Effort is energy, but not always progress
Movement is agitating, and often, we regress
Vibrations that phase in the ways the game plays
It is never obligated to bring about redress

Silence is golden, but not if we’re deaf
Listening is impossible if no tools are left
All the lies for which we prise the tympanic caul
Ripping out until the noise stops and we’re bereft

Anhedonia is not a form of peace
Falling to our death is not a release
A rictus they inflict us is not benedictus
We are naked and alone, but now without fleece

Hung by the Achilles, we’re shaved and then drained
For our lives and time, we are deceived and detained
Give up all you have is how we are trained
To support the parasitic idea they’ve ingrained

Silence is not consent
But it will not protect
When the dragons are hungry
And the pigs are erect

The parasite will never be satisfied
So it must be destroyed
Fire and steel and minds be deployed
Against the idea that meaning is to be employed.

Newly formed and lustrous
becoming a jewel from layers thrown
a broken threshold a flash
The lights in an instant are stole

both sides to the light
to be formed in the dark
to face layers and come out glowing

Destroyed in a moment
of ongoing torment
The running waters want to go not knowing

Another star blooms in tension
when the tether is cut
rising out of the horror we’re facing

the night folds around
and holds out the beauty
so we can see one last love embracing

Will the new growth be cancer
Will it nurture the body electric
Will the cocoon become a chrysalis
and we remain liquid psychometric

Non-Newtonian settled in a groove
Life not impacted enough to solidify
Dehydrate and crust over
evaporate and waiting to die

Vertebrates sell their bones
thinking change is in the air
when the time comes to make the change
Their spines are no longer there.

You’ve forgotten what you are
where you’ve been, how to live
you’ve sold the plot and cried of loss
and the soul you had to give

If god were real
and sober
and caring
She would have aborted you decades long past
your whining
your compromise
bread and circuses
That could have been something so vast

This is what we’ve become
This is our slow quietus
We gave up on looking outward
for walls and artifice

Mocked for accolades they did not request
the children of the house of Me
left on the hook for foolish ancestry
and a world that shouldn’t be

Those places no longer exist. They are miles, kilometers, light-years away. Lost to the motion that is life. Life is not static. The universe, as we currently understand it, is expanding. Our galaxy is moving with the local cluster. Our star orbits the galactic core: our planet, the star. Our bodies are forever dying and rebuilding. Once that process has reached its inevitable end, our component elements return to the motion of succoring other lives.

The limitations we place on ourselves very often manifest as our desire to anchor in a fixed point. We allow our curiosity to calcify and become brittle. This is anathema to our own growth as individuals and a species. We must become fluid. Like Water – Bruce Lee.

To struggle with this is natural. Change and the chaos it brings are very often painful. We are conditioned at our very core to oppose change once we have settled into something we identify as safe and comfortable. A cave to shelter in. A bountiful meadow.

These are traps.

Ideology is the same. Religion, political beliefs, and holding to theories that have solutions to debunk them. The data stack of knowledge we use as a foundation must be forever expanded and solidified so that we may grow higher.

In spite of all of this being true to my knowledge, we must also remain watchful. Curiosity about consequences must accompany curiosity about the new and unknown. This should not become fear. The pain of consequence is just as often a teacher as is success.

This is how to correct many ills

This is the root of my growth.

Let me know if you want the source for your own entertainment.

Digging through the junk drawer

finding shit I knew was lost

A bic lighter

random keys

to locks that have lost their relevance.

The noise on the peripheral persists

so I dig through another container

a t-shirt I do not recall

a sock with a skull

a 3D printed polygonal cat

But there are no spoons

Each container full but empty

and the clatter at the periphery persists

a dull roar from outside

reminding me that reality still exists

Earplug container, only one side

mints of a dubious flavor

keep digging

the hell of it all is I need to go out there

Where are the fucking spoons?

I find sufficient noise in the rectangle

no wires, just cacophony

the silverware will have to wait for later

reality awaits

two shoes

two socks

underwear and pants

torso covered by something hanging

at least I have a knife.

slip on the shades.

Memory is not a shelter
it is a trap for the unprepared
a hole in the row, as cavities grow
and the rictus is mistaken for smiles

a shell of a comfortable mirror
pointed back but not pointed to self
never looking ahead to the alternate paths
just falling into the concentric patterns of death

Shatter the walls of reverie
tradition and how the things were
a trap set by the lazy unconscious
and the death rattle of growing’s last breath

Memory is for reference
Now is for life
the future is chaos blooming
Stop digging and start nurturing existence

Lose the anchors
lower the stones
breath and walk free into now
create today without false resistance

Away from the scarred and broken
mending lines and pain
A confession long unspoken
of plans too long refrained

To tell the truth to myself
would shatter me away
when I look at what is left inside
there’s nothing left to say

Hatred left a wasteland
rage a scorched path
violence was the answer
but the question’s never asked

born into all the world could teach
before the mind could grow
who is it now, what can become
something I can never know

So I pay myself a visit
Across the ashes and the flame
should I peel away another scar
I’ll never be the same

The wind sighs by me
whispering secrets loved long
Memory in scent

Trees murmur to all
Hushing the children playing
Rustle fallen clothes

The clouds drifting through
They have witnessed it before
mourning comes too soon

The water ripples
sorrow given form
A drop remembers

Got new hangers up at the practice pad and I will not go back to the floor rack. Saves so much space during practice. (Also a decent view of the foot controller and the foot keyboard I use for controlling effects and playing keyboard parts with my feet)

Techniques in bass are advancing every time that I practice with my band, Indogen.

Improving should be the goal of all practicing musicians… and enjoying your art.