writings

Put on my battle clothes

Creative ideas come from outside me. If I let them through my crust, they overtake me. I begin to shake. Uncontrollable excitement. I become euphoric. My brain spins. "Yes" I say... a sacred yes. "I will be an instrument of this idea." Creativity is my master. I submit to Creativity. I am a slave to Creativity. I am fearful where Creativity takes me. Sometimes, it obliterates me. Sometimes, it takes me far away from being here. It changes what I know to be real. It reveals Me to Me. Sometimes, it takes me away for a long day. I try to keep my feet on the ground. Maybe it's OK that sometimes they detach. In these states, in an act of remembrance, I understand: I Am Music. Merely playing music, no... oh no. My Being is Vibration itself. And it dances, plays, appears and disappears. The pendulum swings fast, slow. High pitch, low pitch, consonant, dissonant.  When will Joseph come back? When he comes back, he is not the same. He is, some how, stretched like a rubber band, and he does not return to his original position. Music speaks to me in sacred revelations. I pray to devote my life to music. It is my Sacred Mission. I have enlisted in the Army of Music and I wear my battle clothes. I am happily married, thank you, to Music. I wear a platinum ring on my middle finger. I cry and ask, "Lord, how can I play more music? What do I do next?" Soon, another hijacking of my soul occurs, and I am back in a euphoric place, where my heart sings and my second chakra opens. I am grateful I see the world in Music. No, I hear the world in Music. I hear visual things, I hear emotional things, I hear conceptual things. And... I hear people. I hear stories. I hear history. I perceive their energy in my phonological loop. Thank you, Lord, for bridging my hearing to my spirit to the world. I will continue to receive Creative ideas and let them knock on the door to my soul. 

5 Greatest Recordings of All Time

1. Pharaoh Sanders - The Creator Has a Master Plan
2. George Russell - Electric Sonata for Souls Loved by Nature (1980)
3. Blind Willie Johnson - Dark Was the Night, Cold Was the Ground
4. John Coltrane - A Love Supreme
5. Blind Willie McTell - Broke Down Engine Blues

your welcome

Your Wallet

Two diseases: old age and conformity. People are Good, but you wouldn't leave your wallet on the ground. 

Black Hole

Lateral slice, deep, splitting fat layers. Intenstines and organs spilling over. Hanging on the floor. Blood. I try to gather my innards in my hands and shovel them back into my body. They overflow my hands quicker than I can catch them.

Then it turns into a black hole. A perfect circle, like an iris. It's darker than night. It's nothing. Its infinite. It's always there. It's hungry. It likes to eat everything: dreams, identity, courage, time, hope, despair, people and love. Anytime I try to fill it, the filament disappears forever. It never comes out. Its eaten everything I've given it. 

I build wooden structures around it. Sucked in. I make steel fortresses. Sucked in. I try a softer approach: warm clothes and blankets. Sucked in. I don't want anything to be near it anymore. I cannot fill it, and it cannot fill itself, but other people can fill it. Will they?

the sweet smell of cow shit

the sweet smell of cow shit. people come from the ground, the hills. i was born here. music is painted on silence. words are painted on emptiness. let consciousness do the writing. keep subtracting. rearrange. let go of plans. replace results with wandering. it'll take you to the Divine Feminine. "there's a lot of stuff that i keep inside that no one will ever know." an invitation. be soft, i will be ready when you are. turn left. ill bite. drive to the dead end sign, turn right. you'll do this again. days growing shorter. eternal reoccurance. you've been here before. willingness to take risk. turn around maybe drown. open like drying laundry blowing on the clothesline. service as the highest organizing principle of relationship. theories of existence that don't help. clean whiteboard. coca-cola breath. drunk with the locusts. a losing ballgame soothes the feels. songs for incels. 

Staying Young

I sat with the lid down on the toilet 
In Baddha Konasana with orange butterflies
Beating their wings as they flew from my sacrum
Their thoraces conducting the orchestra 
The tonic somewhere between 200 and 400 hertz

I looked forward and saw myself backwards
Through the mirror that wasn't there showing
A hypotenuse binding my legs pointing at the sky
Long like man's, long like boy's
And I cried "I don't know who I am"

When I age I grow younger
My crooked intellect accuses me of folly
As if sorrows hath not flown from stars
Can she'st bathe me in her blinking lights?
Today I am so young I must age

Where do you move when what you're moving from is yourself?
Did I trust my spirit to walk down its paths
That it may wander without becoming lost in wandering for the sake of wandering?
Had I done just that: no, that I walked one path until it no longer became a path
That I became sick and old by staying young


 

Sir Brigglesworth

My hand out the window of the Ford marchine, which to me now seems like a spaceship
The wind is so soft, as if I'm petting Sir Brigglesworth
He who has the coat of a kitten, in this his eigth cycle

I try to hold the smudges of clouds on the first overcast
But I hop from bright red candy apples, girls 
with tans in bathing suits, intoxication, the smell of suntan lotion

I try to hold them all with equanimity
A straight horizontal line
Like the overcast, sun diffusing in all directions