An Exercise in Letting Go

Being sensitive to circumstances:

Mind is water; at a start the muttering stream

swept up in tangents between rocks, unsullied.

Coalescing back into which

there is sound... 

The babbling brook, going along, getting stronger;

jumping about with an effervescent glamour,

unimpeded.

Suggesting wisdom at every dip

as the gradient slips,

as parent rivers sing through

a million emerald hands;

Unborn.

Like an echo, the Flow is roaring silence;

Humming like the breathing stone.

Waving through river weed

and dozing blossoms.

Yes.

Do your self an act of good karma, and listen to The Gentleman Losers. Hear every track like it's the first thing ever to sway your eardrums.

Paraphrased from their site: "The Gentleman Losers' music has been called post-rock, alt-country, folktronica and ambient americana. It's been described as mesmerizing, cinematic, soothing, and ominous. There's been comparison to Vincent Gallo, Boards of Canada, Stars Of The Lid and Angelo Badalamenti, as well as Neil Young's Dead Man soundtrack and Ry Cooder's Paris, Texas. It has been called music from a land inhabited by Kerouac's characters.

It's a land of long forgotten crooners on crackly old 78s. Tapes with no name, found in a basement. A Telefunken mixer from the 1950s. Midnight recording sessions in a haunted house. The distant din of the city. The silence of the woods. Freight trains in the horizon. Abandoned towns on the edge of the desert. Fading photographs of lives past. Dead butterflies fluttering in the setting sun. A darkness approaching. An archipelago of insomnia. Memories of things to come."

Wikipedia Page of the Daaaay

Love of Fate, yo.

(satori dance)

Quite fascinating how we have no word even remotely close to sunya.

Somewhat of an Oldie

Washed Out

Deep is this sea of pain

The realm of a grand divide.

Broken, brittle bodies

tumbling, cascading

through a bubbling void,

picked clean 

of the dawn’s smudging light

by schools of ebb and flowing fish.

Still.

We shed form for oblivion,

hugging onto the wisps of whales.

Nothing is something

lost beyond the frame of thought.

Haunted lovers wail from sleeping shores,

crumbling with the lapping roars

of water-borne lions.

Surging into totems of empty sound, we sustain our spirit.

Clouds gather about a paper moon,

dimming its light, yet

vignetting its dimensions.

Modest Requests, really.

Yes, as I decompose in the ground in my Mushroom Death Suit (of Infinity), I want all to enjoy the world's finest mint- chocolate ice cream in a coffin-shaped tub at my gala of a wake.

FUCKING GENIUS HOLY SHIT