Prison of the mind
Detention of the soul
Welfare torture static
No more rock 'n roll

Redneck washout nazi
Ghetto homeless stars
Debilitating pathos
No more oil for the cars

Less said is best stated
One nod or shrug a time
Survival has become
Less rhythmic than divine

When the last vote is counted
After the last soldier is dead
When the final baby
Has been dropped upon his head

I will be sitting there
Watching judging scoring
Hoping your holy afterlife
Lets you stop this whoring


blog me
blog you
like i care what you think
like i care if you care what i think

blog this

today i woke up
had a terrible pain in the neck and upper back
took a shower
washed my ass

drove to work
slept on the floor for most of the day
back still hurts
(but ass is sparkling clean)

getting ready to go back home
eat dinner and dim my pain
on cocktails of man made pleasures
and suffer through televised belittlement

like you care
like i care
like insanity of humanity
we can take comfort in safe doses
the pain is pretty bad
the fear is even worse
and the consequences are dire


sometimes you might need to detox
it could help you with your rhyme-flow and your beatbox.



Fuck hip-hop.

Wear a belt!

- Banksy, U.K.


It was decided at a very young age that an artist I was to be. Clearly, that was the direction to head. Clearly, it was intuited that creating overshadowed consuming.

This so-called dabbling has taken me to many places and on many journeys that I probably never would have embarked, nor expected. Or survived. I’ve been to the bowels of middle spaces.

All the experimenting. The tests. Litmus. Educating. The building of infrastructure. Future gifting. All for what? For self or for humanity?

Through many slogans, logos and campaigns, I return to where it all started. Fate intervening, as usual, generally for the betterment. Will imposed by force or by subconscious processing. But, I have indeed returned to the beginning; full circle.

The mind as the finest art. The heart as the barometer. Souls bartered for returns to glory’s past. Fuck or be fucked. Naked, alone, and afraid.

Belief that whatever you’ve wanted, you could have. All of it. You just have to have the want enough. You just have to transform desire into necessity. Forced, by will of mind and psychological jiu-jitsu.

And, when it hits, it hits hard, man. Blocking taste, rest, and erotic desires. We are the junkies. We are the powerless. We are all so fully empty.


Hacky sack is just as queer as can be.

You don't pick up chicks kicking the 'ole footbag around.

What the fuck is wrong with people?

Rove = Over [move over Rover and let Jimi take over]