Beatniks Bumtrips Bullshit

An auto dictated poem from the plaza in Marrakesh Morocco. Neon orange hype, MarrakeshBy Jedidiah Cats laying on motorbikes,cats growing out of small holes in the ground.The look of a puddlecome in for the food,this weekend over concrete.The open spacewhere it all can happen.A woman who’s become small in her ageso much so that she almost fitsin one silk scarf.Walks by the puddle.You’re as fast as the setting,the sun comes on the puddle.A land where…Little French bars,throw plastic cobras…and middle aged Moroccan men,Kick cobras.Could try to put them around your shoulder.Oh, moves with a rattle its hot.And a banjo.Excuse me, sir.Excuse me, sir.Try this juice.Excuse me, miss.Excuse me, miss.May I try your braces?May I try your braces?My food, my face, to my teeth.Like things, guys,can I gain their wrists,and banging their sands,banging, banging, banging, banging, banging.Yo, got money.Get it.That’s it.Oh, I can do this, son.Be welcome.Welcome to the zone.Be welcome.Pull it down under a mosque.Pull it down.In a camel caravan.This is the land of…dudes casually dressing like wizards.Motors, scooters, and…mopeds driven on cobblestone,where a guy can wear a leather jacketand play a banjo.And all in the coins.Colling the coins.Colling the coins.Believe the hype, Marrakesh.Give it to a monkey.The first belly dancers have seenin all of Morocco,fully burkered,all the way deep.Where men…I was reminded,‘cause I was just checked out,as I’m making my wayto the sunset palmsunder the mosque.Oh, yeah.Getting stung.With a head rattling head.Bring it in deep.Bring it in deep.Oh, my God, nice.What a place.Excuse me.Give it up.Excuse me.Give it up.Give it up, blood, the trash.Give it up, like trash.In a corner by the rubble.That somehow gets cleaned.Between 3:00 a.m. and 9:00.Take a walk into the dusk.Feel the song.Be present on the mosque.Like a blown out speaker.that everybody uses.Singing God,sounds better, distorted.Green carriages.The prance of a horse.Oh, construction site.Oh, little motorcycles…Oh, World War II, fighter helmets as motorcycle, gear.Oh, families walking away from the marketwith cool, new leather bags.Oh, my first red hot chili pepper shirt.enters the market.Oh, it comes in galloping eucalyptus.Oh, it comes in vortex of piss smell.Oh, it comes in…star shape…boomerang.Fresh words.Uh, new T shirt.What do you want?What do you want?We got it.We got it.Wow, this snake charmer boy got bit.And the oldest snack driveris rubbing his ear with Kleenex.Seems like it’ll be all right,but everybody’s just kind of looking at him.And touching his ear.

A road poem on the drive from Fez to Marrakesh Morocco. Zagora (a creature with tentacles comein out of its face. It lives in a spiral shell and was the dominant form of life on earth.)By Jedidiah Tour guided road trip in a Mercedes van 360 panorama view 360 fossil shellThe point in a spiral it becomes something else Like the dominant form of life on earth 360 million years agoWe are related to creatures with octopus facesTwo young boys in sweat suits get in a slap, fight past white lines on the highwayTheir friends watch the roadside barriers above the Cliff and the gorge I get a local mineral fossil rock collection in a display case with green tape a piece of glass with French classifications Give me some more mountains 100 km large.And a glimpse of feminist demos from a Lisa Simpson sticker on a road side barrier at the summit Lower and closer to the desert a gathering of the whole town is a funeral but a gathering of several ladies on the hwy in a huddle dressed in bundles all the way to rock pink soft cheeks …

Lessons in Desert power from the locals at The Sahara desert in Morocco. BBB North Africa tour with Jedi and Mr Blue

“Soft Clear Faces Appear In the Condensation” By Sean Twohig Read by Jedidiah while walking through 1000 year-old camel caravan trading outpost in Morocco. Beatnix, palm trips, bullshit.¥¥¥$$$€€€https://youtube.com/@menindorf?si=qvyxmo6FnwRCbtZY….penetrable, correct suggestion is rare. Slip through, like ions through the upner atmosphere, down to Texas, on a wild night, purples and pinks, rough rider in the bottom. Get long or get limp, this one lost interest, like the stock market. Bitcoin Bullrush is all CIA salami, kind of wiggly, yellow plastic package is a good clue. It's the fake stuff. Crash a car truck. Surprisingly muted. He only stayed for two hours, not into your gaming setup. Once the insults start flying, two direct, obviously aliens would be of a spiritual nature, impregnating nice human ladies for an authentic romp on our planet, make away from the highest experience, highway robbers of the stars, start in denial. They want to be pushed. I never understood that, but they say celibacy is the final frontier.…

Hard core beat poetry recorded durning the Jupiter Neptune Moon ailments with Sean Twohig and Jedidiah Jackson Quotes from the episode 1. Growth Is Mineral Motion 2. Experience Is Living Distortion 3. Scroll Fodder, Scraped from a Search 4. It’s a Frequency Deliverer 5. We Want a Bore Into Your Unique Consciousness 6. Re-Envision the Ecosystem 7. Why Am I Going Back to This Dream? 8. The Earth Is a Powerful Place 9. We’re in an Electric Bubble 10. Everything Rushed Until It’s Gone 11. Fridge Hum, All Stars 12. The Scene Wants to Hear You 13. Physical Ways to Embody the Metaphysical 14. The Poem Begins to Breathe

Vortex Eyes By Jedidiah Jackson ^Part of the North Africa Tour *Read in Berlin ….A self self reinforcing convergenceForces joining forcesand reinforce their whirling by whirling the easiest wayAn agreementFlocks turning togetherFier spiraling upwardWater forming Eddie’s planets, looping breath, synchronizing in crowds drum, pulling bodies into shared timeShared timeShared timeBy the way, are we all in shared time? and what do we share time with? like a gentle mountain brain surrounding phase in the rush of the river, the sun sitting behind the trash fires and the big whooping primordial, structured birds flying through the distant hill top trash fire smoke, the locals holding hands taking selfies three woman in cloaks alohaing shinning bright silk black “same same” of the cloaks on their bodies a blend out disappearing act reappearing as the shoes an accent the socks around the ankle a white skin lizard deep throating the shin it’s the rim of a high hat shine the smiles of three girlfriends taking selfies the ((say it clear said a pose holding the cloak tight the relation is made dramatic by the burka covering bodie so the accents of shoes and face and where the fabric is held tight become deeper rhythm like sub base of a triangle that brought Euclid to his fame pyramid power is balance and focus the selfie pose brought Dark side of moon right here where we are all with the sun set in front of the town fountain the women taking selfies hot canthey make a burka?pretty hotRhythm is fucking time bodies rhythm curves accentuate by fabric pull tighter eyeliner terminal point the eye can be a black hole contact there is no going back from the edge of a whirlpool at midnight silk as smooth as the part of the leg that the silk slit is opening tennis shoes with white socks in front of the other foot heels up hip to the side shoulders back cheeks pink satellite dishes hello social information , bright smile, photton white, emitterMono color claw on paw glistening pause the silk tighter she could make a burger melt cheese sesame seed open open with tugs and releases the way women make sweaters and ski gear sexyCatch and releaseA floating caveLips on a cobra snake, the hoof of a camelAll the way up a legIs right now when squattingOpening the hipsa vortex is coherence made visible.

I hit the X A poem by Sean Twohig Read by Jedidiah walking through Hyde Park in London. https://youtube.com/@menindorf?si=G2r39T-O22WIkKa2. Check out Sean’s 42 albums “…. Connected by the abdomenDriven by the empty achievement Of the digital ageWho cares what Bitcoin is worth now The UI of the covenantI promise to put it together after I am broken To mimic HumaWriting poems for God before anyone Forgotten publications When 42 translations is the ultimate recognition of authoritative trophyTropic of an 8-bit RPG These women have been met by men But they abandoned their post And wait for us to wait I haven't had sex for three yearsHolding a squirtBarking in the distanceLike a disturbanceIn the field of peaceQuatrain goes octo Amazed how much the AI knowsBut don't pullPredictive movements in the art of life Correct the amok collapse Lifted onto two legs Deep salt crystals falling through the ocean Greenland melts as it's wanted For it is a rare earth we are upon Tick pick prison will come after this jaunt Groomed lovely like a resonance field A long habitat restoration Is in order Nettles rise from the earth by this metal and plastic fencing surrounding the elder berryThis is where I once stomped a cockroach Only to discover his spiritual twin a few blocks away in the Safeway parking lot and bring him through weeks of adventure and down to mayher Baba's tree Burned and remerged like a thousand children Spun out like laundry It must be done by now 53 seconds on the timer Digit down to this I hit the X”

Half Lord of fishes is marvelous poem full of sensation and celebration. It was auto dictated on a wave of yoga music fier literature during my luxury Sunday morning . It investigates and celebrates literary merit as a guide to the human experience. My mind was on fire and I wanted to chat about literary merit and delusions and see reality of feelings and colors and almost mystical mathematical overlays that can be seen in cactuses and flowers and earlobes 🤔 so while walking through Berlin in the snow, I got in touch with Sean by a creek in California. Sean had some answers. Podcast begins with this chat. ​ “What’s the point of leaving the human condition if the human condition can be felt?”​ “My feelings arrive in waves—electrical, magnetic, animal.”​ “Literature is a map you don’t know you’re using until you’re lost.”​ “Kerouac isn’t wrong—he’s just bouncing.”​ “I’ve been arguing in my head for twelve hours and it led me here.”​ “Karma rolls forward whether you steer or not.”​ “This poem is happening faster than I can understand it.”​ “You learn wisdom by watching consequences unfold.”​ “The vortex only works if you keep walking.”​ “The pinball machine feels real until you see the glass.”

it begins and ends with literary merit,like literary merit of beat poems,or notes on dance scenes,or chunks of the subterraneans,the way that a person can express their insides and their observations with the real scene,and then what is actually happening is a way that a person can co-evolve with the frequencies around themso that they are accelerating a supercharged transcendence of their own life.Like, if reincarnation is real and you started as a bugand you’ve made your way all the way up through the fish and the plants and the animals,and now you’ve made it to human consciousness,or if that’s all bullshit,and consciousness really is just a phenomenon of being an evolution from stardust on the planetand has come from dust and animals,and now you are this animal,and you’re conscious in the universe.If all of this can be accelerated through literary merit of seeing what is,and I will call this a data stream, of seeing what is,and it’s compiled in a data stream,and I will picture it like a laser or a Donny Darko heat wave.I will picture it as something coming into the chest,and it will picture the narrator as the character,and they’re narrating their existence,and the data stream is coming into their chest,and they can interact with it,and the frequency,the way that they’re messing or fucking with the nodes,and the way that they’re perceiving what is around them,and their choices,and how they upgrade the scene,is how they’re going to accelerate their personal growth,because they can grow a little bit shorthand and that could be evil.You’d have a little bit of growth with the easy choice,but it’s gonna knock you down further.I don’t even know if you’d have growth.You’d have like some sort of progress,you had games.But the games are short-lived.The long games,the games that will take you further and longerare the sustainable ones.These ones are not what is called evil.These are the good ones.And the good ones come from this perceived, knowing and connection with all that is aroundbecause all is influencing and affecting each other in the data stream happening.So the narrator, the character, is taking the data stream within their chest,and they are seeing the nodes that they can connect and know and feel,and how it will be affected onward.And this then becomes the super loverthat is making love in, uh, like, uh, with everything that’s going on,is making love with the fucking earth.And the conversation gets to this pointwhen Sean lets me know that plastic funnels feel rigid,that they miss being the bubbling ooze of petrol oil.In the center of the earth,and now that they’re converted into rigid plastic,and he has moved his consciousness into these plastics.It is possible to not be human.It is possible to be an object, if only for an instant,but in that instant of object, the object doesn’t have a brain,so it’s just going to feel no time,and that time of no time will be forever.But this is the point when the conversation gets crushed into a snowflake,when it becomes something easy, a point of connection.:.

Ian is preparing for a urine fast…

Beatnik poetry from the Santa Cruz mountains to Berlin This is a chat with Jedidiah and Sean. They bullshit about vortexes,future jazz improvisation, states of love, sucking cool through a straw, ecstatic singing , and poetry. They say things like: ​ “Everything that is resolving is doing it in the most energetic, efficient way, and it ends up being beautiful.”​ “My whole idea of beauty was just changed last night.”​ “The whole thing is made up of beauty because it’s just conserving energy.”​ “To be an artist is to interact with the mystery.”​ “The mystery likes efficiency. It likes things to not have waste.”​ “But the mystery is also not in a rush.”​ “The infinite exists within it, and it wants to explore the outreaches of inefficiency.”​ “That crystal state is not the end state — it’s a long hold.”​ “Even diamond is still going to break down.”​ “Crystals never stop moving.”​ “If you’re holding a corpse, it’s fucking oscillating.”

Berlin while the snow melts On a bike ride across the abandoned airport I meet a cool jazz saxophone player

Field-recorded travel poetry from Fez, Morocco—Sufi mysticism, drum processions, alleyway soundscapes, stray cats, donkeys, markets, and spiritual misdirection. A long-form spoken-word epic about leaning into the mystery, finding rhythm in chaos, and listening for music where it already exists. Poetry, travel diary, sonic ethnography, ecstatic drift. • “To be Sufi is to embrace the mystery and study the patterns around the mystery.” • “Once you feel it, you are it. Then you enter.” • “Everyone is a musician. Like they can all hear each other and play their own melody that does not interfere with the song of Fez.” • “I am in Fez, a city with no cars for a thousand years.” • “The city was made from the rhythms of the crowded people… and the rhythms had gotten into the walls.” • “The chants are coming from the barbecue boys and their cell phones.” • “No one fucks with the kittens.” • “This is a vortex.” • “Music is emergent, elegant.” • “Drums by donkey hoof on thousand-year-old streets that never had cars.”

Beatnik North Africa tour : part 3 Finding vortexes in Fez MoroccoThis is of a poetic tour through North Africa . In this episode we begin to discover vortex around the city.

A low-hype BBB transmission drifting through magnesium fatigue, orbit, repetition, and consciousness. We circle comets, gravity, art, and aura—how whirling creates life, how repetition opens dimensions. Degas and Toulouse-Lautrec appear as proof that art distills experience and carries it forward. Poetry interrupts as fuel: Berlin walks, UFOs, karma, beauty, danger, and a cliffhanger word we weren’t supposed to know yet—hyperbolic.⸻QUOTES FROM THE POD“It’s the whirling that allows everything good on the planet to happen.”“One of the features of being insane is doing the same thing over and over—but that might also be how you get to another dimension.”“Consciousness is layered. The lower levels run so we don’t have to think about them.”“If you think of it just as a rock, it’s even trippier.”“Art is about distilling—making something so clear it can be passed on.”“Hold the line from your pit to the picture, then pass it to the next person.”“This poem is a cup of coffee.”“A rock whizzing so fast it can’t be swayed by a star.”

Beatnik poetry “I lick the circuit and complete me” By Jedidiah Jackson I lick the Circuit and Complete me is a Beat-style spoken poem recorded in motion — a live transmission moving through Egypt, Paris, and Berlin. It circles fingertips, vibration, elegance, shame, eroticism, opera houses, trash fires, trans glamour, trains, breath, and bone flutes. Purple becomes a threshold where contact happens — moral, sexual, spiritual. This is a poem that listens. It vibrates. It asks: are you the drum or the stick?

BBB poetryThe millennium falcon BY Sean Twohig https://youtube.com/@menindorf?si=yMGszpJr6NrK2l6TA sprawling, beat-inflected meditation on climate grief, false intelligence, and everyday complicity—where mountains outlast denial, tea boils beside apocalypse, recorded by Sean near a stream. • On false equivalence and cosmic humility:“The equal quality of a dog and a stone, of a bug and of man.” • On climate denial and delayed consequence:“Sounds crazy, and four degrees of warming seems so far away… which is nothing in the eye of a mountain.” • On ecological violence:“Redwood, redwood, other grove, other grove. Still being systematically murdered.” • On passive resistance masquerading as action:“This year, all they do is pray in silence and write letters to the editor.” • On inherited prophecy and burdened foresight:“He told you so that three quarters of the world would be destroyed. But he meant it only in his special language.” • On moral paralysis:“Ask my son if he’d rather have ten billion dollars or stop climate change. He couldn’t decide.” • On modern contradiction:“Oh yeah, and while you’re getting too hot, let’s add more blankets.” • On collective guilt:“Not just the ones with powerful dollars, but those penniless and afraid. All are to blame.” • On domestic calm amid collapse:“Now, who’s ready for some homemade warming tea?” • On reluctant acceptance:“I admit that I am punishing myself while I choose to live like this.” • On the poem’s underlying ethic:“Never gorge on the absolute.”

BBB North Africa A fever dream 12 hour layover in Italy on the way to Morocco.

Auto dictation poem preamble to North Africa beatnik adventureBBB North Africa start in Berlin before sunrise. It's the first snow of the winter. I'm nervous. to be traveling in Africa. I'm nervous to make plane connections and across borders. I've spent a month being apprehensive about terrorist threat warnings about the state of humanity, about being stranded. I've seriously thought about what to do if someone breaks into the hotel room at night to kidnap me, I have made a vow to myself that I will never get in somebody's car if I'm being abducted that I would rather be stabbed or let a friend be shot. This now sounds ridiculous, and overblown. But before the trip, I had contacted the United States travel Bureau and entered my passport information to receive updates on North Africa safety levels was going to Morocco, threat level, medium. Honestly, I am laughing now. I'm narrating this on a blanket. I got in Fez, Morocco. It's the 11th. of December, and I had left on the 21st of November, all those ones stacked up seems important. And I want some sweeping grand poetic narrative of this entire trip for my prosperity, because it was cooler and I wanted to share, and because I think I'd become cooler by sharing, okay, one of those answers is ego terrific and not correct. And another is deep into the substrate sap and mucus that really is the potential of travel, the feeling of being shoulder to shoulder with trinkets and goblets conversations with hobos in their cities, tectonic plates, grinding and making mountains beyond the ones that I've known reflections in street windows, pyramids, covered in dust, third eye anointment with dust from a sarcophagus unbounding laughter that seems to accelerate like avalanche narrative collection like poetic journalist also travel is just cooler. If you got a notebook and a magnifying glass, it's the feeling of being a scholar. Like what Indiana Jones really be as cool if he wasn't also a professor? I don't think so. So preamble set. Seeds of fear planted, holding advice from my mystic shrink, who said feel what is happening with space and awareness. And I saw this all as a force field around me, like an aura. Or a plate. And I'm the mashed potatoes in the middle. It's just being aware of the way that the stress is incoming, how the fears feel like blackberries, splattering. the wheels on the bike, pulling up mud and splattering No time for poetry, only what's real. I was afraid to go on this trip and had been worried about it. I mystic therapist advised me to keep a wider awareness of these feelings and to experience them as I met what I was afraid of I was very well packed by not much at all. I had asked Chat GPT if I would need shoes in December in North Africa, and it had advised me, "No, you will not need shoes traveling light and minimal is the way people would do it, like an aesthetic, like a desert monk. And so I had a teal green Adidas backpack, very light, with underwear, socks, toothbrush, sunscreen, frankincense, essential oil One notebook, some pastels, and a stack of yoga moves on playing cards that I can pull out and have a flow and a necklace my girlfriend made in a ceramic Dungeon in Dragons, dice, style shape that had her glasses on one plane and the other triangles that I now saw as pyramids and my ambition was to charge this necklace inside the pyramids. On the outside of the backpack, the last thing I did in my kit was pin on a felt symbol version. It's like a piece of felt that looks like Mount Fuji, that I had gotten in Tokyo, because Mount Fuji is big and looming in Tokyo, and you can feel the way that it charges up the ground. And for us masses up Tokyo is as massive as it is, Mount Fuji is bigger because it goes underground and also into the psyche. And I felt like connecting about Fuji with the pyramids….

A beatnik journey through alien souls, angelic envy, mathematical destiny (Zipf’s Law), and the acoustic physics of poetry. Jedidiah calls in from the art studio, Sean from a redwood stream, and the dialogue spirals into universal adjustments, singing as devotion, and whether soul is simply every possibility awaiting form.Think interstellar campfire philosophy, finger-painted spirituality, and improvised biography of God played on a half-broken piano.And Jedidiah is in North Africa! The BBB will continue in December. And if you celebrate it, have a happy first contact this Thanksgiving..