believe… that my mind… is my science… And my science is philosophy. I believe in the plant… in the soil…in the waters we'll never see. I believe… this heat we feel, this heat we feel, this heat is how life began. I believe… with the power of the black man the white man might become Steely Dan. If he tries and tries and tries and tries and tries I think I am a Rasta. I think I am a Rasta. I think am a Rasta. I believe I am a Rasta man. I believe… that religion, that religion is the body in the mind. That’s all. I believe… that the light is green, and gold, and black. and comes from far behind. I believe…. in the living of the dying of the living of the dying of the living. And they move in parallel lines till the end of time. I believe… that the father’s words of anger, is the throne he left the son. I think I am a Rasta. I think I am a Rasta. I think I am a Rasta. I believe I am a Rasta. I think I am a Rasta man. I believe your left eye looks right into my right eye, and I believe my right eye Looks right into your left eye, and eye and eye and eye and I and I and I and I and I… Come Creations, Come Creations, Come creations! Creations come. Creations come.

Philosophic rock never died Didn't even die in 1985 No no, keep it alive, keep it alive "And if life is suffering, then I know for certain that I'm far from dead." Now that's one philosophic dread. When the clock starts clicking Everyone starts listening to the sound of time And then they lose themselves in the rhymes of the sounds themselves. And the muscles unfold, and the mind unwinds and the grapes are plucked and sucked and the tongues are touched by time's tonic flowing flowing all flowers and fruit unspooled, unspoiled Time is a wire and a wine Unspilled, unwound and this is what we found: Life is delicious and deciduous leafy and mellifluous Dead and dying colors Bold unfold And that's the story of your life, When they fall, they shrink time So you can see their glory… … on a shorter day. Four seasons. You think that was an accident? that's rhythm, man The rhythm of dirt Can you dig it? That's why sex is dirty. Thank God. And that was life, and that is life Famously abrupt Joyously corrupt It's the crushing battle of ego, Not felt by fish. A cat goes crazy, tears out fur and screams in fear in anger ten minutes later, takes a nap in the sun. For a guy like me, protection from tyranny means a lot Thanks for the freeway, and the parking lot Safe from crime, more or less, and for doctors who understand the schizophrenic mind Pulsating with drugs... ...and afraid …to walk outside. As summer falls, Life is deciduous, I turn my eyes away, from the blood-swollen god of war. The guns of August blow again. For Somme Girls Verdun Girls Ypres Girls Reading 1917 Magazine Rhymes and bodies and lime Slip into the sea Easily If you can't be righteous Be kind If you can't be kind Be still If you can't be still Be useful If you can't be useful Be peaceful If you can't be peaceful Be sane If you can't be sane Be righteous. Rave on crazy brother.

The Western states don’t know how to play football. That’s what they want you to think. The Western states don’t know how to play baseball. That’s what they want you to say. The Western states don’t know how to play basketball. That’s what they want you to say. The only sport they know how to play in the Western states is flopping around in an irrigation ditch, playing grab-ass, wearing their cut-off Levis, playing grab-ass like a pack of retards, with their “cousins” and their “brothers” in the fetid irrigation water, while the parents circle around the barbecue, making another “cookout.” Oh, yes, wonderful! Life in the Western States! Ah, that’s what they want you to think that we do out here. That’s what they want you to say about life out here. They don’t want a baseball team out here. Well, they’re going to have a baseball team out here. And they’re going to bloody well see how we play baseball, and football and basketball, out here in the Western States. Thank you, and God bless you.

Ah ah ah ah ah ah ahhhhhhh Ah ah ah ah ah ah ahhhhhhh Music is like exercise for words. Music is like exercise for words. Music is like exercise for words. Words Sit around, grown useless weak and flabby Get up run around through those streets and those alleys. Make ‘em sweat, make ‘em shine. Make ‘em swim, make ‘em climb. Make ‘em memorize these coordinates in space and time. Cut 'em up in pieces, eights and quarters and thirds. ‘Cause Music is like exercise for words. Words sit around and wither on the vine And I don't even know if they're yours of if they're mine. So I put 'em to work, run the hills of my mind. Rhythm is the better half of time. Walk in circles, ticking tocking running time. Have you heard the one about the chubby worker? He knows more than you ever will. And the knowledge you got in college is increasingly decreasing, Like a bloodbank bum you sell your brain to the surveillance economy As you snap another photo of the world's slowest lobotomy. But the words that man whistles as he moves around in circles Say "Music is like exercise for words." Well we've used all our words till they're worthless. They dick around all day on Facebook acting cute And then you expect you them to do something worthwhile. And then you act surprised when they can’t walk half a mile When you're all alone you speak freely, So listen carefully, Music runs and hunts and chases, forces words to breathe. It's the first time they've mediated in 143 weeks. As breathing releases, physicality increases Destroy your temples and your pimples, and all your fucking problems, Music is like exercise for words.

Oh the things people do to each other While chasing an abstract dream Oh the things I do to myself While chasing an abstract dream Oh the things people do to their children While chasing an abstract dream Oh the things people do to their planet While chasing an abstract dream Oh the things people do to the past While chasing an abstract dream Oh the things people do to the future While chasing an abstract dream Oh the things people do to reality While chasing an abstract dream Ch ch ch chill Chill the fuck out Ch ch ch chill. Chill the fuck out motherfucker Ch ch ch ch chill Chill the fuck out Ch ch ch Chill. Chill the fuck out motherfuuuuuuuuckerrrrrrr Oh the things people do to their minds While chasing an abstract dream Oh the things people do to their bodies While chasing an abstract dream Oh the things people do to their souls While chasing an abstract dream Oh the things people do to their abstract dream While chasing an abstract dream. Oh the things people do to their abstract dream While chasing an abstract dream. Oh the things people do to their abstract dream And they don’t know that they’re dreaming in the first place. And the dream changes, and the dream changes, and the dream changes, and the dream.

When I was a child, after the War, the years after the War, it was very bleak. Grey. You’ve no doubt read about the spartan childhood of the likes of Keith Moon or Keith Richards. And then I came out here, where the very sky seems bigger. And I lived my fruitful days of youth out here in the great open West, and the smallness of being back home seemed silly and provincial, compared to the magnificent skies of Utah, Montana. And California. The old California, as I knew it. And today, well, the skies are as big as ever. But it feels as if my feet are no longer on the ground. And I don’t know if anyone’s feet are really on the ground anymore. So we just stare upward, waiting for something to come down. And grab us, embrace us perhaps. Or shake us. Out of our torpor, stupor. And remind us of what we have here, and how it can be gone in the blink of an eye, as they say. And I knew it was something that had never been seen before in human history. But I never thought that we’d never see it again. But now, that seems quite likely, that that shining glimmer is the receding point of light in the rear view mirror, as we lurch forward into another blank and formless year. I can’t tell the difference between 2002, 2009, 2011, 2017 is it? Now it’s… the fucking retards have run amok. And I’m not talking about what’s happened in the past few months here. I’ve been saying this for years, for decades. We let it happen, we let it happen, we wanted it to happen, because, well, you know what happened: you’ve got the whole world in your hand. And it’s not enough for you. You want it inside. Pack it, pack into electrodes and put it inside your own brain, so you never have to participate in your own thinking anymore. Let alone work with your hands, or trust the sweat of your own body. When it comes down to it, it’s a joyless society, I think. But what do I know? And I comfort myself by saying, no, the end is not near, the end is not near. Because we passed the end a long time ago. You can’t feel nothingness. You can’t see nothingness, touch nothingness. So we don’t know what to call it. What could we call it? It defies language. So in our great effort to distract ourselves from what we can’t see, can’t describe, we rely on the machine. We rely on the machine to conjure up a community of meaning. And a fresh supply of images to pump into our tanks like another discovery of oil that will keep us going for another twenty years. That sounds about right. That sounds like a long time doesn’t it? Ahhh! Get rid of it. I say get rid of it. Get rid of it all. Come join me, on the other side. Where we know what we’ve lost. And we don’t try to build on a foundation of nothing. Instead, we acknowledge it, and we build anew. And the second you realize you’re floating in the air, you just keep floating, or you say to yourself, ‘I’d rather like to come back down to Earth.’ That’s what I’m doing right now. Coming back to Earth, coming in from the cold. And I know what I’m in for when I get back there with you lot, with your chattering inanities and your self-aggrandizing trivia. But I am one of you. Oh, I am indeed. This body, this mind, and this mineral Earth, it’s as real as it gets, comrade. You can believe that. And that’s where I’m staking my claim: among the living. Thank you, goodnight, and God bless you.