dominion adorns our thoughts
as humans, which is mistake
of centering the false self
as humans, which is mistake
of centering the false self
Wednesday, December 10
Tuesday, December 9
SONG OF THE DAY: Right Down the Line (kudzu'd)
The house I’ve lived in for the past five years is pretty big, even if it is old and leaky. Upstairs has three bedrooms. My eldest has a room but they live elsewhere on the Earth now. After they left after their last visit to the states, I turned their room into an AM radio station, that strictly plays 45s at 33 speed. I configured one of those old school turntables with the dropstack spindle to be able to hold 50 45s at a time. I can’t actually use all 50 though, because I could only tinker with the arm to accommodate about thirty some, so I decided it was technological limitations being imposed on me by the magic of the Universe, and that obviously meant if I’m playing 45s at 33 speed, and I was trying to get around 45 45s in a stack at a time, it was telling me to get the proper amount of Power of Lounge, it should be 33 45s, since I’m playing them at 33 (which I guess makes them 33s). So I listened to the Universe and limit it to 33 in each stack, and that’s gone pretty well. I’m not really sure who can pick up my outlaw AM radio station, ad sometimes, to be quite honest, I don’t get up there to change the stack when it runs out for a while. I guess I could have some recorded programming ready to run, but that feels too much like normal radio shit people do these days. But the station’s PO Box (KPOL is the station, by the way, AM 1360, Blue Ridge Emirate) gets letters, mostly from people claiming to be spirits in the woods around here. I’m not really sure how spirits in the woods would pick up an outlaw AM radio station, but fuck it, I enjoy mail. Anyways, if you have any special requests for a stack of 33 old 45s you’d like to hear on KPOL, just send it in to PO Box 77, Schuyler, VA, 22969. I’ll do what I can to accommodate your requests, but also please understand, I’m limited to the 45s I actually have in my possession. Thanks.
But also I say all that to give a shout out to Square Man, who is always sending in postcards requesting Gerry Rafferty's "Right Down the Line", over and over and over. I'm up to owning 9 copies of the record, and seriously, Square Man sends me a postcard a week it seems like. I'd like to get up to a full stack of 33 copies, one day, but this is a labor of love, and there's little commercial money available to an outlaw AM radio in the upstairs bedroom mostly listened to by super- and not-necessarily-supernatural spirits. But we strive to thrive, nonetheless.
R3G4RDL3SS 0F H0W B4R3LY...
regardless of how barely
held together all things are,
this Universe yields futures
held together all things are,
this Universe yields futures
Monday, December 8
1MM0R4L1T13S L4VND3R3D...
immoralities laundered
through prism of time’s passage;
“you had to be there,” we think
through prism of time’s passage;
“you had to be there,” we think
Sunday, December 7
Saturday, December 6
Friday, December 5
TR34T1NG 0VR 0NLY KN0WN H0M3...
treating our only known home
as a recreational
vehicle hurtling through space
as a recreational
vehicle hurtling through space
Thursday, December 4
34RTH'S 4B1L1TY T0 H34L...
earth’s ability to heal
us easy to overlook
when we think we control things
us easy to overlook
when we think we control things
Wednesday, December 3
Tuesday, December 2
0VR CVLTVR3 1S 4 L4CK 0F...
our culture is a lack of
culture… identities bought
and sold with a heartless ease
culture… identities bought
and sold with a heartless ease
Monday, December 1
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
are superficial worries;
internal jihad remains
Sunday, November 30
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.)
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
heart with gruff exterior,
but these dimples betray me
Saturday, November 29
1N TH3 M1DST 0F M4NM4D3 W0LV3S...
in the midst of manmade wolves,
surveilling the flock from a
panoptical illusion
surveilling the flock from a
panoptical illusion
Friday, November 28
D34TH W1LL H4RV3ST 4LL B0D13S...
death will harvest all bodies,
one by one; where our essence
is released is up to us
one by one; where our essence
is released is up to us
Thursday, November 27
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
and understand the desires
planted in mind distract you
Wednesday, November 26
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
to something larger than self,
except it’s disconnected
Tuesday, November 25
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.
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
own manufactured slow death…
ride sugar highs straight to hell
Monday, November 24
RVSTY CH41NS ST1LL ST1FL3 TH3...
rusty chains still stifle the
soul’s natural direction;
breaking free begins in heart
soul’s natural direction;
breaking free begins in heart
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