Dead Trees Bloom Flowers

Bad fortunes are tied to a rack while a Buddhist chant bleeds through my favorite song of the year.

Journal

Fresh meat, blouses, and turnip cakes.

Those who cut corners shall be eaten by predators and snakes.

I believe the function of art is to create a situation where language falls apart.

Anything worthwhile rests on a knife’s edge, balanced by a paradox that I can only compare to the delicate act of falling asleep.

Slowing down my favorite songs has become a spiritual practice, and I’m here to preach the poetics of pitched-down electronics.

This man was the antichrist. Yes, he was what the end of civilization looked and sounded like.

It’s tempting to classify Death Prom as mere nostalgia, but it is a complicated haunting.

A few minutes after midnight in the Mojave desert, a preacher appears on a dead radio channel.

The artist’s obsession becomes the listener’s obsession.

Maybe you’ve heard the stories, the baroque theories on late-night radio or the soliloquies of sunburnt men who mutter at the traffic.

His spirit runs through nearly everything we hear today.

A short burst of ruminations and a five-song mix delivered 'round midnight on the 1st and 15th of each month.