Posted 1 week ago

Hate Speech

Ignore Palestine, just like we ignored the Sioux, me and you.
Just like you ignored Black Elk, White Devil!

Find your red road, right now!
It’s already too late for most of you.

We are all raped…
One time, two times, I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true, me and you.

All of us, our future, our lands, our heritage.
Try to tell me, white devil, that’s not true.

We all submit to a force that is beyond us,
Evil in the sky, please Jesus, Hallelujah!

That world out there is polluted, and that’s the one that you wanted me to break through?
And it’s only as much as me or you may actually breach that holds the meaning of what is true.
In which the meanings of anything can get through, to me and to you.
We don’t live individually.
That’s just the illusion. The one which our masters rent to you. The one we must see through.

Posted 2 weeks ago

What a snort, Remy Martin, I am the man, I am the man.

What if you saw Jesus tonight?

You didn’t want to admit it, neither did Paul, but you did, you saw him, didn’t you mutherfucker?

And if you saw Jesus, doesn’t that kinda confirm that you’re insane?

Well how bout if we don’t say Jesus, how bout if we say Ganesh?

How bout we say Bhudda? Does that change it from crazy to new-age enough for ye? (yass)

Okay, so what if it was zombie-Jesus?

That would make you pretty fuckin it, right?

I know some people that could set some shit up for that bro…

We were talkin bout dressing up like Jesus, Mary and Joseph or some shit like that, and join out drink in man (fuckin cloud), late-night into Easter Sunday, can you imagine it? 

Yeah, it’s notgointa happenbrah, but fuck the cloud, man. Fuck Apple. Fuck Microsoft. Fuck greed, man. Be it white, brown, black or green…

Aint it neat, aint it dumb… doo-da-doo-da-dee



Posted 2 weeks ago

***STNANK WINE…batch #3.5 (#3 red failed)- Nov. 5th, 2013; First attempt at standard-method red. Used thawed grapes from 2012 (12 gal. bags) plus 4 gal. bags of the last harvested (frozen and thawed) plus approx. 2 gal. fresh to yield just over 5 gals. juice. Added sulphu(.025 tsp.) to fresh juice from first press, then thawed older grapes and added this juice back to must, then pressed all. Removed approx. 1 gal. for juice, strained all and added 2 tsp. bentonite in 1/2 cup boiled h2o. Yield approx. 3 gals. of wine after primary ferment (normal) CARBOY NOT FULL. 10 days in secondary, tests a weak, low alcohol wine, not a bad taste, but nothing special. Added 1/4 teas. sulpher and 1.5 teas. sorbate in 1/2 cup cool h2o, stirred 2 min. as per instructions for racking and clearing. 10 days more with stabilizer (racking?) did not clear, seems improved slightly. Bottled 2.5 gal. on 12/5/13. 2 errors; added bentonite directly to juice (not bottom), and did not fill fermenters full (neither). RESTED 1 MONTH…FRUITY, HIGH ALCOHOL, ENJOYABLE, STINKY DARK BLUSH. After one month, this wine is a party waitiin ta happen.

Posted 3 weeks ago


So if she saw what was to be, and with so many examples all around her, with her Mayan blood recalling hers and her newborn son’s place within the cycle, how could she not? If she knew he would be protected and in fact, go on to become a king among men, and perhaps even as a direct result of her departure, her reckless cliff-dive into the unknowable, then who are we to call her a coward? Who are we to call her anything other than great-grandmother? Who are we to do anything but honor her memory and learn from that memory? The facts of the memory as they stand alone. Who are we but to try and get it right in full consideration of it’s weight?

**PP** ‘what can and cannot be said’

It turns out, nothing can be said. So I am somehwere between the point where you just have to put it away and being totally free… I want to go outside and experience what has been stolen from me. But I was thinking of how this night, you have stolen the light from me. How I could reasonably go out and find it you see, the glowing essence of me, but somehow, I have renounced it to the world, all the good-george-bushes yes, you see yourself inside of me now, don’t you? Admit it. You can’t help it…Oh, now that’s some far-out shit…

Posted 3 weeks ago

Challenging (Always)

Tumblr. retarded.

Wading through the morass of snacks, what kind of shit is that?

You are distracted, without knowing how to act, you acted.

For popularity, you posted

And let the truth die,

While anime flew by,

Our wicked dreams you’ve toasted.

And what’s the sense in that? Just world-wide crap.

Picasso yes, Van Gogh no, only one was given anywhere to go (what they ‘ammered ‘im ta dee)

Does it make either the lesser? In the answers, the ? of $, the other being crazy, the answer is no.

You kids wanna fuck around, I get it.

Think you can out-fuck-around a fuck-up?

But don’t you already have 4 other formats for that?

Can’t we maintain a place, a plane, for people who want to feel it?

Why is it our house that must burn and in turn, in the afternoon, turn to shit? (because everything goes to shit in the afternoon)

Hey tumblr., welcome back to the greedy little weasel-eyed trap.

Posted 3 weeks ago

Vision returned

We met some people out there, were they people? 

They looked like people; people without lines or rings of worry, shards and rays of fear… 

Untainted and untarnished, unaltered and uninformed people.

Could that have been people?

At first, they could not speak, like a beloved infant, but only sang.

Slowly, we could hear three songs, their soul-motifs; Love, Joy and Renewal/Rebirth.

But as they learned from us our words, they didn’t linger on the teachings; this is why the seasons change. That is how the buzzard soars. Fixed.

Instead, they learned the names for names’ sake; Sky and Tree. Wet and Orange. 

They threw away the rest (quick now and staccato) and left instead a tapestry of light and sound, the shadows of emotion, with pain and anger torn…

And then they were gone. And we were forced to return to the trap. I hate it here. But I still feel their eyes everywhere, staring back at me within fallen leaves. I hear their songs now, always, an endless composition from stream’s descent. Within the dancing throats of song-bird’s hope.

Through hearing them, listening, I seek to become  parent and child.

Posted 3 weeks ago

raison d'etrê


Beauty met greed, and it was on.
Fear jumped in, just to salt the wound.
Love got dragged into it, not wanting to see any one get hurt.
Irony seized the opportunity to snatch the last doughnut.
Laughter made its appearance known, playfully slapping each of them in their folly, stooges in their…

Posted 3 weeks ago

Glimpses into the Simian Chain of Command


It was 100,000 miles of wires,
Routing traits and hate’s archival.
Perpendicular patterns,
Spec.’ing multi-dimensional flux.
An schematic for individuality…

That which made our familiars aspire,
And sadly not that chimp’s unbeknownst, cross-river rival.
We’ve traced the ore to moons of…

Posted 3 weeks ago

excerpt from the story of smiles; Herradura

But he’s right, she is beautiful, only he hasn’t seen her, has he? She’s not there, that’s what this is all about, right? She’s beautiful in a way not everyone’s going to see, but if he was truly open, for all I know…But she’s not there, she’s been gone a while now, kinda too long, and she’s actually out there doing things that will make her less beautiful over time, as she is so fond of doing. Even as that happens, even as the crutches make her not appear as beautiful, even as the fire and time rob her beauty, I see the thief’s lair. I see the sacrifice, the trade, the ritual destruction in exchange for beauty of another kind; repackaged and reformed into an alternative format, a new direction, a changed medium. She is removing her self and her impression. She’s removing her own life-force signature and potential as an offering for her work, an appeasement to the grandfather, creative fire. 

He’s right, she is beautiful in her flames, but she’d never acknowledge it. She lets me into her light so easily, so naturally as if we were siblings. She lets me see it her way for an instant, just enough, then she hides it like I do, just like you’d expect. I feel fortunate, and sad for him because he’ll never see it. He’s never seen it anywhere, from any one. He’s just trying to keep himself from being completely eclipsed behind the light of the star of the people who make relevant for him every experience he’s ever had. That’s how I know he won’t hear it either. People who can’t see it usually can’t hear it, or if they do, that’s all they hear. They like the music and the designs they’re supposed to like. If he knew anything about beauty, he would recognize what he stands to gain. He’d realize the opportunity to steal the words being shared, or at least make them his own for the time being. Instead, and this is the great tell, instead he is defined by what he stands to loose by ignorance of great conversation, real conversation without agenda. Words shared without purpose or plan. He has made that world, our world of words, off-limits, and now he can’t find his way out of the silence. Within the words, in the shared expression there is beauty. In full and focused conversation, in the exchange, there is love. He’s not going to see or hear it though, he’ll never know it. I can’t ever be sure how many do.


Posted 1 month ago

Let me show you something;

I went to visit my ancestors last night, the equal night, and while I did find them there, in their usual spot among the ice-age’s greeting party, they were scattered and restless in unusual, unexpected places.

I saw a million eyes returning me to the search. In dead leaves below, right in front of me, they curled and twisted and twitched and peeked at me. It was clear they didn’t recognize me.

Then my eyes were swept outwards and saw the ground covered in watching, the extent of my sight to wood’s horizon, all directions save the path, in and out, not back and/or the forth through time and equanimity.

In the distance there, there where their expressions are muted to undecipherable. Imperceptible.

The eye’s community becomes an anonymous crowd, like the audience at a Def Leopard concert.

So went my intentions and my foci, dragged outwards from the circle when I decided to leave my gift there, where, here?

Here or there where I wedged red wads. Offering of dreams into a seam, outlying ledge, an instant as distant as grandmother’s bones, names and remains remain unknown.

Our father’s mothers were brownish-red, it’s said, tiny, dark, and forceful with black in her eyes and hawk in her heart.

Who and what was has disappeared from us, all eyes into leaves, the outer edge of family.

It was the middle-aged oak spoke to me. He or she and both of us said, but gave no words to me. Instead, just shouted the same old examples.

Parasitic vines were anchors, yet she flew loosed with her crown, and that’s how I knew my grandmother had been there, had done her hair, and now she hid from me in leaves there, and everywhere.

Foretold frayed ends showed me what time was, was pointless when struggle returns again.

Will be, is, was, and because it points me towards truth of balance between striving and accepting, facing the inevitable any way we choose to go. 

Sing to me coyote-family. When I need you most. I am so, almost jokingly, fucking lost you see?

Come and find me, maybe escape me. Whatever there may be. Release me, turn me over to the tree. Custody.

Teach family, because I never did believe what people told me.

People surround me. I don’t love their life, and Jesus?, nice idea… No difference. You’ll have to show me.

Beyond the ones that are here, we weren’t always lost. Once upon a time, how else would we not be here now?

The problems in penance or ignorance, meaninglessness rewards the blind.

The council of cedar-stumps, resurrection within preservation of the whole of the holly. It fell, I failed.

I see it, see that it tried to tell me. I with my best-ever help, raised it, it reached me. Persistence. Every kind of owl, and every tree, every season, they’ve tried to teach me.

My fuzziest friend licks my hand, animal-blessing.

Coyotes, they see me. learning to know me. Movements in moments inched.

We’re closer every year, just not in the helping.

They don’t seek converts, they required sacrifice. They and I and them that wait, await bones. I see it now, see it the same. Not bones, but essence.

They welcome spirit, but have no use for folly, coyote-harmony.

Our otherwise ancient force never before did seek the exploiter, but this time, in the interests of balance (god), did seek give-and-take.

Spiders in a mine, over time, light removed from eyes to night, forgotten sight.

Becoming blind, remain, reside. Eternal night and liquid earth, communal stars collide. External truths within the light of human sight.

I asked for clarity and assistance towards the path. Along it on my return I became aware that the trees were dying, and the oak’s example told me that it was just a matter of time.

I followed my path to sleeping and just ahead of my dreams, I prayed for death. Three times, maybe more.

I awoke disappointed, here still, but I know the prayer will be answered.

I just hope I don’t have to see too much more as a human-being on planet earth in this time of connected disassociation. I don’t know how you all stand it. Why we go along with it.

I have chosen that type of death over denial, I have expedited the inevitable.

I know you. You alone become closer, a more comprehensible thing as time passes.

I know you from dreams, one in particular with conscience fully altered.

I saw the end there, and I have been reminded of its truth from visions. For the past twenty-five years now, maybe a little more.

I am aware that it is not the end, there isn’t one, and that has probably kept me from finding you on my own terms more than fear or concern for other’s feelings.

I know it like the ripples in the pond. It’s not necessarily forever, right? It most likely couldn’t be, could it? It depends on the pond, right?

You don’t remember it afterwards. Your own isn’t in the front of your mind once you hit that tremendous wave/wall of peacefulness.

That’s how it works, but since I haven’t been there yet, physically, you can’t  listen to me. Not really.

You can’t take me too seriously because you can’t tell. Because you can’t.

I’m only telling you that I’ve been there. I can’t show you. I can’t bring you with me. I don’t even really want to.

But I will tell you that death is not the end spiritually.

There will be an echo after you die. Those who know you and love you, or at least think of you occasionally will renew the spirit you had in life by giving it energy.

Pretty simple that part, but what happens next gets harder, wilder.

Your energy, the left-overs, will go into many, not just beings, not just humans.

The energy will go where it can, where it is wanted, where it is needed and where it is easy and natural for it to go,

Go where there is a pathway. good and bad, everyone. Everywhere.

There will be a sadness created by a  familiar pathway, created by the next entity that possesses your essence.

When you feel the bottom, you can’t explain it, that’s part of it.

When music or sunset brings you tears, swells your throat, that is the sadness left over from the spirit of our ancestors.

There is a great deal more, but that’s all I know well, and you followed me here, so I will leave it at that.

That’s enough anyway.

You learn a lot at the end. How good you are, how good I make myself seem, we won’t be satisfied, that’s why we’re together.

 I’ve seen it enough now, if you enjoy your life to death, really live it, you will go quick and relatively easy, easy forever. 

If you pine and wallow, tortured by existence, you are paying a penance.

You’ll be forced by fear, the unconscious knowledge, those around you, feeding it, fearing you.

Society of individuals  paying every minute. Pay-per-veiw lives unlived, unloved.

Warning: it’s not only the miserable that live so long, too long they cling too fiercely.

It’s also the lost to the love of life, and love will run away from you so fast that the people you leave behind will be angry and jealous of your passing…’lucky bastard!’

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