Beatniks Bumtrips Bullshit

Jedidiah in Berlin calls Sean in the Santa Cruz Mountains, where Sean is up before sunrise, drinking strong instant coffee, writing poems in his head, fishing tin cans from the creek and eventually dancing with two deer in the fog.Jedidiah has just been to an art gallery, looking at close-up reproductions of paintings by Swedish mountain painter Ferdinand Hodler. The paintings have been enlarged until the brushstrokes themselves become landscapes. They start talking about what makes a painting feel alive.“You don’t want a painting to stay still. If it is still… it has to move.”They get into the idea of the center of dominance—the element that commands a painting and holds it together, but can also stop it from moving.“The best paintings are the ones that keep moving.”“They’re all dry. They’re all not actually moving, but some of them are.”“What is it that is making them move?”From painting, the conversation moves into poetry: auto-dictating poems, speaking before self-consciousness gets in the way, and the importance of making something that actually hits something real.“I want it to be real. I don’t want it—if it’s not real, then what’s the point?”They wander into desert poetry and the idea that children were sent to live among nomadic desert peoples partly to absorb a richer spoken language.“When words become physical and it becomes a thing that is actually moving your mind so you’re moving through the world differently.”Then comes a poem about color, beginning:“A single fleck of red glitter embedded on the bathroom wall.”The poem travels through Golden State poppies, a mustard seed, cannabis, the Rasta flag, “big blue,” ultraviolet catastrophe and turquoise sky.“Consciousness moves to cannabis, which is as high as the Rasta flag reaches.”They talk about color as frequency, the rainbow as a hierarchy of energies, and whether “higher” and “lower” have anything to do with better and worse.“The energy is lower or higher. I mean, it’s not to say that it’s better or worse. Spirit doesn’t see things like that.”Then they invent a map of consciousness as a spinning pie chart, with different thoughts expanding and shrinking as they take turns becoming the center of attention.“We always have more than one thought bubbling at a time.”“With space, there’s things for things to move.”“Pretty soon we got ourselves a puppet show or early animation.”Sean reads his seven stages:“Stage one. You will forever be alone. Keep secrets.”“Stage two. Sift prime motivating factors to serve others.”“Stage three. I don’t exist. In my emptiness, there is joy.”“Stage four. Be a placeholder for others.”“Stage five. Bring nothing but love. A full heart is always full.”“Stage six. Revisiting anything means you are dead.”“Stage seven is well beyond words.”Then deer, birds, animal consciousness, intuition and the possibility that animals can sense something humans can’t.“They can totally feel somebody’s vibe and be like, yeah, let’s party.”“A dog can see into the astral realm.”The poems get increasingly wild: purple, green and gold; “smelling like Teen Spirit”; bowels of the earth; ancient bones; megalithic cave women; crocodiles in the prehistoric North Pole.“The last time Earth was this peaceful was never.”“50 million years ago it was hot as shit and crocodiles lived in the North Pole.”“This is hardly a poem and more reflection of a wild night at prom.”Painting, poetry, color, consciousness, animals, God, geological time and the wildness underneath civilization.“We’ve blown up and are out of comfort zone and entered the realm of rewilding.”“There is no settlement free from the wild.”

Bottled at the Source: A Morning on the MountainAt the top of a ridge overlooking the Pacific, Jedidiah and Sean whisper into the morning while Ross is still asleep in his tent. They’re trying to remember everything that happened yesterday before the mountain, the weather, the stories, and the strange intensity of the experience begin to fade.The day unfolded across different “levels” of the mountain: rain, sun, agave, fire, birds, clouds, ocean, and increasingly strange conversations. Sean went deeper into stories from his darker years—rats, jail, Thor the poetic alpha, chair fights, strawman fortunes, and the improbable schemes of people living on the edge. Ross delivered an impromptu camping sermon about his childhood summers of lakes, boats, mushrooms, wine, music, and the radical joy of simply being outside.There were chocolate-covered coffee beans, single-origin chocolate from Madagascar and Uganda, a makeshift dark-chocolate cheesecake that became mousse, tortillas seasoned by madrone smoke, rusty bells, gopher dirt deodorant, a treasure hunt for the missing water jug, and a little Boss sequencer making strange sounds while Robinson Crusoe was read aloud.But underneath the comedy, the conversation keeps circling something bigger: how do you know when a place is alive?The three of them talk about the “life force” of the mountain—the feeling that some rocks, trees, birds, hillsides and winds contain a greater concentration of vitality than others. They wonder why beautiful places become trashed when they become public, whether sacred places are created through accumulated acts of reverence, and whether the real missing ingredient is simply feeling welcomed by the land.Jedidiah describes the moment he realized he had never given himself a “golden pass” to belong on Earth.They talk about consciousness spiraling into infinite patterns, the geometry of circles, flower-of-life imagery, and the appearance of a praying-mantis entity during a psychedelic experience. Sean suggests another possibility: maybe Jedidiah should talk to Jesus again. The discussion becomes a meditation on consciousness, imagination, psychic characters, and the strange border between something being “inside you” and something arriving from somewhere outside.There are also birds everywhere: crows traveling the coast like a graduating class, hawks appearing over the ridges, a gopher who stops to make eye contact, and a tiny bird that lands on Jedidiah’s head while he is taking what he describes as possibly the greatest shit of his life.The conversation eventually turns toward art. Jedidiah compares the mountain to a painting he made years ago that has been slowly sun-fading outside. Looking at the landscape and then looking at the painting, he realizes they have somehow converged. The discussion moves into color theory, natural pigments, handmade oil paint, stretching one’s own canvas, and whether the artist’s entire physical process becomes part of the painting’s essence.By morning, the mountain is already beginning to disappear into memory.“You get bottled at the source. You take it down from the castle inside you.”And perhaps the whole podcast is an attempt to do exactly that: bottle one day on the mountain before it cycles out of the body.

THE SUN IS OUT TODAY, BOYSA BBB podcast from a California mountain while listening to Sean’s old mix tape We talk about magnetic tape, the fading of mixtapes, 432 Hz versus 440 Hz, energy vibrating through the body, and whether your bell is actually ringing.The world is the instrument. Life is the prepared piano.A random-note computer program becomes a way of thinking about music: receiving and giving, listening and responding. A guitar gets tuned on the mountaintop by feel rather than by a machine. A cassette tape plays from somewhere up the hill while the valley opens toward the ocean.We talk about resting without actually becoming rested. About finding the places where energy flows. About drinking water from a cracked aquifer in the middle of town and coming back from a zombie state.Then the poems come out.A morning poem written partly in a dentist’s office. A poem about healing fighting the wounded. A poem about love that has nowhere to go. About the lies we tell when we believe something outside ourselves is necessary.“The sun is out today, boys.”“You want your healing to fight your wounding, not just have a conversation with it.”“There’s no more room for songs about girls.”“Because this love is bursting inside my chest. It has nowhere to go and nothing to do, because it is done telling lies.”The poems wander through teeth, rivers, God, nostalgia, coral, aliens, shopping carts, DNA, shadows, music, memory, and the strange feeling that a day can become so good that language can’t quite contain it.We talk about the redwood shadow.We talk about the electric blue spiritual light bathing everything.We talk about why some people move through life in long waves while others seem steady, and what it means to stay friends long enough to experience the entire roller coaster together.“The cool thing is when you get to go for the whole ride.”At forty, we discover that being forty doesn’t necessarily feel like being old. The youthful thing doesn’t disappear. The body changes, but something else remains awake.“It goes on as long as you wanted it to.”Then come aliens, reincarnation, genetic modification, extraterrestrial souls, CRISPR, UFOs, and the possibility that the aliens aren’t arriving because they’re already here.The Earth scene is savage.The Earth scene is hardcore.And somehow, completely compassionate.We talk about mystical masters, spiritual bullshit, the problem of believing too much, and the necessity of knowing when somebody doesn’t want your energy.Sometimes you have to stop saying the thing.Sometimes you have to meet people at their level.“You can get in if you’re at other people’s level.”Then the river comes up.A storm has just passed. The water is rising. There may be a float tomorrow morning.We talk about dancing, Goth nights, Santa Cruz, mystery, unfamiliar people, and the problem with a dance floor where everybody already knows everybody.“I need a little mystery in my dance.”“I need a little bit of edge.”“A little bit of shock value.”We talk about Morocco, thermal springs, fault lines, places that seem more alive than other places, and how sometimes you travel toward places because something in you recognizes them.Then another poem.A poem about forgetting to weave yourself into the story.About electric blue spiritual light.About everything being turquoise.About the unspeakable.About the dentist.About eroticism as slowing down because everything is so good.About the best DJs being far away from their subwoofers.About having less teeth than piano keys.About the possibility of respawning.About 43 more years.About aliens changing our DNA.About throwing a rose instead of a stone.And finally:“What a gift to be surprised.”The poem gets too long.Then it gets better.You lose track of wanting an explanation because it’s still happening and it still appears to fit.Nobody wants to hear a poem. But that’s a poem I want to hear twice.The sun is out today, boys.

Experimental narrative podcast from the Backstreets of Luxor Egypt.

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.:.

Ian is preparing for a urine fast…

Beatnik poetry from the Santa Cruz mountains to Berlin This is a chat with Jedidiah and Sean. They bullshit about vortexes,future jazz improvisation, states of love, sucking cool through a straw, ecstatic singing , and poetry. They say things like: ​ “Everything that is resolving is doing it in the most energetic, efficient way, and it ends up being beautiful.”​ “My whole idea of beauty was just changed last night.”​ “The whole thing is made up of beauty because it’s just conserving energy.”​ “To be an artist is to interact with the mystery.”​ “The mystery likes efficiency. It likes things to not have waste.”​ “But the mystery is also not in a rush.”​ “The infinite exists within it, and it wants to explore the outreaches of inefficiency.”​ “That crystal state is not the end state — it’s a long hold.”​ “Even diamond is still going to break down.”​ “Crystals never stop moving.”​ “If you’re holding a corpse, it’s fucking oscillating.”

Berlin while the snow melts On a bike ride across the abandoned airport I meet a cool jazz saxophone player

Field-recorded travel poetry from Fez, Morocco—Sufi mysticism, drum processions, alleyway soundscapes, stray cats, donkeys, markets, and spiritual misdirection. A long-form spoken-word epic about leaning into the mystery, finding rhythm in chaos, and listening for music where it already exists. Poetry, travel diary, sonic ethnography, ecstatic drift. • “To be Sufi is to embrace the mystery and study the patterns around the mystery.” • “Once you feel it, you are it. Then you enter.” • “Everyone is a musician. Like they can all hear each other and play their own melody that does not interfere with the song of Fez.” • “I am in Fez, a city with no cars for a thousand years.” • “The city was made from the rhythms of the crowded people… and the rhythms had gotten into the walls.” • “The chants are coming from the barbecue boys and their cell phones.” • “No one fucks with the kittens.” • “This is a vortex.” • “Music is emergent, elegant.” • “Drums by donkey hoof on thousand-year-old streets that never had cars.”

Beatnik North Africa tour : part 3 Finding vortexes in Fez MoroccoThis is of a poetic tour through North Africa . In this episode we begin to discover vortex around the city.

A low-hype BBB transmission drifting through magnesium fatigue, orbit, repetition, and consciousness. We circle comets, gravity, art, and aura—how whirling creates life, how repetition opens dimensions. Degas and Toulouse-Lautrec appear as proof that art distills experience and carries it forward. Poetry interrupts as fuel: Berlin walks, UFOs, karma, beauty, danger, and a cliffhanger word we weren’t supposed to know yet—hyperbolic.⸻QUOTES FROM THE POD“It’s the whirling that allows everything good on the planet to happen.”“One of the features of being insane is doing the same thing over and over—but that might also be how you get to another dimension.”“Consciousness is layered. The lower levels run so we don’t have to think about them.”“If you think of it just as a rock, it’s even trippier.”“Art is about distilling—making something so clear it can be passed on.”“Hold the line from your pit to the picture, then pass it to the next person.”“This poem is a cup of coffee.”“A rock whizzing so fast it can’t be swayed by a star.”

Beatnik poetry “I lick the circuit and complete me” By Jedidiah Jackson I lick the Circuit and Complete me is a Beat-style spoken poem recorded in motion — a live transmission moving through Egypt, Paris, and Berlin. It circles fingertips, vibration, elegance, shame, eroticism, opera houses, trash fires, trans glamour, trains, breath, and bone flutes. Purple becomes a threshold where contact happens — moral, sexual, spiritual. This is a poem that listens. It vibrates. It asks: are you the drum or the stick?

BBB poetryThe millennium falcon BY Sean Twohig https://youtube.com/@menindorf?si=yMGszpJr6NrK2l6TA sprawling, beat-inflected meditation on climate grief, false intelligence, and everyday complicity—where mountains outlast denial, tea boils beside apocalypse, recorded by Sean near a stream. • On false equivalence and cosmic humility:“The equal quality of a dog and a stone, of a bug and of man.” • On climate denial and delayed consequence:“Sounds crazy, and four degrees of warming seems so far away… which is nothing in the eye of a mountain.” • On ecological violence:“Redwood, redwood, other grove, other grove. Still being systematically murdered.” • On passive resistance masquerading as action:“This year, all they do is pray in silence and write letters to the editor.” • On inherited prophecy and burdened foresight:“He told you so that three quarters of the world would be destroyed. But he meant it only in his special language.” • On moral paralysis:“Ask my son if he’d rather have ten billion dollars or stop climate change. He couldn’t decide.” • On modern contradiction:“Oh yeah, and while you’re getting too hot, let’s add more blankets.” • On collective guilt:“Not just the ones with powerful dollars, but those penniless and afraid. All are to blame.” • On domestic calm amid collapse:“Now, who’s ready for some homemade warming tea?” • On reluctant acceptance:“I admit that I am punishing myself while I choose to live like this.” • On the poem’s underlying ethic:“Never gorge on the absolute.”

BBB North Africa A fever dream 12 hour layover in Italy on the way to Morocco.

Auto dictation poem preamble to North Africa beatnik adventureBBB North Africa start in Berlin before sunrise. It's the first snow of the winter. I'm nervous. to be traveling in Africa. I'm nervous to make plane connections and across borders. I've spent a month being apprehensive about terrorist threat warnings about the state of humanity, about being stranded. I've seriously thought about what to do if someone breaks into the hotel room at night to kidnap me, I have made a vow to myself that I will never get in somebody's car if I'm being abducted that I would rather be stabbed or let a friend be shot. This now sounds ridiculous, and overblown. But before the trip, I had contacted the United States travel Bureau and entered my passport information to receive updates on North Africa safety levels was going to Morocco, threat level, medium. Honestly, I am laughing now. I'm narrating this on a blanket. I got in Fez, Morocco. It's the 11th. of December, and I had left on the 21st of November, all those ones stacked up seems important. And I want some sweeping grand poetic narrative of this entire trip for my prosperity, because it was cooler and I wanted to share, and because I think I'd become cooler by sharing, okay, one of those answers is ego terrific and not correct. And another is deep into the substrate sap and mucus that really is the potential of travel, the feeling of being shoulder to shoulder with trinkets and goblets conversations with hobos in their cities, tectonic plates, grinding and making mountains beyond the ones that I've known reflections in street windows, pyramids, covered in dust, third eye anointment with dust from a sarcophagus unbounding laughter that seems to accelerate like avalanche narrative collection like poetic journalist also travel is just cooler. If you got a notebook and a magnifying glass, it's the feeling of being a scholar. Like what Indiana Jones really be as cool if he wasn't also a professor? I don't think so. So preamble set. Seeds of fear planted, holding advice from my mystic shrink, who said feel what is happening with space and awareness. And I saw this all as a force field around me, like an aura. Or a plate. And I'm the mashed potatoes in the middle. It's just being aware of the way that the stress is incoming, how the fears feel like blackberries, splattering. the wheels on the bike, pulling up mud and splattering No time for poetry, only what's real. I was afraid to go on this trip and had been worried about it. I mystic therapist advised me to keep a wider awareness of these feelings and to experience them as I met what I was afraid of I was very well packed by not much at all. I had asked Chat GPT if I would need shoes in December in North Africa, and it had advised me, "No, you will not need shoes traveling light and minimal is the way people would do it, like an aesthetic, like a desert monk. And so I had a teal green Adidas backpack, very light, with underwear, socks, toothbrush, sunscreen, frankincense, essential oil One notebook, some pastels, and a stack of yoga moves on playing cards that I can pull out and have a flow and a necklace my girlfriend made in a ceramic Dungeon in Dragons, dice, style shape that had her glasses on one plane and the other triangles that I now saw as pyramids and my ambition was to charge this necklace inside the pyramids. On the outside of the backpack, the last thing I did in my kit was pin on a felt symbol version. It's like a piece of felt that looks like Mount Fuji, that I had gotten in Tokyo, because Mount Fuji is big and looming in Tokyo, and you can feel the way that it charges up the ground. And for us masses up Tokyo is as massive as it is, Mount Fuji is bigger because it goes underground and also into the psyche. And I felt like connecting about Fuji with the pyramids….

A beatnik journey through alien souls, angelic envy, mathematical destiny (Zipf’s Law), and the acoustic physics of poetry. Jedidiah calls in from the art studio, Sean from a redwood stream, and the dialogue spirals into universal adjustments, singing as devotion, and whether soul is simply every possibility awaiting form.Think interstellar campfire philosophy, finger-painted spirituality, and improvised biography of God played on a half-broken piano.And Jedidiah is in North Africa! The BBB will continue in December. And if you celebrate it, have a happy first contact this Thanksgiving..

Beatniks Berlin bumtrips: A poem recorded in Victoria Park. Walking through Berlin looking at colors☉ I. The Chair and the WomanThere’s a woman who looks like a tattered old chair.She’s a fabulous creaturewith thick green socks way up over thick as renaissance fair turkey meat calvesa rock medallion as the necklace Everything is worn enough that it seems made—the way that mold comes on to thingsand then seems new and made by natural So fresh and vital Maybe it’s the waythat the sun can catch on a cigarettelook the same white as a full body sweatsuitand dangle the same wayFabric drape Cigarette limp on the lip The sun light is a tight pussy It’s also likes cheeks—and they get fat and hold the sunand dangle like a cigarette, holding in the sun.Maybe the same thingAs body holding sun in this almost empty Library parking lot holding this woman A place to rest with the rock medallion and the green socks worn with calm shell sandals.I think just because they fit her swollen feet,and her face has transformedinto a 1930s snowman cartoon.And she’s bending over in the full snow avalanche,and her green socks are coming up,and they feel real and new and alive—the way the mold does when it’s on old things outside….

Hella cool beatnik poem by Sean Twohig . Read by me ,Jedidiah, while driving a van around Berlin with my girlfriend. There is the soundscape of Berlin Jazz radio raindrops and hipsters. The podcast starts with me reading the poem for a second time in an attempt to sound more casual European. The second half of the pod is my first reading, sounding very American and with full bombast. I like the poem and the soundscape of this podcast. A true poetic field recording. Check out Sean’s 40 albums https://youtube.com/shorts/WC9WiW29Vt4?si=u63-G-6ru5wnqAxIThe rhythm is,You burn petrol gasoline for 2 daysAnd soak in sacred waters stolen from the natives for three...The rhythm is,I comb out my hair and toss clumps off the deck,So that rats can take it to their nests and I become one with them.The rhythm is,Five shooting stars and five secrets that shant be spoken of.The rhythm is,Dreams all night,Including when I get home and dream deep of rising through the darkness.To a child, the rhythm is,It makes sense to drive 10 miles for5 pieces of candy, which turns out to be 20Teach 'em to poison themselves youngIn America, the rhythm is,The tipping point of world collapse,But there's still time for a surf contest.The rhythm of cool,Is faster than talk,Because cool means you want to listen to someone before they've even finished their first sentence.The rhythm of sunshine on a rainy day.The rhythm of calcium absorption, and mountain decay, found in life on other planets.The rhythm of things that disappear Like waves breaking that no one catchesThe rhythm of a phone that dies at 20%Tipping point3 foot dead fish in front of the shoe storeGulf stream free energy solutionsArt becomes illegal when it's capable of rocking the boatLike that guy in the 70's who invented a car that runs on waterSounds crazyBut nowadays anyone could do that, they're just afraid toDodging tazers in my nighttime thoughts before sleepMissed my chance to be a teacherWho would listen to a whole universe that's alive?Natural building got chucked off the listNo one could believe in homeless solutions that cost less than $600 per personWaves get a lot biggerMaybe big enough to knock you out of your comfort zoneBut it will be too late to course correct by thenYou know God loves you when your experience shapes itself around your consciousness But this is also terrifying in a recursive sort of wayFear mongering must be fun or it wouldn't be so popular The one percent of the one percent are the people who know what they're doingThis one's for you, light-whipperCracked a conch shell as she smooshed it into a clay third-eyeMaking things natural is hardUnless you don't try very much22 throes before I'm impressed Forgot about my smile until it lit someone else upThe rhythm of a name I had to try and try to remember.Thinking all about the person,Eventually it came to meAnd a while later I fell asleep After a few more things I couldn't think ofSo many babies being born to break freeBusting loose from the business gameCostly references to the last resort ski lodgeChina mountain electric stateMexican whore house climaxWest cliff rainbow hair4:44 is the rhythmBlasting roller boats and viral opposition Vote for the proposition to end voter fraudSturdy umbrella for an inner tube sail boat situation It would only work in one direction Like, this is really happening And your belief in it, drives it's rhythm Dream state irony gets funny and hardSun rises out of the highest mountainPeaking it's rays across the range of lightSon says to mother"You're a unique one,"Radical Connector also took a while to recallKick the can,But don'tI can't Land in the 25%That remain after the cataclysm Like they thought the bubonic plague would never happen againCircuit theory goes around and aroundOpen a lock with that can cut down the middleGet sued by the companyI was never afraid… poem continues

In this podcast you can hear me writing a poem . I auto dictate the poem as I walk through Berlin. I notice it’s 420 when I start. This is the raw recording of it. I auto dictate poems now and then edit the text by hand. I send the poems to my poet buddy Sean. He responded like this: I like this poem. Reading it as you're texting me. I like it's repeated rhythm, driving the connection home. I like picturing your jaunts through Berlin Seeing what you notice. What comes alive in you. What makes you wonder and feel alive. I like the self-awsreness of it. I like it's rawness. If you do edit, do it yourself by hand. Maybe sleep outside in Berlin some night so you can experience just how cold it is? Did you get an audio recording of your original voice dictation? This would be cool to hear on the BBBFrom Sean (November 2025)420 auto dictated pull while walking through a gully in Berlin There is fog. It hasn't drifted down to this spot yet, but the colors of the leaves have. And it's a blend of orange and red and the dark green. scene set / poem rip. It started this morning looking at cat food, round, crunchy, in the bowl. The atoms in the cat food are the same as in the garbage can. These underside dark side of the moon, the part of the miniature poodle. that it can't reach with its teeth. The underbelly. The armpit. the smell, even in smell, it's all here. There's atoms, the molecules, whatever it is that everything is, that internal structure, that vibrating, glistening, iridescent, biouminous deep seafish is on the other side of the cat food. Crunchy, waiting there in the bowl. No, not even waiting. Bursting, Dean Moriarty. Not even bursting, just being. Everything's transitioning. Made it to the leaves. full, so could this tree changes all the colors. Continue in narration, trying to get it succinctly, something magical or no. There's nothing succinct in magic. Looking at the cat food, then looking at the trash can, thinking of all the trash in the trash can. and thinking of my insides and my hands and the songs that I sing. And those songs are made of breath and moving. air and up and down waves. Same as the trash and the cat food. It's all the same. This seemed like a poem if I could get it succinctly and somehow not be pretentious while saying molecule and atom and it's all the same as cat food and trash…

Beatniks Bumtrips Bullshit: Berlin ↔ Santa Cruz field transmission. Two poets trade live poems and cosmology in real time — breathwork in an alley waving two machetes, asteroid convergence, why bad art is just blocked life force, sleep as micro-death, barycenters, dream yoga, licking the hologram, and teaching your kid to eat hobo food off a trash can because love means helping someone move beyond their nature. This is tenderness at the end of the world, recorded between a Berlin paint studio full of grotesque flowers and a redwood creek in the Santa Cruz Mountains.Main threads in this episode: • Walking through Berlin “waving two machetes,” meaning breath, meaning aliveness, meaning you don’t get a future — “there is not any later, only now.” • Art and shame: bad art isn’t failure, it’s where the life force can’t get through yet. Good art is when the work goes someplace you haven’t even lived. • The barycenter, Jupiter pulling the Sun off-center, solar system dancing like a pirouette, and the prophecy-feeling of everything snapping back into alignment in 2027. • Sleep as micro-death and relief: “We actually need unconsciousness to stay sane.” • Dream yoga / higher self work: falling asleep as direct contact with the star that is you fulfilled. • Death as comfort, not horror: “Someday we’re all gonna be dead,” said not like doom but like, finally, exhale. • Phones melted for gold in an alley. Cell towers, purple smoke, extraction, alchemy, reincarnation of trash. • Teaching your kid to eat scavenged food off a trash can as initiation into freedom. • Rhythm as a survival structure. Rhythm as a cosmology. “The rhythm is five shooting stars and five secrets that shan’t be spoken of…”“Walking down an alley waving two machetes… which is just my way of saying breathing.”“There is not any later, only now. I can’t be intimate with life without being vulnerable.”“Bad art is just where my life force is blocked. Good art is when the piece goes somewhere I haven’t been yet.”“Someday we’re all gonna be dead — and that’s not despair, that’s relief.”“Sleep is the little death we’re required to touch every night to stay sane.”“The Sun’s center of gravity is outside of itself right now. Jupiter pulls it off-balance. In 2027 it comes back in. The whole solar system is literally dancing.”“Understanding has no meaning.”“You know God loves you when your experience shapes itself around your consciousness — and that is also terrifying.”“We are surrounded by lies, but we have nothing to be upset about.”

A poem for Spiritual disconnect A sonic journal from the neural spa of berlin - recorded in Victoria Park​ Sensory embodiment in urban life​ Beat-era stream of consciousness poetry​ Berlin field recordings, soundscapes, and street rhythm​ The nervous system as interface for consciousness​ Construction drumming as cosmic percussion​ Counting, numerology, and the physics of reading​ Malibu surf mysticism & the poetics of gesture​ DNA, ancestry, and creative inheritance​ Esoteric imagery: yin-yang, scarabs, and mobile hands​ Emotional vulnerability and the edge of expression⸻✨ Choice Quotes:“This city becomes conscious through me. I am an interface, as I move through the city, the city moves through me.”“Counting becomes prayer when I lose track.”“I am scared of connection because I don’t think I’ll be able to stop it.”“The rock is swirling very slowly, holding its granite stillness.”“The fingers extend like surfers in Malibu, each one an attitude toward the future.”

A Beatnik Poem read by a powerful woman in bed“Gentlemen Don’t Fish “By Sean https://open.spotify.com/show/5wLSeBa5k0ykpBMVWI0h5Q?si=em9UGJuXSV2bKBiz3l8ofwGentleman don't fishWhat you consumeIs what you're connected tooI would like to say my karma is getting smallerBut I don't know Sitting in the forest doesn't helpThe unravelling of the webSurvive seven daysI was caught using a stumpBeing a builderThat's badTossing craw-dads onto shoreThey get stressed out Lose hopeThe shape of desireIs like a blockadeTo the truthThe poor cricket jumped into the waterWe have pears and apples but no cherriesNo tea for me this morning Decaf ChillhopWhen will I find the bass I'm looking for?Too lazy to build itStuck like a branch half under the riverbottomBury a earth boring dung beetleWild animal Crossing referencesThis poem just lost its coolEven though its apostrophes are all lined upA whack with a net gets worry out of your mindEven when your wife might be leaving the islandA money-tree will get you up off the groundTooth licking gum decayAdventures at a podiumGet your party outfit together Die your hairSoil music on the outdoor DJ setupSamples blathering on and onCauses me to spam BLeft bumper works tooZip line through restlessnessWaiting to talk to my favorite psychiatrist Catch a flea off your bird-friendHigh Andean CondorCovered her song back in highschoolFruityloop carrot logoThe hype place right nowGovernment plazaWhat's your damage?Beefcake tankSips a smoothie Crazy fireCephalopods don't need friends to be intelligent Old tires are usefulBeyond swingingRadial band grow a gardenShow your mange to the receptionist Redeem my milesHose reelDixie texhniqueCool is your boot bigger than lifeJust give me my screensPlay it low-keyLove always demands thisLips sealedDemand nothing Never forget the goal to disappear Goes way beyond the bodyHafiz knew thingsNo one can knowA star can catch you and reel you inBuckets of effulgence The best time of your lifeShould be right nowPatience to the patients needing a cureBright kids playing by themselvesPolishing touchesFour thousand bell butterflyQueen AlexandriaGenerating for no reasonLong enough to be ignoredMeaningless red stripe across your noseRenounce meTo the heart of the houseMore Irish or Scottish?He prefers one over the otherBilingual record collection Push pull cadenceLost in a mirageHypnotized by a belief By a moodTota-BoleroMastery would mean the ability to feel anything Regardless of a wanted poster

Island trailer jams, mind-speed media, animal tempo, Meher Baba translation, and a Venetian exorcist—poetry, truth, and friendship.🐅💎😇🤯👻🤌On a Danish island, Jed pairs a thrift-store drum-pad with a punk-moaning flute while watching wind, crows, and rabbits fold into his nervous system—“it feels as if I’ve become the island and the island has become me.” He calls Sean at sunrise by the San Lorenzo; they trade fresh poems (turkeys!), swap craft notes, and map mind-rate vs. heart-rate attention (TV’s fast cuts vs. the body’s slow boil). They unpack Sean’s transliteration of Meher Baba—how to honor Bow’s words and keep lyric rhyme alive—then dive into AI as collaborator (use it, but “get in there and mess it up” so it stays human). Jed reads a hot slice from his Father Pellegrino Ernetti/Chronovisor novel—exorcism, chant, tuning-fork acoustics, Venice humming like an instrument. Through it all: process over perfection, animals as metronomes, and a pledge to publish instead of over-editing.Choice quotes:• “The process of the art should have something to do with the product.”• “The mind is the boil’s bubbles; the heart knows the moment it’s boiling.”• “We’re tuned to a human essence we don’t yet have words for.”Cool concepts: Island→self permeability: living in a Danish trailer, flute + thrift-keyboard jams; wind, waves, birds, and rabbits become extensions of attention and body. • Sound pairing & friction: punk-off-key Native American flute vs. lo-fi game-pad beats; the “moan”/yell of punk against grid-accurate rhythm. • Animals as cognition cues: rabbits as “thoughts,” crows, sea hawks, salmon, turkeys, a bald eagle—nonhuman tempo calibrates perception. • Mind-rate vs. heart/body-rate: TV/news cut frequency equals “mind speed”; heart/body intelligence moves in slower, wave-scale shifts (boiling-pot metaphor). • • Poetics method (Sean’s “working practice”): state what is, then circle the indescribable from multiple angles so fragments cohere into one felt object. • Process purity vs. over-editing: the labor of reconciling multiple drafts can strip life; product should carry the energy of its making (Rooibos/tractor treads). • Transliteration dilemma (Meher Baba project): fidelity to Bow’s words vs. English rhyme & lyric flow; two versions vs. a harmonized single text; do it “in love and harmony.” • • Chronovisor fiction thread: Pellegrino Ernetti, chant, exorcism, tuning-fork acoustics; Venice as resonant instrument; vibration/sex/chant fields; “publish, don’t dither.” • • Ethos of truth: truth is felt at heart-rate, not forced; “the red button” problem (performing for publication) vs. writing like a letter.It feels as if I’ve become the island and the island has become me.” • “The rate of media… is mind rate. We need a balance of head and heart.” • “Trying to make it truthful and you’re already fucked.” • “Those are the anchors to the depths… one line of truth inside crystal-clear prose.” • “The process of the art should have something to do with the product.” • “Now when I drink rooibos, I just taste like micro-rubber.” • “We’re getting surged with the non-human… we’ll realize we’re tuned to a human essence we don’t yet have words for.” • “A poem circles the thing—none of it pokes it too hard, all of it points at it.” • “The mind is the boil’s bubbles; the heart knows the moment it’s boiling.” • “You have to not do that—three screens open is a way to be mind-fed.” • “It doesn’t sound pleasing… two worlds not quite fitting yet, though you can hear they want to.” • “Best artists forget they’re on stage—or they feel the whole audience as one body.” • “Publish it. You don’t need other people there to make it good and real.” • “My poems are always about the same things… records of what has moved me.” • “Animals know. The slow soar of a bald eagle might be the better pace.”

A roving Berlin dispatch: cappuccino steam, Qi Gong by a rippling pond, and Jedidiah reading Sean’s fresh, feral poem before wandering into a centuries-old Crusader church. Between neon streets and stone sanctuaries, he wrestles with depression, alignment, imagination, and the unruly engine of the creative life. A poetic excursion of breath, nerve, ancient walls, and lived mysticism—where Beat poetics, Berlin grit, and rakish wonder collide.“Awareness beyond myself, awareness behind you.”“The flow stops only to force a deeper current.”“Pregnancy is not lateness—it is arrival precisely on time.”“In Berlin, even sorrow has its own baroque architecture.”“To align the body, mind, and spirit is to re-enter the present as if resurrected.”

A crackling, stream-of-consciousness field recording from Berlin: hot yoga and long painting vigils, collage-streets, turmeric smog, strudel laments, techno pulse, loneliness, and the half-mad ardor of the artistic life. From the Gospel of Thomas to pulp-sidewalk reveries, Jedidiah wrestles with desire, discipline, and the dream of California across an empire of yellow-red signage and storm-ridden skies. A poetic dispatch of breath, bodies, neon, women, and the inner riot of becoming. Beat poetry meets urban mysticism. Berlin, yoga, painting, travel, art life.

Jedidiah wanders the Berlin streets and meets the man who embodies his imagined “perfect German”—a swaggering techno-muscled figure with fanny pack and charisma. A quick hit of street poetry, Berlin style.Hotel keys,: Berlin, podcast, street recording, beat poetry, techno culture, German identity, masculinity, queer energy, counterculture, fanny pack fashion, canals, observational storytelling, spoken word, urban philosophy, BBB podcast, Beatniks Bumtrips & Bullshit

What follows is a field-recorded stream-of-consciousness poem: erotic, comic, lonely, alive. It drifts between jazz, ambient sound, and philosophical reflection, capturing the strange pulse of Berlin at midday — a library full of wanderers, dreamers, and sonic archaeologists.This is part essay, part hallucination, part documentary of perception itself — a Beatnik sound collage for the modern flâneur.⸻Hotel keys for discoverability:Berlin podcast, field recording, beat poetry, spoken word, ambient city sounds, existential reflection, experimental music, avant-garde vinyl, coffeehouse philosophy, Berlin sound art, consciousness stream, street realism, Beat Generation revival, sonic diary, underground Berlin, poetic narration, mindfulness audio, Jedidiah Jackson, Beatniks Bumtrips Bullshit.

Sean Twohig reads a 🛸inspired passage from Jack Kerouac’s On the Road—the New York attic scene where Carlo Marx becomes the ecstatic prophet of “the Rock,” hearing the holy drums of Harlem and calling Dean Moriarty to sit still for once.Hotel keys ;-) 🎹 Jack Kerouac, Beat Generation, Allen Ginsberg, Dean Moriarty, Carlo Marx, Beat poetry, American counterculture, spoken word, literary podcast, poetry reading, jazz prose, spontaneous bop, psychedelic culture, art conversation, Jedidiah Jackson.

Vincent van Gogh, Freemasons, Gauguin’s swords, fencing turned into brushstrokes, Persian light philosophy, Tesla in Egypt, the origin of zero. A Berlin field recording where art history, conspiracy, and myth collide.We stumble from Berlin street noise into an artist’s studio and fall headlong into a sweeping, conspiratorial art history.At ~12:00, step inside with us to skip the wind and sip tea with a painter who recounts the secret life of Vincent van Gogh—including the idea of four different Vincents, fencing as the origin of the paintbrush, and Gauguin carrying swords into the studio. The story spirals into Persian and Zoroastrian light philosophy, the Bauhaus, Herodotus, pyramids as Tesla batteries, and how Freemasons controlled which artists lived and which died young.It’s part myth, part oral history, part hustler’s lecture on art, light, and survival.Recorded raw. Just Beatniks Bumtrips Bullshit ⸻Choice Quotes​“Painting comes from fencing—brushstrokes are sword strikes slowed down.”​“There were not one Van Gogh, but four Vincents.”​“Tesla went to Egypt; the pyramids were not tombs, they were batteries.”​“Light does not come from outside the canvas—it comes from the picture itself.”​“Freemasons killed artists like Van Gogh, Raphael, Rothko… if you write too much truth, you are dead.”Note: The studio guest shares personal interpretations and disputed claims—offered here as viewpoint, not verified fact ;-)

Dishes done, coffee poured, and suddenly the conversation hits a drop: “There is no free will.” From there, Jedidiah and Sean spiral into fresh street-born poetry, hobo scat philosophy, and the secret mechanics of the universe.This episode weaves together:​Poems auto-dictated in Berlin streets•¥•poems wrote at sunrise in the Santa Cruz mountains•¥ • read by a creek with Django the dog.​The Beat tradition of Kerouac and Tom Waits—beat not as rhythm, but as worn, raw, and alive.​Stefan Burns’ teaching on planetary alignments as real electromagnetic forces—like gravity waves rippling a singing bowl, stirring the Sun, Earth, and our own subconscious fields.​The discovery that slowing down opens “the field,” a frothy ocean of possibility where fear dissolves and creativity emerges.Choice lines include:“Hobo shit and self-help braid together and kind of cancel each other out.”“Maybe I feel rich because the baby’s head was the third tit—so plump.”“We are multi-dimensional beings. Even putting on water shoes is another dimension.”For seekers of nodes of power, astrology as real physics, or just the raw beauty of improvised poetry, this episode of Beatniks, Bumtrips, Bullshit drifts between street grit and cosmic alignment.Check out Sean’s Cast : https://open.spotify.com/show/5wLSeBa5k0ykpBMVWI0h5Q?si=YWLygCPoQUSqtZaGh2ISyg

Sean is reading Jack Kerouac’s On the Road for the very first time, and we catch a minute of pure Beat Generation energy. Dean Moriarty buzzing off strangers, knowledge in his fist instead of math and shapes. Some people don’t even know who Kerouac is, others have carried On the Road forever — either way, here’s a quick hit of American literature, Beatnik poetry, jazz-style prose, counterculture fire, the road trip that lit up Ginsberg, Burroughs, and a whole era. One minute, one passage, straight raw.Check out Sean’s cast : https://open.spotify.com/show/5wLSeBa5k0ykpBMVWI0h5Q?si=Rq8p_VfZSeikM7AfDpgeRA