w. l. schafer bass. moog. sax wls777. jazzresin. billysunshine

Friday, June 24, 2011

Where words fail toothsome as they drop off the page. Little scurvy ants there are as the swerve and they sway. We could not forcast the distant change in tether, but the scrawls and seesaw go well together. In that sentient arcadia here and now, layers upon layers she begans to howl. Aurora bright aurora winds down that rOad. Superimposed upon my lovers scowl. Should we tredge forward upon starlit paths? Knowing arachnid dieties guard her wrath. Visitation fractled by your schoolboy fears. A thousand spiraled spider leg it draws you near. Amongst this din a cliffedge is hid. How did u know it my love? To sit indian till the mantra wind lessened. Stop the breathe and just listen. She sews up your lungs invisible threads glisten. Blessings tidings you live again.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

On the corner the musician must become more than just that: they must become the magician, the Shaman, the Jester Holy fool, jesus on the cross for Christ's sake (literal not figurative) and of course never forget, Cold straight up Hustler. Like the GodsEye on a Paracide, not only the living observe, as the surroundings take on a larger stage. The great Spirit favors (and torments) those whom bring the drama. Take very little personal and certainly step into your metathespian shoes as you rewrite the flow of reality around you......it's an ancient little understood artform- streetmusic. The money one earns is often blessed transforming a dime to a dolla, twobits a portrait of Lincoln. On a real good night dollars metamorph cubed into fur coated Franklins wry lusty smile. The true blessing is the authentic egolessness of that sense of automatic; one becomes a filter for EtwasAnderes, something other. The gleam of a child's eye listening to real live music for the first time is THE greatest treasure beyond any material wealth for something immortal is exchanged in the light of the glimmer.