R4GG3DY 4R0VND 3DG3S...

raggedy around edges, 
but my essence is golden 
so I clean up pretty good 

SONG OF THE DAY: Cajun Moon

I've got an array of Dr. Bronner's flavors in the shower, which I select like pairing a fine wine with dinner as I get power showered up for whatever awaits. Am I gonna be wearing purple in the night time underneath outdoor lights? Probably lavender is best. Do I gotta be hype and hyper-vigilant but still feel fresh to death? Definitely gonna go peppermint zing. Am I gonna be wearing satin boxers in the jacuzzi room at a hotel somewhere before midnight? Rose soap. Sometimes you even gotta mix and match, where you soap the rest of your body with lavender but go peppermint on the nether lands, with tea tree oil on the face. But what I'm saying is I appreciate what Dr. Bronner's mad science has added to our lives.

SONG OF THE DAY: No Scrubs

Somewhere at some point on this American Earth, somebody has been rushing to get ready for work taking care of others in some sort of fringe health care capacity which is simultaneously entirely necessary but disrespected (you know, all those “essential” workers), and they didn’t have any clean scrubs to wear so they went digging through either the laundry pile or maybe there was that chair in the corner of the bedroom where you put the clothes that technically aren’t washing machine clean but really ain’t dirty enough to go in the dirty clothes yet, and they were singing “No Scrubs” loud as fuck, because why the fuck not? Life’s too short to be giving a fuck about all this fake bullshit which just keeps getting shown to be more and more pointless.
Also, I still love T-Boz. Tell her if you see her.

1MM0R4L SYST3MS L4VND3R3D...

immoral systems laundered 
through these “cream rises to the 
top” meritocracy myths 

SONG OF THE DAY: Having Thangs (chopped & screwed)

Washed and cleaned the fuck out my car this afternoon, for the first time I really did it this well since I got it. A funny thing about white trash culture is you’re not supposed to have nice shit, and if you do, it somehow looks bad on you, like you think you’re too good. Can’t even count how many times I’ve said, “We can’t have nothin’ nice” non-ironically, because it was reality.

This is the only new car I’ve ever owned in my life, got as my last hand-me-down had the clutch go out plus two other things all at once, like right at the same time so that I had to catch the city bus to within half a mile of the dealer and walk the rest of the way to pick it up when I got it. Had less than 10 miles, which I’d never purchased anything with less than like 85k I don’t think (and that might be a low estimate to be honest). Family looked at me funny when I first got it, because my siblings have been in the same environment as me, so we’re not supposed to have nice shit, just broken shit that’s always breaking and we always have to fix and somehow that makes us noble. I don’t know.

I realized I put that out too, that my grown kid got a nice old man’s car a few months back, and it’s full of empty coffee bottles now, and my girlfriend’s vehicle is as much a farm use car as anything, so I can’t really expect that not to have hay blow into your face when you open the sunroof on the highway. But fuck man, my car – just a 2019 Corolla, base model – was brand new when I got it. There’s no need for three years worth of fried chicken crumbs to be between the driver’s seat and the center console. Why do I do this? I’d like to have nice shit. Like I dream of a nice old Cadillac sedan, big wheels, clean enough as fuck inside, riding around on a Sunday afternoon in some fucked up color block Puma tracksuit from 1994, and just vibing. That’s my ideal vibration – peak dirtgod. And yet, I become my own worst enemy towards achieving it, thinking I’m supposed to be fucked up, have rips in my shit, and dirt all over everything. I washed the car down, and it was popping though, even though there’s a scrape on one side from me running over some barbed wire clump at my girlfriend’s compound, and then scratches around the driver’s side door handle from my ex-wife’s untrained lab jumping up on that shit when I pulled up to pick up the kids. Maybe I can’t have nothing nice, I don’t know. But fuck, I’d like to before I die, even if just for a weekend, riding around feeling fly as fuck, not like a goddamned piece of shit dug out the earth to sit in front of somebody’s porch, rusting to death. Let me shine, for fuck’s sake, just let me shine a little bit before I die.

3V3N TH0VGH W0RK1NG FR0M H0M3...

even though working from home, 
wash all my clothes on Sunday 
afternoons; start fresh each week 

SONG OF THE DAY: Party Wit Pop Smoke

The smell of barrel fire on fresh clothes, meaning that $20 t-shirt you bought from your boy who has “a clothing line” that took five reminder texts despite your completely laid back nature to get him to remember to drop it off, that you figured was only for weekend fresh fits, but you somehow found yourself wandering the tracks beneath the interstate bridges and found fellow souls of deep-patterned solitude standing around a metal barrel lifted off the ground by two sideways cinderblocks (safety first), so you kicked it with them, because fireside ciphers are incomparable – the free styling of human words from your barely conscious brain as flames suck oxygen and flash the promise of cleansing it all and archiving all the world’s wrongs into ash so that we can begin again, freshly, and see if we don’t get it more right than last time this next time. The flames hide the stank of pallet scraps and found volunteer kindling and empty cans and taillight covers that floated down from the heavens above, and the barrel fire smell of all of our manufactured plastic ass existence blends into the fibers of your fresh $20 shirt from your boy’s line, and it’s like the DNA inside your body, full of the smoke from your pop and his pop and the pops before that, plus the moms… oh fuck the glorious persistent moms that had to endure all those explosive self-destructive pops and try to hold shit together just well enough that the family tree grew out into you, and you’re stills standing here, a goddamn wreck of human existence but wearing that fresh shirt and the same grey-scale camouflage cargo shorts, freestyling those same prayers you’ve been freestyling for years, falling on deaf gods who never hear dirtgods. And that fresh shirt meant for Saturday afternoon cookouts that don’t happen because quarantine feels permanent is relegated to long solitary walks of pimping through the wasteland, and the shirt stinks of burned plastic and ragweed blunts and to be honest, of you. The freshness is worn off, but you tell yourself it’s still fresh, you’re still fresh, there’s still hope, keep walking, keep freestyling those prayers to the gods above, dreams only come true if you naively keep believing in them.

N0TH1NG 1S P3RM4N3NT; Y0V...

nothing is permanent; you

don't have to go anywhere

to start fresh; change is coming

SONG OF THE DAY: Versace (Chopped Not Slopped)

Already got my purple urban Versace camouflage all laid out for the big counter to the counter-protest against the anti-something or other thing. So many reactionary reactions like a ping pong with infinite kinetic energy just bouncing around against all the manufactured obstacles and divisions. I can’t wait to have my facial structure scanned by the police state while the fascists who claim to be against the police state but are actually paramilitaries for the police state all yell at me for wearing purple urban Versace camouflage. I mean, if they were yelling at me because I was mismatching them with dark pink suede Pumas, I could accept that, because that would be right, that’s a horrible sense of fashion, even according to the philosophy of stylistic garishness (aka GK AF style, which is a true and living dirtgod aesthetic). But they’ll just be yelling at me because I refuse to get a blue lives matter meme tattooed on my torso just out of public sight if I were wearing a militaristic black t-shirt with angry dork insignia. Get geared up y’all, we gonna have a lot more of this all throughout this election cycle. Secondhand track pants are the revolutionary wave, with Molotov cocktail stains on the legs. Like the marks always say, THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT ELECTION EVER, so get ready to angrily react to the angry reactions about the contrarian acts of resisting the something or other.

W0RK1NG T00 MVCH, PVLL3D 1N T00...

working too much, pulled in too 

many directions... feeling 

flat, and wishing for fresh sparks 

S1MPL1C1TY 0F H00PT13...

simplicity of hooptie

complicated by visions

of candy flake and chrome shine

SH1N3F4C3 PH1L0S0PH13S M4K3...

shineface philosophies make

for shineface oversized trucks

never blemished by guardrails

N3V3R G3T T0 TH3 B0TT0M...

never get to the bottom

of the clutter which we've built

for nearly two slurred decades

D00GH 1S L1K3 VNPR3T3NT10VS...

doogh is like unpretentious

kefir; drink it by the quart...

add cayenne for deep cleanse

GR0SS P01S0N M1NVS CL34NS1NG...

gross poison minus cleansing

abilities of Earth still

leaves strong net poison man made

detoxifying my flesh

through loss-of-consciousness sleep

and cleansing effect of worms

letting synthetic bath salts 

soak in to broken psyche, 

recalibrating aura

shower before work if white 

collar; shower after work 

if blue collar; fuck showers

I'm not from bloodlines which are

able to keep vehicles

clean as hell for five decades

just another dumbass white

dude wearing blaze orange and black

basketball shorts, looking fine