RIP Rammellzee

Motion Studies

'These gestures of touch form a circuit of exchange: humans donate their forgetting to the mineral; which stores it for them; and in return, memorials bestow their constancy upon humans, each of whom is relieved of the burden of memory and is pleased to take the solace of stone away with them. The granite will remember.'

Hype Factories/Yard Standards (forgiveness)

To the inherent men and women,

Cunning-cunning-cunning-cunning-cooning-cooning, boom! Boomtime: recommending clemency, he ordered them to go to sleep at noon and practice their disappearing act: dimepieces, coons, no-names, ruffians, we're fine, I can't believe it, but peace comes from these vowels (avowals, confessions, folk-forms, resonance, soon is glad, sooner is bitter) for you and someone inherent sitting in a recklessly minimal room playing cards or music until daylight sets or diminishes. People talk about radar, a mythic destination, and raid our hearts for similar palindromes or switches: tar babies, the listless rate of appearances: I heard he wears high-pegged pants, I heard he's a pagan with no song in his cameras, I heard he paid them to say that, plays the cymbals in a marching band in rural Florida, on the weekends, stingy about when he brings 'em together, cause once they are it's hard to pull them apart, like the marshes they walk upon, gladhanding. Today he's in the yard with an empty watermelon which he has refilled with pennies and magnets and then shook into the shape of where you went, with him: a mellow place, restored to chaos, for the sake of our imaginations and gossip, (geese, geese, geese, goose, duck, (you're famous) runaround) to not forsake them, to not mistake them for the arrhythmias we brag about like patience, consonance, ever-since, iron lungs: stiff places in the word which welcome it to fall off of itself, to vanish, to spell, to miss, to Ms. Hill, and her five children and mister so-and-so himselves, we apologize

Hat and Beard

I'm not here to ride the train//I'm here to throw the breaks

Big Fun/'There is Only One Step from the Sublime to the Ridiculous'

Overheard Discussion on the Subject of Breeding Toy Dogs

"The good thing about breeding is, you don't have to deal with the mother, you just get the pick of the litter and..."

("Our greatest challenge today...is to couple conviction with doubt")

"I call a lie: wanting not to see something one does see, wanting not to see something as one sees it, fulfilling this want"

"...once I gave up the hunt for villains, I had little recourse but to take responsibility for my choices"

"I chose the runt, for the poise in eyes and how deeply he seemed to love his mother

Village Narratives and Fables of the Visible World

...Fast yielded the secret of their own extinction: their authors didn’t know how to use clues.

The confiscation of wood prints makes it easier to imagine Eden, (no apples, no pulling-trees), 'all the modern things like car-parts and stuff have always existed, they've just been waiting– makes it easier to misunderstand event number 1: This: as our Music

Some omitted clues altogether, in favor of such alternative truth-divining devices as hyperamnesiac dreams, unsolicited confessions, and, in one case, the chance autopsy of a shark, which turns out to have swallowed a message in a bottle mentioning the identity of the true–

and the deductive value of the clue is negated by the hero being precisely someone whose behavior is not bound by the law of (human) rationality.

No simple sequence of lack, obstacles, and acquisition

Lack of insufficiency, lack of a bride, lack of a rumor, more

The inability to be disappointed has something scandalous about it, maybe all seven things, all seven types of ambiguity loose in the scansion of event number (still) 1

Where we are used to asking only those questions for which we already have an answer

and eventually concluding that the unintelligibility of the clues is deliberate

...which we can't grasp without some re-distribution

You get the baby; you get the trouble, you get The Structure of Complex Words

Nothin 'bout hugging, kissing, all words, listen

My father warned me: In the Mississippi Delta, in the late 1930s, it was common to construct guitars using the sides of houses, field strings and nails into blue wood not unlike a crucifix or a hammock except we wanted to hear it doing what it did as we rested our anonymous bodies across it like gifts,

offerings,

[refrain]

I'm moving forward toward my myth

Variety Show/Comeback

The first act
was a juggler
Parker laughed, chocked, and collapsed

And now,
What's new
How is the world
treating you
You haven't changed a bit
You are
lovely as ever, I
must admit
What's new

Being Indefinite/Absolute Being

'And then I'm slowly softly seized by an absurd nostalgia for some future, impossible exile'
Try to call on it without using its name, such as when you became a dancer

(Even) Kings Give Breathless Speeches

Running, he cannot keep pace with the ponytailed girls who whiz past him on the bank of the nervous river, but that does not bother him, he's in it to be exceeded

My new sublime tonight, is you, accepting yourself, he rehearses a conversation no one is equipped to have between him and his confession

It's as if there are sensors in the word sublime, and in the feeling, the hot blue mend of it, that guarantee its limits within the unlimited paths to admission I chose as-fast-as-you-can

And whatever you may be, you are not an animal, you are not a body, because these are verbal labels, vertical ones. Forged singularities. (Dear wind up bird, did someone forget to wind your Spring)The is of identity always carries the assignment of permanent condition.To keep that way, or even belong that way to the exclusion of all others. All naming presupposes the 'is' of identity, the possession. 'In a hieroglyphic language this is unnecessary and often omitted. No need to say the sun is in the sky, sun in sky suffices.' I can see it.

So you must be prepared to prove at all times that you are what you are not. Otherwise you're good at being looked at, rather than being seen

The sky is at the sun--seeing

high, yellow. I-am-the-black-gold-of-the-sun...affirmations that language holds us captive (in that we all know there will never be peace, pieces of air in the epic, contestants in the running not-so-fast pageant against visibility

And inevitably... 'what is this revolution about, end game, new games? There are no new games from here to eternity'

And inevitably... new songs in the old forms, old songs in the new forms, blank songs in the blank forms, I let no song go out of my heart, not one song is gone from existing because you stopped playing it

Censorship is the root of mutations. Freedom from freedom. That which can't happen will become what can and not through change or chances you are my chances are, the dice under his running, feet at a slant, 'my heart forms tiny confidential dots' in the place we stop stepping-in these make a rhythm. Sun, sun, sun, sun, sun, sun, sun, one sky with no title but to rise

Your city comprehends you, p.2

The Last Prophet

The future is not a technology of prediction; it is an invocation, a calling to; it is a temperature, a gravity, an atmosphere.

Criteria/Side-hustle

Cry-up to the sheerest place in your doubling and it'd be wise to stay there. Considering the difference between staying and remaining (semantically then physically), switch aphorisms with me

If you have pain you have a history

If you have joy have a history

If you have a history, you have a mythos

If have that, go

--

If you have me, you have a habit, perhaps a side-hustle to support it like how I saw the by-day fuitman selling t-shirts on a card table late one night, a few posters from the cinema. I was no customer though, such a regal hush in our recognition of how preposterous it can be, how pre and post, how before, how after, how before-before, how scattered the ideas were across speechlessness and how elite that literacy must have been when you had no joy no pain no history, no knowing me, no criteria to judge your role by besides your desires and their elaborate totems in their everlasting prime. I went back the next night and bought a white t-shirt and a couple of over-ripe peaches whose nectar wept into the cotton with him

Maximum City/The Only Standard is Excellence

Displace me. But no movement until the music starts.

City Limits

We were not trying to describe concepts about the body; we were attempting to invoke the body as a concept

Songs From My Father

From a being so terrifying, yet at the same time so fragile, so prepared yet at the same time so wary, what I inherited is felt as a certain fearlessness, petrified by itself as in the relationship between arms and stride on a balance beam when walking is no longer controlled falling but suppressed flying and if you ever glance down at what your feet are doing, their private dance steps, they stop cooperating. More mildly put, I am very superstitious, I am in a stupor of my own risks/of my own cautionrituals, I scoff unconditionally, love uncompromisingly, I will stop at nothing, for certain(ness), but when I'm done, I'm done, more at through, even as the beam goes on––
I didn't see
Jimmy's Funeral,
Jimmy's my father
I missed
my dad's funeral
Jimmy's my dad
I didn't seize the 'was' coming
My father was Jimmy, dad,
was weeping so frankly it came like gazing had

But I had to celebrate
I had to promise fate a celebration in a promised land I didn't attend
Ceremonies, symbolic acknowledgement of birth, death, togetherness, are supposed signal comprehension of these events (while at the same time the ceremonies are bodies meta, they produce the very activities they commemorate)
I didn't want to lie, I did not understand, nor did I want to participate in the invention of an ending
Completion is my biggest fear, as a concept related to natural events
It makes more sense when you have products to sell
Which reminds me
My father was a product and he knew how to sell, people paid money to watch him pop
People paid morals to hear his soul, (eavesdroppers) (obstacle course wanna bes) (wonderful people) (heroes)

Him and me, we sat in our giant van outside the market sharing a carton of lavender berries. When I first learned the word burial I tasted those pale omens, catacresis (sounding out the flavor of then and there– , paved my arms into the crescent air of his departure and bowed forward

I had to mourn
This has to be the happiest morning he ever sent me
And tomorrow too

In the Superlative Degree of Comparison Only

(A conversation between two songs)

"His laws were a secret.

But I remember the moment at which I knew

he was going mad inside his laws."

Move three scarlet inches to the left, spark a settlement on the edge of your Western eyes

"The only secret people keep is immortality"

The only lie people tell is dying

My Greatest Joy is Everything

Tribalism is one problem that people on this planet face
It's one of the things that we have to deal with
One of the surviving survivalist myths
The same war that 'walked through Jerusalem' walked through you
It had a rhythm section, a secret interior, a point of view that didn't suppress demonstration
We can, learn how to fight and forget how to fight at the same time, in a stranger's bed
If we look at conflict as performance, and at performance as ritual, that which gives things their form(again, and again) (What if I'm on the wrong streetcar named–) If I were a war I'd be yours and you'd be losing to your own troop of half-stepping familiars (the ones who know how to raid a kitchen and leave hungry), Not because you don't know how to fight, but you don't know how to forget right

Aporia / That's Not Science/Proverbs of the Inexperienceable

" Mathematicians, shed light on such an error as this. The spirit has no voice, because where there is voice, there is body" And nothing was remarkable about that. 'The destruction of experience no longer necessitates a catastrophe,' and the humdrum life in any modern city will suffice. For today's man's average day contains virtually, it contains virtually nothing that can be translated into experience, it contains virtually... and as for those eternal moments of dumb promiscuity among strangers... Could you disappear from your own speech, could it go on without you



And finally, when they can no longer find wood for fuel, they burn the wooden ladder connecting their room to the rest of the house and are left in this happiest isolation. The impossible vanishing point at which the break in knowledge is healed and science and experience meet in parallax. It is experience that best affords us protection from surprises. It is what happens. I did not know who I was at first I knew who you were I did not know you "at" anything I did not first know you "with." You were with words, you were at words, you were in the place of words, so they were somewhere else, in the place of your speechless spirit maybe. Either way we were at home. And nothing was unremarkable about that. We sat around the ladder unaware we were on fire, we might have even been brown but what could heat prove about color, besides movement, the casual sky (made-you-look up 'soul' or scroll up), and the verb: to-be-the-sky-at-noonnight-above-a-room-with-no-room-for-ladders-is-a-lonely (infinitive)-relief

The Acoustics of a Coup v. XI

She said, 'Let them bear witness to the process by which the living transform the dead into partners in struggle,' but when we speak of the ghosts of songs, we do not mean to connote irreality. We refute time as being somewhere else, and while we are at it we refute history as a matter of generations. 'The check is not coming in, it is in.' Ghosts are the mode of life proper to the event, proper to seizing that which has seized and broken us for so long. I meant to say, we only use the word 'refute' for lack of proper darts, radicality needs to be self-authorized outside of resistance, it is a skin faster than words. Subtract, subtract.

The Acoustics of a Coup P. X

'We want to make the known world as irrational as it actually is. College told us that tragedy is the highest form of art. Sophocles, Aeschylus, what about the guy who kills his father, sleeps with his mother, then wanders the world looking for Harvard?' Nietzsche in The Birth of a Tragedy suggests that emotion interferes with thought. But to me if you are not emotional you cannot think. What cannot feel, cannot think. And so, we want to make the known world as irrational as it actually is. And what is feeling that goes unexpressed, where does it leave our intellect? The use of music must be understood in this context. Music is feeling as thought as feeling. It has psychical properties that carry intellectual and spiritual correspondences not limited by its physical properties. 'The laughter at the bottom of the world, the frown at the top.' The toppling of this dialectic into its canto jundo. So that it may function. Why should we give them more reality than they have? And why should we subject ourselves to self-satisfied tragedy that shields itself from paroxysms of glee. The Djali( gleeman(see glee club) and Griot (cryer (see there's a riot going on) are the same force within sound compelling us to move out of sense and into sentience. Enter the sweepstakes that will decide the next tragic hero and don't win. Draw, drop out of you have to, get even higher than usual just off everything you forget to think you are doing

Come Like a Messenger (round about sweetnight)

Away from what the cover calls The perverse gaze of sympathy... Buy a bike upon the business. Enact a scramble toward headlights. I am frightened by what I am willing to forget for the brightness of my will for you and for suspense and for the tender fortune of repetition and before then, remembering the benevolence against his gaze when he gave me to the carousel. I have the Polaroids to prove it, and anything else. Plastic-colt-stages, merer stages, places where the occult behaves like the everyday just to trap you, just to set you forward on the upsidedown ladder of resemblance. The repetition of it is the intelligence, you can do anything once, so spin. At least attempt to spin, at least succeed, and in succession the hidden everything panopticon returns to glance at you passing it unsympathetically passing for it, calling every passive witness a pervert is a fast way to the fountain-of-youth which has more to do with watching than indulging in water's iron curtain mirror of infinite remains. Keep a cycle upon the business. Keep a comeback spirit. Some ribbons on my wrist with balloons attached to them. Mister, you do look like a messenger when I spin, cracker jack residue on my fingers from the red white and blue I found you in, sugar rush, sugar hurry up, good enough to stand still for but not bad enough to turn into... Your message, I got it, took it to the edge of the widest circle and spread it along the perimeter until it became a rumor, even within itself there was content to recover...to strike a wheel upon the business which crosses you, which covers you, which keeps you going while it alters you, which is the cistern and which one fills it with the turnaround, turnaround, but when I turn around, you'll be gone, there's a helmet in the middle of the street so I duck vicariously, recklessly, licking the sweet nerve off your hands

'Then suddenly, the night shut like a trapdoor and a vast calm let us know we'd been sleeping'

Mindtouch

'And bury me in the grass,
on the shores of post-memory'

Blindfold Test

Did they differentiate between speech and singing/Dwell like a ghost, black angel, dwell like a ghost/If he hollers let him go/My-mother-said-to-pick-the-very-best-one-and-you-are-not-it/He spoke of rivers and reversals/Let bigots, fools, unseen persons, offer new propositions/Let a woman seek happiness everywhere except in herself/..wait..?/The weight don't make things no lighter/ you're no liar/for not accepting yourself

Tiger, Tiger Burning Bright

I think about fields (what happens in them), and fusion (to discretely eliminate the prefix 'con') replace it with re- and whichever other urges or 4/4s like floors being gypped by symmetry and, to repeat, we're all–gypsies now, everyone is searching for his tribe. And to recast, we listen with our feet too. And to listen, to really listen, you have to play, and if you really play, you're listening.We lack the proper terminology which may be good 'cause I don't want it to end or be determined. Your going is coming.. all the records are rumors and all the rumors are records, for instance, I heard they were playing jazz with their feet, and the goal was to keep the sound in the field sounding like that humiliating idea I can't even discuss (freedom, love, brotherhood).. get your hands up... she's gone, (
here I am )
she's gone.. The world is in great disorder

No Words, No-words, No words (Completion)

I wanted to explore the concept of ecstatic interruptions as a form of music. When children run up to you grinning about an emergency just around the corner, and they touch barely your bare heart with open palms and lead you into the middle of a demonstration, trapezes on their faces like feel-free, and you start to...then be suspicious. Spirals in the fist to suggest how many ages it's been since this position was lifted in the name of protest or lucky so-and-so with the gold fronts and toll-told in his showingest-gums smile. Then be the subject



And live in palaces,
if not in peace

And in peace, if not these places

The world knew it would end, escape toward home,

and that breaks are as important to joy as suspicion is to picking one, picking-one-out, and keeping it out, like Questlove or the daydress, or crowded can-I-get-a-witness-eyes. Vandals.

Some are baffled, but that one is not, that one knows me.

We're allowed to do everything but use words together. So we move into the other languages. Occupy them. And live in guesses if not in answers. One thing I am sure of: Everyday, everyday, everyday, I synced the blues.

Another thing, another encyclopedia to empty the body moving in

And the 'other' thing, the main obstacle and main ingredient, the wild color you paint the told/truth, is no longer in stock, so tell it black,tell it back, and let it go on like that, gold mouths, the closest houses, slow-motion-corners, all-out-to-show-them-to-no-words

Liquid Revolution

Red China Blues

'I remember seeing a thing on TV years ago. An Indonesian shaman was treating sick people by apparently reaching into their bodies and pulling out bloody rags which he claimed were the cause of their disease. It all took place in dim light, in smoky huts, after intense incantations. A Western team filmed him with infrared cameras and, of course, were able to show that he was performing a conjuring trick. He wasn't taking anything out of their bodies after all. So he was a fake, no? Well, maybe-- but his patients kept getting better. He was healing by context-- making a psychological space where people somehow got themselves well. The rag was just a prop. Was Miles, with a trumpet as a prop, making a place where we, in our collective imaginations, could somehow have great musical experiences?' -Eno

Tell the People of Earth to be Strong.

Rituals of the Doorway /Bride Price Ceremony

Your wife (the narrator's wife) digs in the hillside for ancient cities. Last year she slid down a mudhole and found herself standing in the tomb of a king who lived 6000 years ago. Consider yourself in this cave where she landed. It changes when the mission changes which changes when the cave itself changes which changes when you enter it which happens by way of redtones leftover from the hillside whose breach (your lady) finds herself surrounding the tomb of an ancient king who lives 6000 years from now in a darkness funded with expensive money. Civilized exclusivity. An inverse slum. Blue Monk. True clavetude. Now you know me well enough to betray me to our geomantic haven, walking-walking walk-in the shape of a number I want us to build from our secrets. Honey dripper stumbling kind of walk that won't let earth delete it. The first records were the footprints from an ongoing arrival and their first keepers were thieves who cannot draw a bible without walking backwards into the arms of a hill and sliding down into the liar's charm which is a lair fit to occupy and revere. Your new diggs, your first lady, your last muse half-stepping keep on keeping-on way you say lord sounds like lowered, get down where the word is your most through step through the meek ain't gonna inherit the war, 'cause I'll take it back to earth if I have to, and hand it right to them as if it's land everyone should want a passage of when really my job is to reveal greed, turn it to the right, and push it off history, and push history off the good book, and push the book off your wife so she can look for you in the right places without breaking time into before and after the fall, you dig

One-at-a-Time

THE MESS AGE OF THE LACKMAN (Silencing B)

Reach! Put em up. Put your hands in the air where I can't see them.

On the other hand, take your hand off me.

Then when I got shot no bitches came out, no music, nothing

But it was pure relief to fasten this unconscious sense of guilt (for being so lacked and beautiful it's unjust) to something real and immediate

One-outta-time says:

A normal man is not only far more immoral than he believes but also far more moral than he knows ("normal" here means willing, unprovoked)

I've only known you for 300 years now but in that brief span we've managed to do intimate damage because this creates jobs which give us work. Energy is the ability to do work; work is the ability to move something. Physicists chant this dysfunctional siege into manner. But where is labor then. (Where are your hands). And what is the wages for a still birth.

Next the psychoanalysts promise: There is no doubt that there is something in these people that sets itself against their recovery, and its approach is dreaded as though it were a danger. I think here recovery means assimilation and dread means resistance and danger means freedom and these-people-who-are-darker-than-blue, mean, everything

Make he good, like he say Make he say, like he good, like he God
hanging onto the sky with no hands

Mingling/Company Blues

Words in the end aspire toward speechlessness and

No– I will not give up nothingness, from the cruel one's feet to the shy one's heart to the utter forgetfulness of motion, fastened like fast sin where rejoice quickens when anguish quickens

We start to get his measure
We start to take his breath
We slow down or speed up to meet it

Let it inflate our memories
without testimony

I don't wanna take alotta time cause I wanna get into Hell,
(which is the next tune)

And also, cause it's a lie
A troubling excess of necessity
Get yourself together
Everyone is a gypsy now
Everyone is searching for his tribe
The error flees before the chaste nymph's eyes
I think I'll leave it at that, cause I wanna get in

Silly Inquistion

So you ask the computer, is this a beautiful composition

And she says, It's a very good quest, a quaint coincidence, but I have a plantation to run

(It's more like you're an eclectic copycat)

Everything under your fingers is strings. Everything under your feet is strings

Everything you're fleeing, you're feeling, based either on the tides or a cybernetic serendipity limiting your wilderness what turns up beneath the harvest forcing you to need it, or nothing

The ultimatum that didn't begin with the word 'if' didn't exist until... 'you heard the tune, now you gotta pay the piper,' and he had a machine gun, and he was shooting at the score, and so there'd be bullet holes, and he'd reduce the score from its wounds, and that's what people would play, (they'd play the revenue). Fine, isn't this a beautiful composition and she says, I wasn't listening, but don't panic, that means yes, I hear you. Wit is ruining your subconscious, turning you into yourself. And as for the problem of choosing between your memories and your dreams. Nostalgia is the opposite of love. And as for the solution to the problem. I was told that I should want a husband. What I want is for this legend that haunts me with proof, for all of its strings to loosen and contract in unison like facts do. And he says nothing, pulls my hair into a shrug, and then I do

'It's a guide to our 'destruction' discipline

There are times when the white critic must sit down and listen. If he cannot listen he must not concern himself with black creativity. I dreamed of a prince who would come and save me from being white . I mean from being black . I became immortal. It's been at least 250 years. I am very proud. They call me "fresh" and "different." "A brown-skinned looker" I wanted to thank them, but they committed suicide to the sound of their own voices before I made it to the auditorium. I made it though. And the craze continues. For reasons too private to expose to critics. I want to say that it is a black thing, or a white thing, but it's more a matter of privacy fetish than affiliation. But if you can stop the craze in its tracks maybe the explanation won't be necessary. Nor that kind of disrespect, disguised as praise, dismissed as praise. Discovered as praise. Until you catch it praying. Until you get caught praying to a complete stranger. I'm moving forward toward my myth

'It's a guide to our destruction'

Factions of the Interlude

I practice most when I'm loaded/ I'm gonna get that nectar, and I'm gonna leave– some inventory for next time / Shoulder fruit, 8 rings minus the suffering/
Can you tell me what they said to my father that made him go numb, go to church, obey the draft whispered onto his torment, and what they'll say to you/ You'll be pulled away from your post of surveillance on that day/ It's not the protection from death we ever need, we rotate, we prefer to be safe from your forms

Access Denied

'Q: blogs and SMS?
A: in a way, behind this young thinking similar
to an earthworm, one thing matters to all
these passionate Phoenixes: to survive and
find in the depths of chaos a chance
to resurrect (cf. Prigogine).'

Township Sounds (Plan Nine from Innerspace)

This ship's cargo is a portable proletariat
Decoy, decoy, decoy, oh critical decoy resist your visibility until it shows your resistance
Go undercover as a newcomer Vigil vigil– dilettante 'til then
Observe the tramps as attentively as the millionaires as attentively as the Caliban, the second largest retrograde of doubt is participation, or at least this is the claim made by the men in cargo



Hollywood really was experimenting with the concept of shipwrecked aliens as Los Angeles' next ethnic minority, someone to blame for the famous noises that let us quit our jobs and raid our own dilemmas for fantastic ruins to invest with the legends of place-spirits and then erase using the space between the legends and the places, suggesting that space is doubt or that patience is conspiracy and that to migrate is to disappear. And even if this is all true, I would remain here, and here, (and here), waiting, Hallelujahing outside of some dine-and-dice emporium so you think you see me



Glory is a rare outcome of greed is a rare outcome of glory. But what about the soil. What about my feet on its biased surface resembles flying, out of the buildings, a distinct and different melody out of each one like they were autonomous speakers talking me out of them, and I was convinced



convinced, Etymology: Latin convincere to refute, convict, prove, from com- + vincere to conquer — more at victor