Beatniks Bumtrips Bullshit

Luxor Temple — After SunsetI am in the Luxor temple remember the erotic currents, I felt in North AfricaBeatniks Bumtrips Egypt This is where it all happens.This is where you throw a partyand everyone vanishes at once —a soft popping sound in the dark.This is walking through the temple at Luxor.This is reaching the nipples —the divine conduit, everlasting life,mouth at the mother’s bowl.This is power.This is the fat steeple.This is the sunray turned to granite,floated up the Nile,lifted by hands,taken north,sister obelisk in Paris.Ali Ali Akbar —a call,a prayer,a yoga of the throat.Sunset in Luxor.Lights coming on along the Nile.Where do you store the most sacred objectswhen they are not in use?Dig a hole?Bury ten thousand sphinxes?Hide it in the elbow?There is a rumor —a map in the elbow of the Great Sphinx of Giza.Blueprints in stone.I am on a slab of granite,line of sphinxes running south,session to session, temple to temple.Two weeks in North Africa.When I stepped off the planemy feet tingled into the knees.Africa rose through bone.I forgot where I landed.Madagascar?Minnesota?Memphis?Memory sliding.Body exhausted.East to West.Market to canyon.Spring water rising through sand.Donkey tied with competence.A woman stronger than my fantasy.Fez corridors.Kittens everywhere.Ancient tannery air.Mall fluorescent hum.Desert women at a hidden lake.Drum circle sparks in Marrakesh.Heat in the body,stored,not spent.Arrival in Egypt.Pink halls of the old museum.Typewriter labels.Mummified crocodiles.Herons painted like early cubism.University girls by a carved slab.Black nails against gold earrings.Hand touching hieroglyph.A buzz.Energy carried forward —into artists,into a film set in a carpet shop,into the tight crawl of pyramidswhere breath thickensand strangers meet in narrow passage.Downtown Cairo —motorcycles, dust, palm shadows.Arabic typewriter on a plastic table.Coconut milk.A girl with red lips smilingthrough rules and introductions.Encounters like leaving temples —brief, luminous, unfinished.Last offering at the feet of Hatshepsut —pine resin from California,sap crystal on stone.Her terrace looks over green Nile,open sky instead of descending tomb.You rise toward her.I have not spilled the charge.I have carried it.Alertness in the eyes.Now I sit in Luxor Temple.An hour and a half on warm stone.Meditation.Stretching.Listening for the rituals layered in pillars.The body as corridor.Spirit moving through flesh.Granite as metaphor.Sunset yoga on rocks.Lights flicker on.I am part of it.Sensuality becomes awareness.Awareness becomes poetry.North Africa taught me this:be cool.Feel everything.Do not clutch.Let it rise.Let it pause.Let it go forward.Let it stop.Maybe there will be more.That is the current.

Beatniks palm trips LuxorThis may be my favorite interview in North Africa.Our tour guid is on Egyptian speed : He references Limitless.Bradley Cooper.Ultra mode.Access all knowledge.Ancient civilizations all used it —Egypt, Iraq, China, India.Before 200 years ago, it was in the markets.Noah warned the people.They thought they were gods already.Didn’t need God.Egypt before the flood.Atlantis.Then Kemet.Moses asks about the buildings.Pharaoh asks back:What are these pyramids?Sons of Noah scatter.Misraim comes to Egypt.Gold leaves with the Hebrews.Golden cow in the desert.Conspiracy energy rising in the back seat.Rothschilds.New world order.Why illegal?Because power is dangerous.Crocodiles once different.Temple at Kom Ombo.Hundreds mummified.Forms changed over generations.Animals gone.Species shifted.Could they speak to animals?With plants?With mind?Two secret words.Know the first —you understand birds.Know the second —you understand everything.Book of Thoth.Original buried near the Sphinx.Copy in the Nile.Aleister Crowley knew too much.Solomon understood the language of birds.City flying by the window.Luxor traffic.Motorcycles.Dust.He says:Stay in the shrine one hour.Lion-headed goddess.After midnight.She speaks if you listen.You want UFOs.He wants inner sight.“You cannot know everything.But you can know what is inside.”Masalama.

Narrating hieroglyphics and meditating on a mummy from the fourth dimension scene inside and out in the valley of the Kings looking for aliens found the blue cone heads and the gnarly hippo lady in SETI Mr Blue and Jedidiah Egypt Valley of the KingsSETI !!!!!Valley of the Kings — Pod in the TombBeatnix.Pump trips.Egypt.Plate empty.Let it drop.Let the body drop.Eyes closed.Air leaves the mouth by itself —unstoppable.Life force overflowing.Plant seeds like the mummies packed for afterlife.Spread them.Let them become river.Recorded in the Valley of the Kings.Starts in the tomb.Yellow so vibrant it’s almost noxious.Right side panel glowing.Still shining after thousands of years.This feels like a coat room.Take your shoes off before entering eternity.If this were a club, there’d be a girl taking coats.Charging wave on the wall.Rising.Falling.Sinusoid energy.Hieroglyphs staggered —not aligned with the chamber.Wave pattern.Finger wag.Nana.Heron wings spread.Bird like a woman wrapping around thighs.Mysticism.Interpretation.Unicorn scarab combo.Dung beetle pushing something.Not poop —the sun.Every night the beetle rolls the sun across the underworldand pushes it back into the sky at dawn.Ra in many forms.Falcon.Beetle.Bull.Held captive.Released.Phones glitching in the tomb.There is a hieroglyphic of a man streaming piss from his headPiss-head man barely invited to the party.Streaming wave landing at his feet.Curse talk.Offer to pee on me to reverse it.Soft because it’s hot.Valley heat logic.Switcheroo moment.Sentence leaves my mouth,enters his.Beauty swapping faces.Independent parts rearranging.Graffiti on walls of a tagging civilization.Can you tag a culture built on tag?Finally alone.Let’s meditate.Donkey sounds echoing from the ridge.Rock looks like it might slide.Atmosphere thickening on the cheeks.Counter-clockwise zodiac of white tiger faces.Orange-red spinning disk.Mummy seen from fourth dimension.Inside and outside at once.Layer inside layer inside layer.Top of the valley —air has to turn around up there.Heat exchange.Little vortexes.How many rulers?Fifty years.Hundred.Five hundred.Eight hundred.Continuous return to this one spot.Like the Vatican City —centuries of repetition.Seti chamber.Search for extraterrestrial intelligence named after a pharaoh.Modern satellites inspired by ancient walls.Braided cord running through generations.At groin level in one tomb.Higher in the next.Three hundred years apart.Same galactic line.Cord ending in heart.Cord ending in throat.Snake carrying heads.Lineage as light.DNA before DNA.Ropes and pulleys carved clearly.Workers moving the sarcophagus.Conveyor belt of eternity.Ultra crisp iconography.Penises drawn like fingers.Belly buttons like eyes.Snake running double-fisted through hands.Working it like a living thing.Inside the mountain:just stone.Carved out.Ankh — key to the afterworld.Given after the weighing.Stars on the ceiling.Blue and gold still alive.Hippo on the roof.Crocodile backpack.Tongue out.Switch point energy.Jackals ahead.Mummifiers.Valley politics without speeches —time stacked in layers.Power as repetition.Myth as infrastructure.Meditation at the top.Air turning.History swirling.Plate empty.Body dropped.Seed planted.

Luxor — West Bank Sunrise narration.Beatniks, bumtrips, Egypt….automatic poem Rooftop.West Bank.Land of the dead.Behind two palm fronds —still black.Then blue leaks in.Roosters like cap guns.Boat engine or generator?Everything muted, like the world is wrapped in gauze.I woke you up like a Muslim prayer tower three houses from your open windowAll the all theAlla Turn off cell phone notifications Give it to me by the east bank Sunrise Shows off the spires, staples, mausoleums, temples, itty, bitty, titties shaped mountainsDramatic poem show up last I’m in the land of the deadThat’s the West Bank#Luxor #temple Btw : I swore this painted door “time stop” #Mandela effect???

Deepness. Foam trips. Cairo. Notes from memoryCairo airport lounge with big plastic plants and purple leather glowEverything rounded — tables, lights, even the bathroomsPerforated diner seats like a 1950s futureMassive stacks of receipts, subtle yawns diffusing like tea in hot waterYou cannot buy real vibeEnergy passed through eye contact, slow and deliberatePalm trees beyond two panes of glass, Air Cairo lifting offLow ceiling like a tomb chamberRectangles and overlays, sharp geometry like hieroglyphsCrawling through granite passages on hands and kneesOuter thigh burn from pyramidsDrawing a Santa Cruz wave in mummy dustA UFO over a sarcophagusGrave robbing with your eyesHeart weighed against the featherIf it’s heavy, the crocodile eats itIf it’s light, you liftStay real or your heart gets heavyHustle and conscience in the same breathMake your heart light as a featherArabic hieroglyphics as modern art before modern artSmooth lines, bright colors, animals and dancersA thousand dancers in one tombdriver with a shrine of cash on the dashOh, it’s beautiful, he says, through dust and smogTraffic flowing as one organismWatermelon juice. Fresh bakeries. Golden coffee dispensersTrash fires glowing sideways in the sunCats under plastic chairs with more dignity than peoplePrayer rugs under palm trees while traffic roarsMotorbikes three deep with flowers and babiesHorse and carriage legal anywhereThe Nile carrying soil and trash and lightMansions rising from irrigated fieldsStreets widening from two lanes to fiveGo when it’s time to go. Don’t stop. Just flowGrilling corn brushed with feathersNicotine offered by a 16-year-old with bracesArabic typewriter decoded under streetlightsLuxury is never seeing the waiter until you need himThe ultimate hustle: I don’t need anythingCoconut milk in shot glasses poured from a giant jugVodka on plastic tables under police with machine gunsWarm yogurt spice drink smoothing the tensionNo-touch selfies under palm treesEverybody has a table. Everybody works the placeLaughter is the real wealthHustle your way into the toiletWarm water splashing from the flush mechanismHookah tips in the sinkDon’t go that way, they sayThat’s exactly the way we’re goingDesert man under a TV, lion face calmNon-city cool from elemental sandA quiet hand gesture to the hookahYeah bro, its here You are welcome

A very Special place to record the BBB Beatnix.Bum trips.Indiana Jones air.Mr. Blue crouched in blue-on-blue polka dots,dust in the seams of the slabs,massive rock narrowing into throat tunnels.“This is some Indiana Jones shit.”Wooden walkway—percussion.I start singing with it.All right, all right, all right.Cinnamon night.Choose your aura.Choose your sword.Bats in the rafters like Apex platformsSweat baptized the forehead.Pyramid power.Graffiti theology:Everything happens for a reason.Love you.Inverted hot tub of stone.White-lined chamber.Aligned to something older than Hades.Heavy emptiness.Solid vacuum.How do you make nothing weigh?Pump energy into it.E equals MC squared.A star isn’t solid.Still massive.Light shaped like papyrus.Stack it high enough,aim it right—teleport.Sarcophagus empty.Maybe it worked.Heart against feather.Pass and return.Fail and crocodile.Find your body like a video game corpse.Mask.Name above the door.Don’t get lost.Without the body—diffuse.Unbound.No ego.No edge.The body is the focusing tool.Magnifying glass for the soul.Native Americans sang their exit song.Private rehearsal for the final breath.Arrow, bear, blade—sing.Carry the self across.Belief builds the hallway.Last thought opens the door.Ten minutes in,heavy space in my bones.Unibrow humming.Do the bats leave our wayor a secret one?Maybe teleportation is realand we’re annoyed about it.Slide down granite.Thighs shaking like Half Dome.Electric lights hum now.Breeze with no fan.Dance room.Just us and our shadows.Knee twist.Elbow hinge.Stone listening.Inside a hollow geometrythat looks exactlylike you always imagined.Echo.Whoo.That’s how it’s done.

Mr Blue and Jedidiah are jamming through Cairo Talking about unsolvable Math and light speed and being hyped up from being inside the great pyramids of Giza. Horse Music ! is the clip club of horses hooves on a Cairo freeway on ramp mixing with the bells and trinkets bouncing with fringe and seat springs in a romantic decay horse carriage matching the beat of speaker distorted techno music over the Nile River No perfect system.Truth always leaking at the edges.You can measure the angle,trace the arc,solve for x—but x keeps moving.Approximation isThe heart on one side.The feather on the other.Math gets close.Closer.Closer.But never whole.Completion collapses the mystery.Perfection shuts the door.Infinity cracks it back open.Light in a vacuum—full speed.Light in matter—slowed.Light in a body—something else entirely.

We found them. We found a secret. Beatnix, bone trips, CairoGrind cosmetics on slate, vaulted offerings, mother crocodile warming her babies in her mouthA fish plays hi-hat cymbals beside its open jawSingle file through Cairo with Mr. Blue and Jedidiah The pyramid is shaped like a sunray — light is eternityTravel at light speed and you live foreverEgypt starts with a guy in a Santa Cruz shirt saying 69 if you know what I meanCairo is beautiful, says the driver, as the whole city looks like dust Mosques rising over overpasses, red plastic chairs filled for hoursThe gentle hustle that begins with I’m just trying to help youTwo crows getting sprinkler time — power animals in the medianCleopatra Hotel glowing by the fountain’s edgeOsiris cut into 42 pieces and scattered across the provincesIsis flying to gather the body back togetherAnubis the jackal mummifying the god for one more night of lifeHorus the falcon losing his eye in battle and gaining a symbol of protectionThe Eye of Horus guarding kings from magic, sickness, and envyThe sun sets here and rises again in the underworldYour heart weighed against the feather of truthMake your heart light as a featherForty-two judges for forty-two confessionsI did not steal. I did not pollute the river. I did not lie.Conscience as the scale inside your chestIf your heart is light, you are given the ankh — key of lifeImmortality as balance, AC humming for the first time this trip in the desert Another sunrise. Another judgment. Another chance to lighten the heart

Half espresso, half steamed milk in a clear shot glass — this is nus nusCome, have a nus nus with usBeatnix, bumtrips, MoroccoHair is conductive, spirals making electricity, If you move a conductive material through a coil, you make electricity — give me space, I’m powering the valleyDrum circles don’t just generate hype — they conduct it through the crowdTeenagers can twirl hats, but Berbers move the currentSit down, now stand, now stay — the rhythm has up and down timesWhen participation begins, the whole thing lifts offCampfire songs under a thousand-year mosquePerfection is the spiritual aspect of the buildingErase your identity and call it progressBlack seed and eucalyptus huffed into clarity before takeoffHalf a cube of sugar changes everythingOrange SIM card, one GPS, keep rollingHalf cube. That’s what’s up.

Beatniks, bumtrips, Casablanca — written on a train while drinking avocado juice poured from a 5 gallon jug in a alleyway ;-) Today I was holding a meteorite! “Casablanca first hits: women balancing mall bags on their heads as buses back through narrow gates.”“It’s not erotic — it’s sexual — the way he makes sandwiches with reverence and hunger watching.”“Morocco is the land of dinosaur bones, crystals, and billion-year-old space rocks you can hold in your hand.”“Electric banjo leading Berber drum circles at sunrise in Marrakesh.”“Everyone here is okay with looking at you — warmth around the eyes, a nod, a hand to the heart.”“From 1920 to 2000, Casablanca was an experiment in Muslim architecture — perfection as a doorway to the timeless.”“A hammam under the mosque: hot ocean water jets strong enough to push you under and dissolve the ego.”“Spice routes, pirate codes, Portuguese forts, and art deco decay glowing under a half moon.”“It’s a place to get lost — because perfection is the only way to live beyond yourself.”

A beat poem from Marrakesh Morocco. Yr Life’s Pyro Wherever you are be there, totally embroidered on the back of a woman’s jacket, lean over her counter and a shop in MarrakeshI think people want connection, adventure, action, flattery, arousalAnd dreams. Hopes to meet the one. The one for what ever dream you haveFaith over fear aboard is on my sideYou wanna follow me down this alley?Haggling over the price of a tissueOK what can you hold on a scooter like stacks of flapping leather or how about two babes and some smiles and then there’s also two brothers on a scooter carrying construction materials first time they go by they’re holding a window second time around a very, very large nailThink about the daydreams of the shopkeepers with a keep in their eyes behind their head, cause they’re leaning over not looking at the phone that’s in the lab and not hustling the tourist into action. It’s everlasting action.They look like they like perfumeOh man, with a bag full of pancakes between his legs on a scooter that screeches as he roll, starts it, sensitive eyebrows helmet, like an army captain and shoulders like this tooIf you’re looking into the desert, you’re sexyV reality is never as good as the pictures that’s true eating of McDonald’sIt smells like ass from all the exhaust. It’s a vortex, but it’s a smelly ass vortex. Kittens crawling out of a ancient sewer after prayer call chase it’s tail on a old building stoneOn earth as in heaven on the back of a sweatshirtShe is going so slow and careful with the soda Vandala Soda MandalaGet ready there’s no time to waste written on a pink sweatshirtTalk late Another sweat shirt Another sweatshirt on a bro, this time says holy spirit, your life’s Pyro

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.:.