“Look what they eye unearthed,” leaning into the tip of my ear with the warmth and closeness of the coming waves, high tide approaching in the waning moon.
“More secrets.” I replied.
It was a question but also a statement— there was never such as this the luminescent trace of the glowing lava that was his force and might that I could not see for miles before he would even wander— first in twinkling stars and then later the wind itself and the birds, and then beneath the waves, like the quaking shake of a mighty oak anchored elsewhere and tied to the sea.
“So you know.”
I was hoping he would kill me before the next time I had to ever really know anything.
He was the subject, and the predicate
The wrong done, and the justice
She was the pride and the prejudice
But
Judas brings the law
Did you look in the box?
No, I–
[The Box Is The Box]
–No, I haven't.
Nearly three nights ago, a mysterious box arrived on the doorstep of an equally mysterious writer, who spends their time in isolation due to the often unannounced arrival of various ghosts, spirits, time travelers, and other figures by instant teleportation and other magical forms of transportation into their shabby New York apartment.
Some of ya'll got so many air wick plug ins and scentci wax melts you don't know you smell like booboo.
It's an illusion.
You leave your house,
You smell like booboo.
I promise.
Oh, God, I think I need a drink.
Are you alright?
Let me just–sit down for a second.
Of course. My God. What's wrong.
Look, i'm not supposed to say anything about this but.
What's wrong?
It's nothing, I'm just–I'm in a song.
…what?
A song!
Is that all?!
You don't understand. It's not a normal kind of song. It's–
[takes a puff of inhaler]
You wouldn't understand.
Well what's so wrong about being in a song?
Its not – a regular song–and it's not
[gasping]
finished!
I still kind of wanted to be a comedian–but I knew I wasn't funny in the way that made sense to keep going and stand up there. I was still writing comedy, but I didn't know how to take myself out of it–the truth was, I was in a lot of pain. A lot of emotional pain that was becoming physical–and I didn't know what to do about it to break the barrier of nervousness and blank slate state of feeling the audience's perceptions of me more overwhelmingly than ever feeling myself.
look at this song.
I know huh.
It's purple. Every time.
It is purple.
And what is that. Like a muted trombone?
IS THAT A TROMBONE?
Or a tuba?
No, it has to be a trombone…becasue you can hear it slide–
And that's what that sound is.
What a sneaky rabbit.
Super sneaky rabbit.
So if i can see all this, I'm almost certainly sure the motorcycles outside and the slamming doors are meant to murder me.
I'm sure that's what it is.
You ever notice how being broke in New York makes you a bad person?
Like, if you're broke, you're just automatically shitty.
I never meant to be in New York broke.
I never meant to be in New York,
But I certainly never meant to be here and be poor,
Poor in New York?
Automatically a shitty person.
Despite how you act.
You can be a rich piece of shit—
But the status is automatically
“You got dough? Oh, alright. Carry on”
That's the attitude in New York City. Crap people get by cause they got their hands on some money and the rules in New York say it doesn't really matter how you come by it,
As long as you come by it.
There's no real rules or real laws to it—
Just
“Get the money”
Well god damn.
This makes me nervous.
I'm an artist.
I've tried everything.
I didn't mean to be the automatic enemy here.
Of course not.
But New York is a terrifying place to me, now,
Cause I realized I can be a very sweet, very humble, very honest person—
And that kind of shit doesn't matter here, really. It brings you no respect to be decent.
It's about the money.
So I'm a musician— which in New York also makes me like,
Automatically not special,
And I'm trying to just be a musician, and so naturally,
I'm broke.
Like broke in half.
Like all my bills are late.
But music is my solace.
So I'm listening to music,
And I'm listening to a song that is so beautiful, that I start to cry. The first time I heard it, it made me cry
And I'm listening to it over, and it made me cry
And it's so beautiful, and God is so beautiful
And look at what God did,
So I'm crying,
And I don't even know what it is about the beauty of it that's making me cry,
But it's making me cry,
And New York hears me crying
And New York goes
“I'll give you something to cry about”
And I open my email
And there's a bill from my landlord reminding me how often I'm talked about due to my late payments—
And I'm realizing I've been here two years and I still don't have any money,
Even though I've been trying and trying
And trying
So now I'm crying for other reasons.
Thanks a lot, New York.
“I'll give you something to cry about”
So I did.
If there's anything worse than being black in a city that hates blacks—
It's being broke in a city that hates broke people.
So I haven't spent any money in awhile.
Not even on little things, or things I need.
I just stay inside, and work, and think
And try and really try
To figure out how to make money
Without having any, or spending any.
Cause you can have it, and spend it, but it's always a gamble.
Maybe all I needed was a good cry.
But now it's not for the right reasons
I'm not crying cause something is so beautiful and look at what God did
I'm crying because of what I'm sure is just the devil I'm crying for the wrong things
Not because of something that's so very beautiful
But because of something that's so very ugly
With just a wave of the hand
And the flick of each finger as it rolls into a crisp closed palm,
A flick of birds fell to the ground, bursting with caws
Below his stance, and in a flutter of feathers and wings,
The evil master, unmoved and untouched,
Untouchable in his weight and glory, simply only even mildly and barely smirks at all.
He has defeated all and still somehow, not won.
Some say it's sure to come, the thing that wants and gathers ties;
Some say surely it is yet but withered and then sure again will come
It has, five times, and barely waded,
Waking in the midsts of my pure eye,
The morning light and fog, aye?
Ye, they remembers none but our Art,
And I'm bound as sure by wing and force
Is you to dozens of masses,
And ships having sailed but one,
Which I have flourished and kept
And stocked with these, the masses
And yea having spade, and having friends
And having honor, there was none past kept and mine, sured;
And wicked may as wicked be but evil none truer thou nones't had yet pured, and muted and gathered, I have,
And woken and laid and barren and truths do'st tied,
And there have been shooken and wait,
And m faire'd and barred here, and hereforth
My duty it is to forward, forward, my shallows
For my shadow,
For my golden hour has shined and now you,
These caged shall fly,
And these thoughts shall sing,
And these hour conspired to miss my time daily,
And these things, beytraying that—
There have no times at all,
These walls in holy temples kept, swaying and cadences, and wearing, and weary,
And foreign and ayered, aye— and armored.
And he, you, does not wish to know but also has known— and does not wish to see, but he, too has blinded, and does not wish to betray, and yet has been crowned, made with guilt and also
Shattered, as it was,
And shatters, as it came, the wave o'er all us and tide sinking under, and caves and rebels and heart laid bare to surf not suffer,
Nor cap nor keeping, nor tied nor honor,
No, honor her;
No honor came and I have tied also, this tie to mine, and another, and another and another
Now forward.
Forward!
Forward!
Damn, Conan's monologues he going deep.
Yeah, I guess.
He's fine, right?
Look, you don't need this.
Just promise me.
I am sorry.
Mr Jimmy has it good, too good
Little sister doesn't have a heart.
But didn't know it
Mister music made it in the industry, too hat
Mister rager had a sip at dinner
It was all dramatic
Stars went falling
Crashing down and
All it is Ms. Martha
Is mismanagement of energy
All it is, Ms. Margret is a magnet
And it hasn't happened badly since I had a handle on it
But I still get sick of madness
And I still get sick with city sickness
Still, forget the dancer
I was sitting on the show,
In the audience
With my mother,
Oh the models,
Dozens of them
Blondes and ballet buns, the brunettes
I was just a lost cause
And I wanted it all, the tux and the bow tie
I wanted you gone so I looked at it harder
Until
It became nothing but
Clouds in the sky
You were stardust
I'm a comet
Here comes crashing,
Had to find the progress report
Then I lost it
Soggy in the sideways rain
It was days and days
Do you promise?
That's a concept?
Do you promise God will be alright,
Cause I came running
Sent them under cover
Sent the men a message
Send the man a hammer
Sitting in a hammock
No one homes the hostile
If you don't have anything nice to say
Then don't say anything at all
And certainly don't come and go
As often as you want to
It's a game of control; you know
The whites, when they still want to own you
Somehow
I'm all sub so honest, I just—wanted that
But only for a man and never bow to another woman
Even if on my honor
I found us as equals
And no one walks the earth as calmly
As someone whose never had their lights out
Or had their light put out
Or their lights turned off
Who are God now?
Who's our God, man?
Who's our God, Math.
That's heavy weight,
And if you want a biblical fate
This is Fallon,
And if you watch what you ate
You cut calories
And if you want the girl back
Give it Californian
And I'm not towrth much more
Than the project housing,
Or a handful of candy corn, Conan—
But I phone in Oscars,
Still no nuts for the rabbit,
And if you wanted the bunker back—
You can have it.
I'm all hands down in a game of poker
Heaven doesn't want it
Gotta get drunk not once, but at all the goalposts,
Gotta count one, not two, the show hosts
Too few car parts
Wicked, mazes, starfold, gazes
Wishes,
Martyred.
(But pronounced mar-tired}
V.O
I think about jay Leno a lot.
Lately, anyway.
I don't know why.
I like all the hosts.
Somebody.
Tell me why
Dillon Francis looks like JD Vance.
I think he's a clone.
Tel me why I know who JD Vance is.
They're clones.
Tell me why.
Back to the future here and now
So. Where do you want to go?
Anywhere but here.
Anywhere but here is kind of far, are you sure you're up for it?
Good one, doc
Though head of the alumni chapter of the cult-within a cult—to which each African American cast member of Saturday night live is automatically inducted into— EDDIE MURPHY refuses to participate in the group's latest and most complicated ritual.
Delivery.
Uh, I didn't order any—
Breadsticks.
What.
Breadsticks.
I didn't order any—
Just—
The delivery man hands over the breadsticks.
—take them.
Oh…Kay.
See ya.
The delivery man reaches in and shuts the door himself.
Uh…
Lol is this the one where the mysterious breadsticks are delivered without ever being ordered, and then they end up being the best breadsticks in the world, but they don't know where they came from?
Yes. I think so.
Lol
I bought a planner because so much I loved Joan Rivers, and I planned to fill it with all the places I should go— because keeping anything digital online was not only not working as far as remembering places I wanted or needed to be be, but it was dangerous, also. I was already being tracked, and I couldn't afford a new phone just yet. Eventually, but for now I was stuck to the same signal— which meant the same traces and the same trackers they had been limiting my under-the-radar mystique. As it were, somebody always knew where I was, and it was in the most unpleasant way so far—the only thing I really wandered was what made me so important anyway to begin with. I wasn't actually political in anyway, and still someone seemed to be trying to derail my life… or at least control it, neither of which was beneficial for me in the way that made sense. I wasn't having any fun, nor did I consider living indoors as payment— especially since indoors, there were also paid plants and stalkers, and now that I had begun to more meticulously document the things that were happening, it was easy to separate from delusions.
I was actually being followed— but why? Either way, having a detailed. Calendar of places I could go, the ways to get there and even alternate functions within the same grid allowed more control than just staying in my apartment a sitting duck; that's how they were hurting me. They knew where I was— all the time, and it no longer made sense to fight it and try to make music under this kind of insane irritation; the music I was making wasn't the kind I wanted anyway, and whatever war they were fighting with m stark white girls motorcycles was simply not my war. I didn't have a war, and so there wasn't a fight, and so at the very least if I were going to be fucked with, it would have to be in public; that way I had more control to steer whatever was happening in my favor and collect the energy as mine instead of lost. I wasn't an insane person— but what had been happening at my apartment was insane, and so I left it with the understanding that these people worked and operated on a level of violence and ignorance I would never be able to comprehend; they were simply tools for the devil, which in any case, was always the lesser than God.
However— because I was starting to figure out who I was, and that I had some sort of power, I knew that I was going to be attacked— because it seemed my power had at the very least not been figured out as to some kind of way to make somebody else money. I had been studying Michael Jackson and this was a key indication that the way his talent priovided a power which would be used as a service, he was very successful. His talent and training alone wouldn't have reapresented with such great reverence the ability to capture a global audience as such— but it was this power, almost as if it had been bottled up and altered, rebranded and sold and labeled with something everyone could not only love and understand, but by the hand of the media and its conglomerates, be hypnotized to worship, and this power simply put would not have been exactly what it was were it not for the eye of the media remaining in complete control of its distribution to the eyes and ears of the public. This thing which might have been the first of its kind but certainly not the last was in a sense model for modern superstardom— the live concert business had not sense much changed but built upon this super powered control of the masses by assimilation, spectacle, and of course the magic and illusion. But, and it it just so happened to perfectly brush up against my studies in esoteric knowledge that I happened to rub up against this— although nothing was of course by mere circumstance anymore, because whether or not I remained incognito was a wash, and I was being looked at by someone no matter what on the internet I did, or where I decided to go and in that sense was being fed these things, and yet with some Grace of God was allowed with it to be aligned with my own higher purpose in a way, I could observe that Michael Jackson was not in fact of course certainly just a dancer or singer or remarkable performer— he was truly a magician, and I was able to clearly recognize this language with with the energy that had used his vehicle for such a projection was speaking— not only this, I was able to clearly count out the markings and sigils and signs and symbols Michael was making in his movement; ancient arts, and magical symbols, traced so rapidly that it almost created a heat signature in a sense of the symbols that were being dictated, unknowing to the untrained eye. For the most part, I could only really assume that this is why these people were losing their minds— in his movements, Michael Jackson was literally carving ancient callings, glyphs and sigils I had so recently read about in magical studies that it was impossible not to laugh. This was in every sense of the word, ‘magic' but not in the normal way one assumes to be something unexplainable. Michael Jackson was casting spells to thousands of people at a time, in front of cameras and at high volume vibration, often times even implementing the use of light, color, and fire. These were not simple gatherings in mass for entertainment purposes— these were rituals, and in the modern day, still were or are— but I had noticed in a quick glimpse, from Michael Jackson 30 some odd years ago to Lady Gaga just having passed something like a week ago to an audience of the same size— that something was kind of wrong, now. The people had changed, and the specable had been done over and over, and the brainwashing of the masses had in a sense been almost complete— and so It wasn't some sense of confusion or unknowing the things that were happening to me in my own life and my own world— I too, was capable of these things, at that capacity, and had simply not been trained in the same sense of the ideal superstar, however— the things that were happening in my own life and in my own world were not difficult to grasp or understand— when one comes upon a power as such, it finds means to seek to control it and harness it for his own use and purposes. Perhaps it was the simple fact that in this way, in the way I get the dream had gone and the spectacle had been played out of the masses and the illusion was no longer as such— that the actual knowledge of distinct ancient wisdom that had been Michael Jackson's natural ability was distinguishable from that of Lady Gaga's training in the same formula, and that one did not equal the other, but in terms of business could equal to that as such as the masses had been manipulated to seek solace in these same things— and it was not illusion or grandiosity that I, even in my agingness, was still capable of these things; I had no doubt in my mind that I could sing and dance for two hours to audiences of hundreds of thousands— but this was not the question for the business or the media— the question was, would hundreds of thousands pay to see me, or rather— who was willing to front the means to hypnotize hundreds of people to become aware of me so that they would do such a thing. My talent and capabilities were undeniable— but my markatability might have been in question, because it was no longer simply a matter or chance or luck: the people chosen to figure such spectacle were chosen, hand selected and well trained to become media conglomerate superstars, even regardless of talent; perhaps this itself was the key indication that the world of the superstar itself had come to an end—it was no longer so much of a spectacle was worth it. Or, perhaps, because money had come between these ancient arts and symbols and languages being spoken by the superstars of old, that the magic in the literal sense had gone all the way away. The symbolism in the art had died, and so the singing and the dancing remained, but the God had gone out of it. Maybe that was the difference. The superstars of today were just the shell of the model that had been built on God, but the Godsense of it was no longer there— and so the magic no longer remained in effect, as the powers of magic that be are in all ancient arts and texts and forms attributive to The Source.
Either way, I wasn't going to continue to be a sitting duck in my apartment in Brooklyn— there were too many indications that it had all been a setup from the shelter to the day I moved in, with the motorcycles and cars and CBS studios one block away. So the real and only question was, what exactly had been played at and who exactly was pulling the strings? I might at this point become a loose cannon: my son was estranged and as far as the people were concerned, I mostly hated New York— because the refined, clean cut and classy people I liked and wanted to be around saw me as the dirt and the grime I was fighting my way through just to simply exist— in my mind, this was a world that could be no more.
I like Sara in a dress
I like Sara in a dress
I like Sara in a dress
I like Sara in a dress
I met sparrow in a cage
I like Sara in a dress
I like Sara in a dress
Keep writing
I never thought I ‘d see the day
Where i's taking lessons on Fallon
From Michael Jackson
That's ran
That's a fan
This is fame
I'm insane
I'm insane
That's a fan
Light the flame
That's a fan.
That's a fan.
I like Sara in a dress
I met sparrow in a cage
I went up the rack, set the page on fire
Nordstrom rack
And I might take it back for the cash
I like Sara in a dress
Stay repressed
Keep it dark
If you kiss don't tell
I will probably go to hell for just writing
Try it
In black ink, I got all spades, Ehy,
Spare me the ridicule, the imbecile and
I met Johnny in a cage
I like Fallon in a dress,
Obsessive, I'm dressed out
Every day I leave where I do not live
Where stalker crawl and haunt me
Just to show the motorcycles
Have desheveled my intelligence into
Nothing
And so with negligence,
I leave the core of a rotting apple
The foreign words of a doctor
And
You must call the king, says something far off
But I wonder which one
I wonder which one
I so respect her honor
That I no longer
Follow my heart or my soul
And I don't shallow
But shatter to swallow
So
I let the sparrow
Out of the cage
I bought Sara
A pair of pants
And I haunt l Patrick Kirkpatrick in patches
And haven't you read yet
You're ready for forget the pageant?
It hasn't happened yet!
I love Sara in a dress
I hate Fallon and his wife
Keep the kids out if it
Skull and crossbones
Cross my heart and
Really hope to the loveless
Or else
Someone might call my phone back
It's on silent in my coffin
Or wait—
It's on vibrate.
I'm obsessed with the way You're dressed
And the name on your checks
I guess I'm better for it
I'll skip lunch if you think that's what's best
And dinner, too
If you deserve the best
Then better have learned my lesson
No sweat
And to do,
With you,
Was then,
Dinner through next supper
All the love I had was
Rubbed into something other than
The glass I patted dry
With microfiber
With ever fiber of my being
I want to be with you
I should have just—
Died,
And then
Did, and so next
Life,
Remind me not to
Fall for it
If i really wanted to know you,
I would know you by now–
If i wanted to have you?
I would have had you already
Nobody is a dancer after Michael Jackson.
I just watched some shit that was like
“What the fuck did I just see”
The whole thing was just not right.
It was-/
I was like
First of all, it's Munich, 1997.
I never really realized how terribly the world has changed;
No cellphones, but the audience is lit,
And the crazy thing is, you can tell that this is near the turn of the century because, when the camera is panning by the audience in the people, they're not looking directly into the camera or waving at the camera— not really.
And clearly this is an all ages show, so there's children, so the interesting thing I'm finding out is that nobody's trained to look at the camera and wave and smile— except the babies on shoulders and shit. These kids— they're my age now, are the only ones that see the camera, and they look directly into the shit.
Mi still can't do that, really—
I'm theatrically trained.
Haha
If I see a camera, I try to act ‘natural'
It's the weirdest thing to look at a camera and just start to work it.
People at festivals now, the camera rolls by,
Or the drone flies in,
And they look deadass in the camera and start to work it.
Not at this show.
Munich 1997, I'm like
“Damn, a lot of things is wrong with this”
First of all, I love Michael Jackson,
I look directly at this man, and I'm in my dirty peak so I have an instant— like a sex detector thing going on
And I know people gave Michael a hard time when he was a live for being fruity and whatever
But I'm looking at this dude, and I don't see fruit at all.
I see 100% man.
I see why people were mad at him.
Cause I'm looking at this dude, 100%
All I see is carnal, primal man.
I'm like,
“Yo, I see why they was mad at him”
Because the camera kept panning to the audience
And these people are losing their minds.
They are coming out of themselves.
They are UGLY CRYING, full out of body,
Losing composure
They don't know what to do.
That's Michael Jackson.
He's right there!
And the place is huge so really besides these few hundreds of people in the front,
Michael's just a speck,
But he's working this audience like
“Yo, you know who I am, I know who is me”
And I'm realizing, that to these people
That's their god.
These girls are losing their minds m
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!l
*crying inconsolably*
Just UGLY crying
Bitch, get it together .
You all the way lost yourself
Get. It together.
She won't.
This bitch.
I can't get over this
This one girl,
They just keep going back to her
Cause the whole show—
And this is like 2 hours of pure non stop Michael Jackson,
This girl, every time you see her, she's just ugly crying—
And every time you see her
Her cry is uglier and ugly
I'm like
“Damn bitch”
“Daaaaaaang”
So this is the first thing I see that is wrong.
But there's a lot of things wrong here,
Cause there's a lot of girls like this.
There's just— hundreds of girls losing their minds, like, I've seen Beatles mania and thought that was crazy,
Shit, I've even seen some people put out that kind of energy in the modern world for some dumb DJ's—
That's their god—
But THIS
THIS Michael Jackson mania was mental illness
That was hard to watch.
That was people just
Lost control.
I'm thinking
“Like goddamn. You— what?!”
“AAagghhhhhhgahahahahahqhahahhahaha MICHAELl
“These people are sick”
But they are. And so is Michael
Fame has gone too far, 1997;
12 short years before he died, by chance—
So this is what I see,
And then Michael starts dancing,
And this—
This is what I see;
I see the only thing that can ever be what it was in that moment in time, as God being God:
Michael Jackson.
Shiny ass motherfucker,
And so I'm watching this show,
And all I see is a God being a man being a God being—
Michael Jackson—
And the whole thing is weird.
But the worst part—
Yes
The worst part
Was when, about mid show,
Michael goes to do one of his slow, lovey doves songs,
And like, this 6 foot 7 type body guard guy,
Just pops up out of nowhere,
Comes dead front and center to one of these little girls losing their minds,
Runs up on her in an instant;
You don't even have time to think—
And just SNATCHES her—
Snatches the bitch—
“Ah!”
then throws her up on stage with Michael—
And he's still singing; this is his game, this is part of the show, he knows—
But she doesn't know,
And she's just lost her mind,
She won't let go
She's hugging and kissing on the dude,
She's lost her mind,
She's ugly crying
She's on the floor,
She's kissing his hand
She's really lost her good goddamn mind—
And they pan out to the audience,
And all the girls that didn't get picked
Are like
WHY NOT MEEEEEEEREEEEE?!?
THE UGLY CRIES ARE EVEN UGLIER NOW,
They're like
“Wh—what?”
You don't know?!
“WHY NOT ME”
They're holding each other crying,
Michael's just doing his thing,
He's unphased,
He's trying to play along;
He's a professional like a motherfucker;
He's just— keeps singing
And this girl is just,
Losing it, so at this point, it's weird,
She's crazy batshit lost her mind all the way,
Won't let go of Michael, kissing his face while he's singing,
He's kind of unreceptive to it, now just looking out at the audience, almost not even looking at all
Just cold as fuck actually,
Like she's not there, kissing his face
Cold as fuck—
And then another bouncer dude—
An even bigger one in a blue suit, comes and tears her off of Michael
Cause clearly this has gone too far or whatever
And I'm thinking
“What in the fuck did I just see”
Blue suit dude just snatches,
Just—
He has to tear her off of him!
She's kicking and screaming and getting dragged off stage
Michael's just: singing.
YO.
Then they dragged her back stage.
Where did she go?!
WHO DID SHE BECOME?!
WHAT IN THE FUCK DID I JUST SEE?!?
WHAT.
1997. You can't do that shit anymore!
You cannot snatch bitches like that.
I seen.
Watch the video.
Tell me what's wrong with it.
It's disgusting.
Not the snatching,
Not the—
Like, that was weird
But the screaming and the crying and the—
Like okay, the snatching was bad—
But I'm like
…
..::
….
Now I see why they was mad.
Don't ever forget he was once—
A dark skinned little boy,
And in his genetics his whole life is still this thing
That some hate.
But people loved him; they loved him that hard—
Screaming, ugly crying hard.
I think in that moment you know someone was like “he must be stopped!”
And it seems like yesterday was a year ago
But I don't want let anybody know…
Cause everybody wants something from me now—
And I don't want to let them down.
My life is over.
New York City looks so small from the top of a skyscraper.
What are you doing.
Then again— my thoughts lately have been grandiose.
Back market, eh?
What's this for?
You need a burner.
I have three.
Here, have another.
For someone whose supposed to be entirely off grid, I'm admirably reachable.
Clever vocabulary.
Something has to be clever about me, doesn't it?
Does it?
It must be. Or else.
[both men are speaking casually over the delicate process of loading rare guns; some of which appear to be antique, and some—almost even unearthly , as if from somewhere besides our own planet.
But, you could say what planet this is at all, actually— this bunker, with no windows and no doors, is apparently hidden in a subterranean layer— the location, unknown. The men seem calm but also quite tired and weary, and seem to know each other well. We can assume they've probably been friends for years.
Sickle cell anemia.
Does that mean I'm going to die.
Animus, I quite like whatever that is, Google.
;) don't mention it.
Honestly, you might as well.
What.
I can't help you with this.
What.
I don't think there's anyone who can.
Beg your pardon.
Please, don't beg— but uh…
[the doctor pats his patient on the shoulder]
Do take care.
Gee, doc! I'll try!
You should do that.
What.
Try.
The doctor leaves seemingly in some kind of hurry, trading his lab coat for a trench coat and closing the door behind him.
The other man pauses for a second in the silence of the weird linoleum room, then ponders on the coat for a moment before walking up to the coat rack, putting on the coat, and then walking out the door himself; as he begins to shut the door, he quickly decides also to take the fedora that was sitting atop the coat rack, placing it on his head before he walks out the door himself, shutting it behind him quietly.
You got anything to eat in here?
Cereal…some rabbit food ina the drawers, there.
Oh, you have salad. That sounds nice.
No, rabbit food.
[the man presents a large bag of weird brown dry food from the crisper drawer.]
…pellets.
For the rabbits.
How do rabbits get in here?
…I don't know.
And— more importantly— where did you get rabbit food for them?
If I told you Amazon, would you believe me?
The man just winces and places the bag back into the crisper drawer.
Now listen, I um—
If you want cereal, the milk is powedred…
I don't— and that's disgusting— but listen—
[the man cocks a loaded gun and admires it intensively]
(Dismissively)
—I'm listening.
I've been meaning to tell you something.
Tell me what.
It's important.
Oh, You couldn't have used one of my four phones.
Look, it's—
You know I wasn't expecting company. Well—
You should sit down.
The man squints, beginning to listen more attentively.
…
…really.
I'm holding a loaded gun; there are at least three more within arms reach if I do sit, you know.
I know.
But I should sit?
One baby to another says,
“I'm lucky to've met you.”
Maybe you should.
Not all my bad but all my might,
And all my mind,
The fire,
The light.
…business or personal.
[beat]
Both.
{Enter The Multiverse}
What are we watching?!
Shhhhhh!
Shut up.
What is this?
Some..
Sshhh.
Shit, I don't know. Sit down.
You don't know.
SHH it just came on
Shh.
Ok.
When?
Uh…
(Nobody really seems to know how long it's been. The show just happened to come on; no one remembers how, or why— or even when—
But the show is intense as it gets;
And it just keeps getting weirder and deeper.)
{Enter The Multiverse}
I'm transfixed on your soul
And it seems I aspire
To what has transpired here,
Your unremarked and the umpire
The spider veins and the way it washes.
And watches and waves, and waters over you,
And still I seem to think you've won another,
Strum to thumb of you.
And still I wake to gather here
The odds and whats
And the twists and turns and the
Troublesome you've number some
Or stuttered, stumbled conciousness.
And withered branches
Aces lie and house of cards
And aging scoundrels—
There you are, the..:
Nevermind.
Don't belittle my ways if,
In the end my thinking may be correct
As dumbfounded as I have shifted my lottery bonds tied to none,
There ye are again who aren't I,
And never were,
And weathered now, as I, bound to
Struggle under her might,
Nothing I was, and nothing I am
And nothing I came from but to barter
Oh hard love, I only found my kings upon thrown
As cast out of another by her likeness,
Peace and pale and primed as it was,
And wanted for love,
As I was not—
And then, the gates had opened
And I, preaching withered,
Gathered my arts and my minds
And my eyes, and my thrones,
Buried my ark and though not my bones
The shallow waking peaks of pride
And there you gathered, all as huddled sheep to mine,
The cost of war, but certain therefore honored as I have,
Happened went, came and untied, shattered
Hating all I am and all my dark and all my eyes and all my brown
Because you came and went, a baby born to as nothing was but beauty and yet having been gifted such life,
Departed! Soon, I wake shattered and with none as it had began, in my time and in time there laid there none,
But fortune seeks to favor, as ye are saying brave and yet I neither beg nor make to differ,
Shall you come again in part,
And in this time as shadows, as shadows
As hating and wearing and waging,
And shattered I, I pardon,
Knowing not they seeking I,
And I having none at all but one,
As forgotten I shall came
And went
And followed this,
The time y'i call now,
And ours and ours,
And yours and yours,
And mine and mine,
Though as one are also,
Common not,
And waking yet to find,
These things making have gone into yer
Another of ours, world,
Another of our dozens,
Shines,
Another of our gathered, wit, and waking
Though true to fortune, none us have gathered
And have embarked to truth,
The waking I have come,
Another, and another, and another
Departed. And yet, I bury my words having weakened to that which is this,
Ye have no fear and lest no fortune in these words,
For having I to come and gone, since they times
In words to make this a language I or neither other
Does not speak here, and almost never,
And this yours time past,
Has come and gone
And come and gone
And come and gone again,
So long so I too have parted but not yet
Unfolded as does my nature,
As God does.
Belittle this, you waking fools,
As to this you pity though divine,
Is unlike any other
And steep remarked in gold and with chimes and words
That ye here no often or either now, or in mine speak.
Amen
…can I go now?
You are dismissed.
C'cxell Soleïl, aka DJ Ū is an American DJ + Producer, Multi-Instrumentalist, Playwright, Poet, Comedian, Novelist & Filmmaker. She is best known for her unique vocal riffs, Clever Lyricism & Philanthropically Inspired Freestyles and her flagship venture [The Festival Project.™]
[Ï A M B ī C], a freestyle studio mixtape recorded in Los Angeles, (Official Release: TBD) inspired the adaptation of a staged musical version for Broadway, and a concurrent multimedia (TV/Film) series and ongoing saga as part of The Festival Project ™ Brand.
Inspired musically by an ‘Ultra American' experience of Racially, Binary Ambiguity, and Synesthetic Exploration, her reflective melodies signature sound provides a philosophical dissection of American culture through a careful and inquisitive mastery of the English language, and emergence of world sounds through music brings about ‘A New Era in Nature', and clarifies the establishment of the newest wave in human evolution: Unity Through Music.
L E G E N D S
What if I just want to be alone in the dark
Alone in the dark
Alone in the dark
Bones Duggar was a long, handsome zombie
Bones once was a very tall man
Not great and tall, as he stands
But average,
Grand as it were, his status.
Everything's black
My heart
My pants
My home
My mind
Everything hurts
But you don't understand that
Like I can
Calm the commercial holidays for a moment
Who gets the card?
Get our your hard earned
My head hurts
Slam the door man;
You can't control thoughts
With a wombat
Murderer
Now that's a hard concept to catch
When you haven't a soul
When you haven't a card
Or a car
Or a cat
I think I'm vanilla.
I always thought of myself as a super kink
Like a freaky, freaky bitch.
So I got on this app.
This app is better then Tinder.
Yes.
But it is not for the faint of heart.
No, sir.
They have a test,
I'm like “ooh, I like tests”
So I take the test.
The test was not at all…
As I'd hoped.
First of all,
It was hard.
It was not a quiz;
It was a TEST
And I failed.
I realized
“Oh my god, I don't like any of this stuff”
I am not about that!
No!
Yuck!
Gross.
“I think I might be vanilla.”
I might be vanilla.
I want my hair pulled back like a leash
And my arms tied up
Like I'm being arrested
Without being read my rights.
— I want your hands on the back of my neck
[breathe]
Reach around to my
Mortimer's apple
Put the lights out,
Adam.
I want the lights cut off.
I want the bills piled up so the phone don't work
I want the habit back on
Don't talk to nobody
I told you, I'm coming
No, God!
That's dumb!
Show me why I'm off all alone with a rattle so bad
It's just segmented thoughts, colors and sounds I can't make with all the plugins in the kindgdom of chaos?!
I WANT KINGS,
AND KINGS WANT BLONDES—
I WANT KINGS, AND KINGS WANT BLONDES
I WANT KINGS, AND KINGS WANT BLONDES
—but the one who could love me is God,
And I guess he's not coming.
The denial turns to tears,
Not songs no more
My womb is empty
And the sun has turned into
Not what I wanted
But not my fault
We got caught in the land of
Cutting costs
And processed morsels
At 400 pounds
And that's where I found
What I thought was love
But it turns out
That it just turns up
In the whole form of a person
And that's why
I got the collar, caller
But really I'm no one's lover
So I
Do what I want
I don't hang up on God
But he don't got a body
And I need someone to love/
Fuck me
Please God
Don't turn the lights off
I'll pull the clock back
Just like foreskin,
god i want your skin
Draped over mine in a warm swath
Probably run a hot back
Cause the next stop is a closet
The line doesn't really move for the Doesn'tMatterhorn. some people are starting to doubt if it's even a ride.
Others just admire it for its eloquence as a metaphor.
Johnny! You scared me!
Aha.
Where did you go?!
Nowhere— fast!
Alright well—
Money when you know I have it
But I haven't really
Paid attention to the never ending
Digits never coming in but
Simply, there's a secret, Sonny
Someday you'll get lessons, honey.
Much to find and much to serve and
Surf us up
Piñata's bout the burst
But here comes Vesuvius
(POW)
Everyone was gone in an instant
(Vapor)
Had a good laugh that night in the pantheon;
Everything's past, and the mortals
They kept on running
But i didn't want go, God
Putting on a show then I blow up
Just like the mountain
Found her
Now I got a broke back husband (hope so)
To tell, don't ask
Don't show up if you just get lost
But I'm probably in the back with a bottle back mountain
Now you got a real horse pack. Trip
Girl keep camping
What was the map with the mask and the
Fashion?
Pass.
I put sugar on the rim of the glass
With my eyes half closed
And my ass clenched fast shut
I'm an alcoholic
Don't involve the God
I got lost in the mall with the
—-
UGHHHHHHHH!
Hello.
Uh, yes— hi.
what up.
Mirror mirror.
Uh…nothing.
You're lost?
No.
You look lost.
Oh?
Disgruntled.
I am that.
You're lost?
I'm not lost. My friend is lost. His phone is dead.
You lost each other.
Sort of.
Continuity conniption
I nipped an eclipse
And he picked his nose
For a full ass minute
Sitting at the stop sign
That's a gobstopper's worth in our time
Pull all the clocks back,
Pull the fool over,
You just got fined
It was Friday for nothing
I was in the hatchback,
Scratch that
Sour patch
Should have called Pat back
Now I'm just a
Cool 48 in the ring with a date
And the cashapp
Continuity construction
I want a husband!
Fuck that.
I want a clean cut plus one
Since I can't have
Helmet,
Elmo,
Or Hatchetman;
Tears of a Clow…no,
Wait
I lost focus
Half finished album
Got 6 tracks
But I knew it was 12 from the get go
Prob‘ly should have knocked off the showrunner;
Nah, I'm sure I had that coming
Hashtag, undon
Could have been you, too
If the cash came through
Now it's hard times
Hardwired
Sitting on a hi wire,
Little white liar, liar
Wait
I made Katey Sagal
(Fire)
Cut off her hair
(Fire)
Went to the hall of fame with the framed sunglasses
Asked for her autograf,
But she walked off
So I shot her with a bottle/ can,
But she ducked, popped back up
With the brass knuckles
Surfboard
Good for a chuckle and a fuck
So I asked for her number
All that on a Sunday at Gelson's market.
Christ, almighty
I miss Walmart,
I hit hard times.
So many places to run,
But not many places to hide
I think I want to die here
I think i want to die.
City of corruption…
Lay it out and lay it over
City of corruption…
no, it's not a choice
It's a black tie function
Right in that very moment Seth Meyers kind of became my defacto personal hero.
“Never meet your heroes”
Or perhaps it was just his writing team, or the fact that maybe even without there even being anything set in stone or solid at all, [redacted] itself seemed to have a price over my head–
It all seemed to make sense; in fact, all the crazy things i was experiencing made more sense than it didn't. But after what felt something like between defeat and maybe even one day really getting justice for all the things that had happened to me in new york– it was that, at best;
That without actually meaning it, by all probability, the opening monologue described what in perfect sense the thing that had been happening to me: hundreds of motorcycles and cars riding around in circles for over a year, any time i tried to work or sleep–and then, when I finally tried to reach out to find an attorney that would help, I was made to feel crazy for it.
In a way, it was the perfect indication that it had all been some sort of sick game, and that I was more right than wrong, and being set up to appear, sound, or look crazy–but I wasn't. I had been under attack for nearly two years, and when I tried to reach out, my heart raced and my voice cracked, and I sounded crazy and desperate–but what was happening was very real; and now I knew where I was.
As it turns out, New York's corruption was more common knowledge to everyone else before it was to me: New York was a common place for fucked up, dirty, low-down mind games: and this was my lesson in that.
Seth Meyers in reality had nothing to do with it–and really I only meant to watch Kimmel over my afternoon tacos.
But still, though it hadn't entirely anything to do with me, the opening statements rang true to exactly what I had experienced; I was made to lose my mind, only to have everyone around me tell me it was something wrong with me–but it wasn't. Something was wrong with the city, and the building management, and the people around who were making it all to be some kind of mental disorder or problems with my mind–in reality, it was 2 years of being in the center of a speedway, and all the time i'd lost because of it adding to the stress, and the angst, and the depression that resulted.
Moo.
Moo…
Moo.
Moo, sir.
I'll kill you.
You promise?
I want to.
Don't get me excited over nothing;
If this isn't the exit, please take this tease
To the left, dear
Moo, cow
My honor
Level one, and brother, you've got nothing
Flip the coin and landed on your headache
Betting on your helmet
Standing on my cock, i'm taller
(Not a rooster)
But my ops are rooting for you,
No informants,
Dont you know I was a collar, all along?
I was a shot calling,
Cop calling
Kiss-and-tell all as the night goes on.
But oh, I brought you a dollar bra
Oh, I bought you for all of a dollar
And oh,
I'm so much taller,
Standing on my cock
But i'm not but ten feet tall
You know, you wrote that
Should i open the book, or close that
Caught that cat, owl and
As i soft spoke at
Every broken model
Broken bottle for the thoughts you owe
Across the scatters skies and no one ever knows
When you're realling coming over
Come on,
I'm on the pornhub
Just to pick up another one
Go on, and rub the bottle
One more once,
To call the
Bubbles.
Damn.
Come.
(The Monkey obeys)
You should see Michael in all of his godform
You won't recognize him at all if not by the eyes
When you follow home
Believe me, this not comes close to it;
The one you wanted
The world you jumped to but were just short of
Call her back
Oh no, you're wrong
It's another song
A pin up girl
And the wrong number
Okah.
Okah, Pablo.
Time can be altered, changed or effected presently in any omnidirectional plane by engaging certain acts or synchronicities within multidimensional parallels or adjacent realms in time and or space respectively.
–the reverse quantum simulation theory.
Does anyone else smell blood
I hate wedding days suits and tuxedos
No, I don't know you
I'm just here to sound the hundred drums
Of the once before us
(The ones to come)
Then, there we were and I didn't want to admit
Again, I was caught into the ghost of the rapture
Or the holy hour,
No aux chord
Show the holy one
Just how old you are
On these sacr d lands and a holy grounds
Now I want here half an ounce to smoke
And there were drowning orchestras in all of the hearts
And all of the markets,
The market the marker
And all of the sins of the savior
The maytyr
Did you remember not to notice not to know him
Were you sure with words you were for nickelodeaon!
I was supposed to hold on to,
Supposed to hold on to
Suddenly, it's summer.
And always our own are under the weather
There was no other wise man the wind. Lee the one came
The site came and went and then the songs went left
The songs went left;
Again, the songs went left
Did you win at wintergreen
Well, God, I didn't know gym was a game.
I didn't know guns we're just portals to worlds unknownn
I didn't know gossip was golden
What all else didn't I know
It wasn't for here! It was fourth flour
And in the final hour of the battle I commenced to summon
All the gods and all the lords and all the flowers
All the worlds of oceans and the
Remember, this
The remembrance
It may not matter to some,
What matters to most
But until summer comes,
I'm still up under the rail
And practically it's spring, for the next two weeks
I'm all berries and cream and whatever you wanted.
Tormaline, emerald and onyx, the fox said
And fox says its west when instead it's quite under what of the reporter's offer?
Comes down a little to none
What of the offer
Comes down from a billion to one
A billion to one
I'm on TV so it's really just a one way screen
Either way,
I don't think he likes me much
I don't think he likes me much
I'd rather die than to fall in love even one more time
And to keep on just never being loved
Never beingbloved
{Enter The Multiverse}
[The Festival Project™ ]
{Enter The Multiverse}
L E G E N D S:
ICONS
Tales of A Superstar DJ
The Secret Life of Sunnï Blū
Ascension
Deathwish
-Ū.
Copyright © The Festival Project, Inc. ™ |
Copyright The Complex Collective © 2019-2025 ™ All Rights Reserved.
-Ū.