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This nOde last updated June 10th, 2004 and is permanently morphing...
(8 K'an (Corn) / 7 Zots (Bat) - 164/260 - 188.8.131.52.4)
reformed in 2001 with Alex Badertscher - guitar, Zac Fusciello - Drums
Vermin Scum Records
sing along. the earth cliffs. all above. sing strong, you are the color. you are the sound. you are the color. you are the sound that you see. Exposed bank. exposed bank. Eroded. through cyclic rivulet gravitation, pulling. downstream. bound. soil clouds drift and rip. drift and rip. along and in between the large rocks that still hold fast. incessant pull against the soft water. and the incessant pulling. Sing Along. Sing Strong. Tropical. towering, tree universal, fell. in the Amazon, there was no one there to hear. there was no one there to hear. you collect the woolen sunlight and sing.
Moss Icon - _Guatemala_
waves caress the foamed shore below. resonating ultrasonic through the cliffs and their sand. the sun's shine is poured all around, drying the leaves and such. there is something about here, and it does me good. where we have color, eyes and movement, where sound is understood. we have living respiration, a breath echo vibration. solid sun inspiration and ground where forebears stood. here I am going, and here I will stay. I have a body to do my moving, to find my home wood. I am here to see tomorrow. I am here to breathe today. there is a rust nailed floor boarded with ancient oak wooden planks that rock and creak. Words eye. Singularity. you did not sing and I would not dream. you are the shade breeze. you are the shade. you are the shade breeze blowing. the movers upstream. Words eye. stops breath withholding the heart within its rib cage and it stops for a moment. Waves caress the foamed shore below, resonating ultrasonic through the cliffs of their sound. I was hoping that you would make it, and I'm happy that you could. I was hoping that you would make it. I am happy that you could. And I will see you again.
Moss Icon - _Gravity_
the fear is growing there in the candlehouse. like a spreading serpent, tentacled and silent. we hear the speak of the angel as she settles on down to hallowed earth, saying, "Begin those labors of contentment and ease." as she walks forward, slowly. or is it the wind? chiming through the mobile composed of drifted wood? you ask a question... collecting shells along the pebbled beach cannot have paved the way for this afternoon's fright. oh no... although our eyes find acute solitude while affixed on the oyster shell. the vision all around. enveloping the shell is indeed a chaotic slaughter of color and black definition. there is an explosion, a crashing ringing, and a collapse of earth. burning white as sun bleached sand on the eyes of the metallic incenct. the snow is beginning to fall. many particled and infinite. the snow is meeting the hardended clay and sand. many particled and infinite. in many instants of transformational kissing, the snow meets the creek. there is a man trudging his shattered way along the far side of that creek. moving closer, we see that the man has been beaten and bloodied. although it is well into the early hours of darkness, we see that the man is a black man. an African who has been enslaved. an African who has been enslaved and broken from his mother's side. a human being dragging frozen iron chains and ankle braces through the near freezing water of the creek. earlier he had made the decision that frozen feet are better than feet ripped worn. ripped and shredded warm by the mouths of crazed bloodhounds. so now he trudges. a curse can be heard coming from the man's palsied lips. candlehouse. like a spreading serpent, tentacled and silent. we hear the speak of the angel as she settles on down to hallowed earth, saying, "Begin those labors of contentment and ease." as she walks forward slowly. or is it the wind? or is it just the wind chiming through the mobile? a curse can be heard coming from the man's palsied lips. the snow will soon be collecting on the ground. and when that happens, the hunters won't even need the aid of the tracking dogs anymore, but they'll keep them. you can hear them say, "ain't nothing like a nigger before the dog..." damn the snow. inspired and driven by his hallowed sister moon. breaking this container as the dogs break the container. coccoon. i am alive. after its recession there is a deepness to the tide. after a life a spirit's tangibility has died. after the life. after the cold. as after the cold death of winter there is the deep life of spring. as afterwards the words still ring. as afterwards the words still ring.
Moss Icon - _As Afterwards The Words Still Ring_