"My hip hop falls on your head like rain..."

And it does, Old Dirty Bastard (aka Big Baby Jesus, or, Dirt McGirk) has to be one of the best MCs of the past decade.

Driving in a snow flurry two days ago, as though the trees were weeping w/ me. God is of the smallest details, the briefest interludes. Two days that appear and depart as though two hours.


I finished reading Carl's $4 Poems chapbook last night. The series of (mostly) untitled poems ends with these great lines:

"[...] and tell me
more about The Clash, their influence
on pinch-stomach kids of the southwestern
dead malls and brunch retreats, where
the death rate exceeds a show of hands"


And this, from Eileen's Reproductions of the Empty Flagpole:

"That one begins a journey voluntarily will be irrelevant to the outcome? The source of a wave is never certain; despite its seeming repetition each wave is singular."


The keyboard and drum machine so sublime on New Order's song "Sub-culture," from the LP Low-life (1985).


Yesterday quiet in the living room, invisible, listening to Nas' The Lost Tapes. More "refined" than ODB, a very different style, in general. Both, though, inhabit hip hop's New York intellectualism. Or, words and our survival.

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