So listen with your whole body

This is about lifting the thumb from the bow. A talent for devotion goes black blooded to the over-soul and convinces us the aim is love which when we pierce it, enters us. That force of nature that always aims the hero’s heart toward trances and it’s nobody’s fault but his own. Here come Malik and them. Amos and Andy are somewhere in here too like a laugh track or a surveillance device or the clean black man in the numb Cadillac driving down the rent. The succulents grow like crazy and you wear acacia crowns around the dream of empire high yellow pirates are circling, and we get high, we about to go get lifted now like sunrise how we open the blues \ up and let the blues blood come out to show them. You chose the first flower for how it sounds and another for how it looks in the red dark of township or worship or quick car, ghettofabulous sweet double hipness--and more for how they feel under water or to the boss’ favorite son in trade, our lady of the sun trade. This pace is for her. It might as well be spring for her every hour of every day and all decoration is superfluous and invasive and makes us sluggish with safety. To escape we climb into the night like space suits but the fugitive did not recognize the fast taste of night, stompin and stompin and... Am I brave enough for this?

It's written all over your face

Immortal Technique

I notice that I've never told you how I listen to music



I gently rest my hand on the record player and my hand vibrates, sending waves through my whole body; and I listen to the electricity of the vibrations, the last substratum of reality's realm, and the world trembles inside my hands. Read therefore, my invention as pure vibration under the spell of the word and its hero, silence

Out of the night came you

Raw Sun

You're not a mystic;

                                        and I don't forgive you
 for your pretenses     and just wishin  

which are stupor dense and prove you're not a mystic and I shouldn't give you the nod or the do- rag or the play god or the true god

Do you get to the part when the flute comes in or are you too raggedy to reach him alone as he rounds the corner of this prayer like a petty thief with carparts in his arms just sprinting down Slauson gloriously parting cars

Who are you trying to reach anyway and why do you have that jones in you, you reading Leroy Jones too, and what's your real name after memory

Do you lose your mind or win your mind

at the part where the loot comes in like delusion and shines all over the purpose of you and your image hurts in the comfort of our too perfect connection, all this freedom could wreck the sun, you reckon?

--
Have you seen The Connection, that Shirley Clarke film about the four jazz men like the four elements sitting around in a hotel room before their set, waiting for their heroine-- them niggas was already so strung out when she finally arrived and they couldn't decide which one she belonged to-- and all of their music cries about this circumstance and some of it handles it with tambourines and shakers that shimmer and brisk and clean up nice but there's something awkward about it like you're supposed to be better than you are and keep the sun in your mouth/ keep the sun in your mouth/don't pout about how you're numb sometimes and lips so thick and liver and you've got a lot of nerve like you have a father, fuck what you heard, ya heard? It's a pretty realistic account, aggressively beautiful, and they all end up on stage

Deal with the Myth

The Negro Artist and the Holy Mountain by Brightmoments on Mixcloud

I can feel its rays, yes, I can feel it's race

I got friends, you got friends

There is a gift for being literal, negro literal let's call it, that transcends the great wall of trend setting and hipness through the bruises of whistleblowers and who you callin' a hoe, and fills our hearts with windows into our most symbolic longing where we can get along, we can get along, as long as you          trust in me          Sometimes we worry that truth won't be beautiful enough on its own, that its ashy knees will tremble and the bones will show and we'll get as close as radios and break if we're afraid of this gift

Beauty is What I love

Diagram of Power

Break me into pieces as words and I will come back together as deeds, as the already champions of our great scatalogical hope bespeak renditions of the way he kisses money--- a tender vulgarity he traps in his tree-lined myth like an heiress reaches out for their jewel and touches the bare order so raw raw pear sliced into being there    and there     as Ra   as  kabbalah     hollow trust    hotel lobby,   as a harem of obvious secrets admitted to the music and then snatched back through it too

People pay good money to watch us believe in ourselves, to detect that we really do, enough, even, to forget ourselves and go on doing

And their looking is like surveillance hobbling over   copy/copy    almost forgot the being watched part which is no harder than being invisible  but less bold and shiftless, they fit together  in time and eternity like bargains with the items : a lash gets traded for the backseat of a caddy, because it's the smooth heave of togetherness we've hidden soft laughing,   tugging on the hyde of our drift and then sit-in /  sit-in

/riot            keep it live     in the rhythm of vision

We begin to dominate the situation through the awe inspired by our total submission to it. Completeness is brutal or brute or trembles with use value over exchange value making a beautiful view of the plantation juke scene, I can hardly lean on the meaning before the use is happening, it's like being back with the great unlearning...  And that's alright. That's alright with me

Double Self-Portrait (1)

If your father writes you letters in fat crayola waxes and they've been kept in the mirror sill like souls, is it okay to suddenly know it. And to create the feeling of exchange without the loneliness of so-and-so, would you learn to write yourself those letters now that your father's have gone missing. You've lost them on purpose because there's something you've been meaning to tell yourself and he means it. And what part of you would these letters become to come from. Would they be more like notes, solo riots, choked up rants, stammers, trivial and crucial, what's that plan, do you only know how to be intimate. And how would they begin... Dear lucky one, dear daydreamer, I learn so much from you these days, about how to play the blues, so economical and so spare and yet so right, carefully careless. I like the way you've learned how any excuses you make are clues, that you're lying to yourself and lion to yourself, a cannibal all mellow like in the emerald green but showing up on grass, no camouflage, star spangled smoke, and how it's become so advanced that you have nothing to say at the beginnings of conversations. You choose to say nothing. Hello your quietness. Dear hero, dear rude hero, you're rude in an honorable way called who cares what we think we know about behavior. What if we decided to begin all meetings with a few moments of silence. Not too many. Just enough timelessness to remind us what's important about being there. I bet it'd be disorienting and centering like a Trane song, The Drum Thing, so satisfying it makes all else feel distant and now it's the most effective way to hide or show or so loud it can't be heard. Dear spirit guide, dear unbridled love, I've always wanted the pretty beauty and the ugly beauty to go between one another seamlessly and share the audience and the dream and the feeling of loss and completeness that gives us our memory of the dream in pieces of mirror corner that leap out at us throughout the day like slang, like a grammar we mangle to earth. Dear Candid Dolphy, dear sharer dream, dear shelter of your parent arms... save your father's words, that's what you've been meaning-- to tell yourself, don't be afraid to save them... We won't need a plot, we'll go deep enough into character we won't need a plot. You are a soldier of good fortune. You are a maverick in a world of mules. Almost everyone wants to be theatrical, and it's so thrilling to me, that you don't fake it

That's the One

Any Drum

...no not any drum, most any drum, can be used for talking and for not talking. One drum giving the pulse and one drum speaking.  One talking drum and one to the dancing. And sometimes... a second drum is repeating what the first drum is saying. And there's a muted beat and a free beat and something deluded in between to keep them needing one another, a clairvoyant child or psychic puppy rescued from being a clairvoyant child. And when I'm easy on the shield the piano is a drum too. And we all get together under a blue jungle moon and wait for the calendar to unlearn its own shallow riddles and drop 'em off in the stars like we were all single mothers with no fear of jupiter or jesus no more.  Wait, wait, wait... you mean to tell me you can be so sensitive that you go numb, become a channel, know your whole self again, all that beautiful dissonance, mystical and never typical. Why was that not in the movie

Secrets of the Ice

Good Morning, Revolution

Good Morning, Revolution: 
You are the best friend
I ever had. 
We Gonna pal around together from now on

Cannon Fodder

Happiness is what you can get

Anaphora for the lucky us

There's this one song that all the prisoners are singing at the same time, spontaneously, a moment ago, while escaping, climbing the barbed fence of dreams and license plates and the cradle won't fall but maybe shudder and disappear or become a halo or a new word that means how it looks on the outside-- sigh no more. It has all the right connotations; it's lifting the lid of an old box of tapes in the basement you thought you had lost it in the 80s and there it is in the way again, your famous brand of sanity, your greatest joy is everything, to the extent of its overlapping with nothing or Malik waiting for me cinematically in that rambling night song of his that always makes me believe he's climbing tall invisible trees-- What stands between you and that feeling?

M'encanta

Happy Jazz Retrospective on music from Uruguay by Adrian Leach - Happy Jazz Show on Mixcloud

Analog Cameras and Accessories

Later that Same Day

A Vision Against Violence Part III

Let us remember that nothing is surreal. And then remembering becomes akin to imagining and more honest as that. The warlike crackle of helicopters and the importance of green in the desert and way too casual for itself. And nothingness is too real for sure, to be honest. But I fell for it. I fell to my knees and wept for nothingness, smack in the center of the project jungle gym. It's true that a lot of so-called rappers smoke fat blunts and wear green in the desert and weeping and smackdown in the projects and way too casual for themselves and that it feels very good to be camouflaged like that in the purgatory between love and money. Fetish object, fetish object/ come see about me. It feels very real like when a flame wanders up your spine and doesn't leave a mark. I’m blind, dammit. About the captivity I ran in neither direction. I pretended to be angry at first but I wasn’t angry at all. It feels very normal like the shadow the bamboo petals make on the ceiling, a brokedown crown leaking into the sea and drowning. Or is it the sea itself that's drowning. Its safety turning up on the shore in the pact between drums and sugar-- for the new world is full of rhythm and sweetness and we are some of it, aren’t we? Any of it? As soon as you stop loving your enemy he dies of natural causes as well as justice. But there's no such thing. And aren’t we in love? Aren’t we alive again?

Afro-Prairie Reverie

Theobromine

You're Shattering All My Myths

One for the four things that are shaken

Going the the Territory

Self-Reliance

The figs become grapes while we eat them 

13 ways of being your Immortality (1)

The moment the doctrine of immortality is taught separately, man has already fallen. In the flowing of  truth, in the adoration of humility, there is no question of continuance. No inspired person ever asks this question, or condescends to its evidences. For the soul that is true to itself, the person in whom it is shed cannot wander from the present, which is infinite, to a future which would be finite. We know ourselves so very well