*AUDIO* ARK HIVES 1: 02/19/2014

Notice the lo-fi-ness? Yeah, it was an accident at first, but now I really like the idea of fuzzy recordings for the archives. Makes it feel older, yanno? It’s also reminiscent of Tom Waits’ lo-fi recordings of him telling stories.

So ya, here are the pieces I read for this recording:

Subconscious to the Rescue

Pile the sandbags and twirl the belts,
we’re not gonna lose our dishes to the wind
if I have anything to say about it!

Pile it all up, all that crap you never expected
you’d need to keep the mental tempest at bay.

No use questioning it at this point,
your brain sent out the SOS two days ago,
and I sincerely apologize for arriving so late.
You’d never believe the cross-country traffic.

***

Hit the Road

With fists would be too bloody,
so we picked the feet instead.

Stomping full speed ahead
with soles at our disposal,
we fully intended to swing
by the 24-hour bakery for
some half-price doughnuts
and a snifter of cider
on the house (if Freddy
decided to be kind to us).

Our plans changed, and
we began flipping pancakes
until we could find
a tangible solution.

It struck me like butter
and I scraped my elbow
on the doorway as I
hurried outside to yell

“America knows the truth
about agribusiness
and systemic starvation
of impoverished nations,
just ask the government!”

A sniper’s round whizzed
past my ear and I took
no time getting out of there,

though I lost my clothes
while going so fast,
an issue that pops up
more often than you think it should.

***

Bigfoot Carbon

It’s like I’m trying to crack
some Russian terrorist organization’s database

before the rubber ducky
explodes all over the train tracks
during the afternoon commute
away from the lovely metropolis
that affords so many people
the luxury of living 30 miles away
and commuting every day

to earn their big fat paychecks
while leaving bigfoot carbon prints

if they choose not to commute by rail.
But they can do whatever they want,
because having substantial sums of money
makes a person immune from criticism
and the need to change lifestyle.

Old Fashioned

There’s something you gotta know when it comes to filling the back of a notebook page in order to get the most usage out of the limited real estate within that binding: there will always be more notebooks out there, but none in exactly the same space and time as the one being used for that particular purpose. Plus, you don’t want to be that jerk who wastes perfectly good page space because of a stupid aesthetic hang-up of some sort. I thought we were working toward something greater, you know? Just call me old-fashioned that way, but I tend to prefer writing my thoughts down in a physical book that was bound with care (or with reckless abandon, either by a person or a machine, depending on how cheap said book is). Perhaps a part of it is my narcissism and the desire to see my handwriting form my thoughts in a way that nobody else could, rendering it wholly unique in this world. Anyone can use a kitschy font to accomplish their compositions, but the uniformity of the pixel arrangements just seems to drag on my soul in such a way where I must allow my hand to express the gunk floating around in my brain (which, in turn, was planted there by the subconscious and unconscious in a seemingly-random order, brimming with detail and novel goodness). Even using my hand to capture thoughts on a tablet with a state-of-the-art pressure-sensitive stylus has a feeling of disconnection from the unlimited facets of our universe, even if the resolution of that tablet is so well-defined that you can no longer see individual pixels. Call me old fashioned (and a broken record), but books are the bee’s knees.

As an Aside

As an aside, I currently have an open channel with the universe, and I am typing according to what I have been told to type. What follows is a sequence of true streaming through the void that we call pincushion paradise for the sake of otherwise stumpy bodies dangling and remaining like a sardine tin of vague proportions. You see, the fledgling act of vulnerability must counteract that longing, the intense, express yawning that we rifle out every day in fear of scrutiny and a velvet hat matrix squandered freely by baboon children (not actual baboon young, but human children highly resembling the aforementioned creatures).