Works & Archives
Majesty Crush has been getting late but well deserved attention since being included on the new Third Man Records ‘Southeast of Saturn’ comp.
I put these videos up after Dave passed a few years back. These are from the Arcane Productions Archives. I adore this track.
Live at the Majestic Theatre, Detroit 9.29.1990 Dedicated to Dave Stroughter, RIP.
8mm Video by Eden Bloom
When it comes down to it, though I am hyper critical of our current state, ultimately I have some level of faith and hope in humanity. My misanthropy is embarrassed. It’s the greatest curse I’ve been given, serious pandora shit. It was there before the kids, visions of a kinder gentler me, massage, yoga, health food, but the kids sealed it. It’s bad form to seed where you know they mow without a strategy to fuck up the machinery.
Out beyond these dogmas,
right left ideologies,
there is a field. I’ll meet you there.
A large part of this work, this parenting/radical urban planning that I’m attempting to influence, is rooted in a mandate to live a mutually beneficial life without recourse to dogma, religion, or ideology. This stems not from ego or moral superiority, but rather the realization that, due to my choices and the current state of Detroit, my future, and my children’s future, though admittedly privileged, are interwoven with Blackness and poverty.
In the tall grass, overcome,
the world wide within,
one and all, no kingdoms to control.
It doesn’t have to be that way? Due to my work I’m extremely aware of how passive/non-critical racial spacial integration and economic status without self-awareness can put one in service to corporate domination and white supremacy. Aspects of this service are mandatory with a pulse in this place, but there’s room for some ethical/moral play. It doesn’t have to be this way, but if it were not it would be the other, and I’ll no longer lend my silence in service to that.
Paradise rekindled,
struck between eye for eye
and you and me.
I’ve sold my soul a few times and still rest my head as required in beds made. Recently, I’ve tried to set a better example and keep those in my care off the ledger all together. For me, this is what an active approach to transition looks like; a somewhat calculated attempted decent from hyper/disaster capitalism. There is a method to my madness; cull faith, court hope, and seek solidarity beyond ideology. Abolitionist intent to what end?
Supremacy propped toppled
by blades of grass, trees, water, air
once again proud animals, beings, we.
This is the beginning of the never ever, the once and…, the once over. The jumping off point, from here to where? When? Now! Go!
The crossover between being thankful you’re not at the wheel and realizing you’re tied up and you’re in the trunk.
This is the start of a poem I finished when I was 16. It attempts to explain:
The ultraviolence, the end of science, blinding with fundamental flaws. Assumptions.
The ever-lasting vices, lies and lysergic, luminous, laughing and cracked.
Let me tell you about my mother and father. The prince and the pauper. The chosen blood, hardened, raping, mixing with her unclean.
You’ll know why you don’t have to tell me this is a class war. You’ll never need to convince me this is about toxic male white supremacy.
I may even up the ante with my ‘capitalism is a botched attempt to domesticate the human animal’ shtick.
The excess of me, us, we, stains on car cushions, splattered across hotel room walls, smashed up against bathhouse mirrored glass.
The pudding’s proof, left out, sour, molding, bitter and I bit back. Sacrilege, aghora, anathema, counter attack.
It’s on repeat in the other room if you want to go watch. I think I’m still tied to the bed, it’s a real horror show, it’s a mess.
As goes Detroit, so goes the world. It’s a portal for global transformation, but not the way you’ve heard of or will.
It’s a unique node on the construct, a place where the water turns, where crystals churn underneath, where the blood in the river’s still heard.
And the people struggle on and on against hundreds of years of white folk, friend and foe, their systems set on control.
It’s where the other possible world is just another already given away. “Judas!” they say, but even they are military, industrial and complex.
New parties for new workers, re-imagined compliance, makers spaced, DIY cookie-cutter semantics and first-time-stoned philosophies toward a more humane inhumanity, a more just injustice.
Propped up by credentialed dinosaurs shitting corpses, calling gold. Lapped up and lauded by legacy-read and lineage-bread minions, gilded and rearing to go. Offspring of infiltration, intergenerational co-intel pro-fessionals.
As goes Detroit, so goes the world. A portal for global transformation, but not the way you’ve heard of or will.
A unique node on the construct, a place where the water turns, where crystals churn underneath and the blood in the river’s still heard.
And the people struggle on and on against foe and friend, trying to compress and contain what constant, breaks out of their grasp, another possible world that they cannot control.
