think about Malcolm with Patrice Lumumba, the brilliant Congolese pan-Africanist, who also was assassinated in 1961. Both these men were not just activists visibly resisting world systems in place, but they were people who had shown rapid growth as thinkers, both of which cut short before they made 40. And definitely relevant as we get into the last stretch of a Presidential Election where two bumbling old ass white dudes compete to not fuck up the worst and become the alleged leader of the alleged free world for another four years, or more. Lolol, anybody who thinks this world system that’s still in place is a good and beneficial one is a goddamn fool.

Anyways, check out this track by Marcel P. Black, conscious Baton Rouge rapper. Sometimes I forget to attach the prose to the song, but figured I’d better today, because Marcel’s a good dude, and he’s got a bandcamp, so you can support dude directly, which is important since nobody can tour or do shows currently.

1NV1S1BL3 GL4SS C31L1NGS...

invisible glass ceilings

due to pataphysical

beginnings as trash human

F0R TH0S3 WH0 C4N'T 4FF0RD TH3...

for those who can't afford the

facade, a destiny of

picking through scraps left behind

SONG OF THE DAY: No Class

I have meant to post more but I’ve been uninspired. That’s mostly your fault, to be honest. The internet is a bougie ass cesspool of neoliberal pretty vacancies, and that’s just the part I look at. The larger internet is giant strides towards blissful fascism, and fuck both those choices. I take pretty pictures and manipulate words with good practice, but I still think classlessly. I am a dirtgod – thus born ugly and forced to take pride in my wretched nature, because even if fully assimilated and exploited, I can’t be one of y’all. (Unless you’re not one of them either; in that case, did you watch that Dolemite shit on Netflix? That was great, wasn’t it?)