Evocations: district​.​Columbia

by Mister E. Menachem

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The album "Evocations: district.Columbia" is an experimental narrative sound art exploration into the text of the collection, "district.Columbia" releasing the first single, "New America" to incite the forthcoming album on the inaugural day of Aboriginal Awareness Week in Canada is auspicious and serendipitous in its symbolic import as an album whose narrations were triggered by an inner voice of resistance while in Washington D.C. where I began to dedicate myself to the literary vocation in light of my own personal development in the commission of truth, as in the social justice of 9/11 and Truth and Reconciliation truth commissions addressing political and historical-religious misinformation.

my creative work is in keeping with a lifelong demonstration to voice silenced histories, in honour and recognition of the atrocities committed against first peoples of the land, whose history, while older and more enduring, while land-based and unfathomably rich, is snuffed out by the dominant settler narratives of media and education that continue to ride the oppressive waves of war, colonization and assimilation in the ongoing struggle for american freedom that continues to this day.

"Evocations: district.Columbia" is a sounding directly from the heart, unmediated by the delusional independence of exclusive american identity, for an end to the war on freedom


released June 18, 2013



all rights reserved


Mister E. Menachem Brooklyn, New York

My ancestors are from the lands in and around what is now Norway, Poland, Germany and Greece. They lived above the Arctic Circle, spoke Yiddish, were Romaniote Greek, English settlers during the revolutionary war of America, and from Germany pioneered in 19th century Alberta, Canada where they also took Blackfoot names. They were buried in religious fame; and so I also go by Menachem ben Asser. ... more

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Track Name: New America
a picturesque blare
in the growth attack spotlight
owning the North-coast

in a ruckus of jeering talk,
the bloated dish-turning gazes bleed fixedly
into a wide outpouring shore
still towering over an African haze
thawing the greedy

names tearing at the throat from the machete claw
breaking apart the vocal chord forests
dreamt in saw-cleared eyes
during the infamous winter of English settlement
from the prized mouth and stomach of burnt corn
and lacrosse pages, ruffling in the French-Canadian afternoon

who remembers with sterling grace
and an ease unbeknownst in the blank wilderness of Western memory,
the oral grave of intergenerational strife
digging itself extra corpses to save face in the final rain of time,
commanding the blind ruthless execution of the utmost,
the most fine,
coercing the black hawk’s smothered and festooned plate
sealed over the top of the asterisk helmet at noon-time email remorse,
to send negligent hate into the Muslim morning
and take advantage of war
while cursing the émigré poor
who climb the ladder to your third story bedroom
with a sharp quaking mind's eye

peering into the holy unknown,
a clear emotion
offered plainly to the free will of un-survived human freedom
in childless futures,
go forth!

Track Name: Morning Dew
your eyes crack open
with subtle wanting
in the cold



filling your smile
with dawn's twilit dew
in the rush and pour of warming lust
to be near and speak loving endlessness
into your responsive tongue
that clings eagerly
to the rolling birth of tragedy
in my arms
pulsing with exotic love
to cool the diligent reckoning

with the unforgiving pull,
a soft whirr from the sky's clear vacuum
the rusty kisses of lips gone stale
with a life
lived too long
Track Name: Holy Rope
Holy rope glean
Setting off the executioner’s raffle
In a dream state turning the mind
To a pentatonic, indigenous scale
To the antique buzz in our lonely natural surroundings
That prepares a decadent life

Amidst the misty hilltop laughter
That echoes in the contemplative breath on high
Track Name: America! America!
America! America!

America! Why have you buried your deepest, darkest secrets in whispers unheard? Yours is a truth disguised in a white blur as brilliant as the green-footed greed of mad industry. Why do you never step lightly off the strength of Europe's forests, onto world mystery reduced to cartography?

What is your name? And since when have you dreamed so shamelessly without thought to the diligent right to be in peace on Earth? Where is your life, if not in the decadent splendor of your shared riches? Why have you become poor with anger, and offered only suicide to your stout-hearted mob?

I have been known to conceive a country out from the spotless lie of hidden wonder, yet I cruelly disembark from the gross unlearning of my future's childless offspring. I cook for days over the melting pot. While my stove is cast aflame, I remain transfixed by the looming sky, eclipsed under a bloody moon - The Springs foretold.
Track Name: Lugubrious Background
A paradigmatic focus
Careening into the absolute beyond
Across a Zuni passageway to the pueblo god,
A local currency in stonework and mud-laden factories of 4 and 7
Meandering into the nervous plug of human fire
Uncreated instantaneously
In the muddled birdcage wandering off a steaming factory
Unplanned off the aspiring edge of small town fame
Glowering in the lugubrious background of a juvenile
Staved off in matter’s roving blockhead gourd body
Plunging its eyes into acid water full with psychedelic vibrations
Nearing an electromagnetic haze
In wonderment by lost forsaken pride
Seated behind piano benches creaking
As Monk sways to the jazz tonality in the bridge beyond NYC night divide,
The lightless ruins, now golden by African wives
Challenging the gunshot parade of men with sex slaves and witch doctor friends
Making films and records without shoes
On the medieval sands of the Islamic family and the eternal human tradition of bondage
Throughout the sanctified fields of one human home
Lived to the final digression into creative madness and the right to be
As connected as all beings
With electric happiness
Track Name: Untrained Timeless Tuning
Untrained Timeless Tuning

One proud, unseemly yet everlasting hoary wind
Escaping into the breathless fold of a storm-brought love
Escalating above the tumult of grounded trees
Lowered to rest in the silent play of her touch
With Mother Nature in lust at the American shoulder-sculpted God

President of inveterate honor
Failing to maintain true gaze
Into the outpouring blind Persian mystic call
To fray our sterling enveloped studio message

Apart from the leaking gauze
A city, wounded with loosening fear

A deadly oath

Rushing towards early traffic in the Brazilian grist

A panicking pleasure on Wednesday
Mid-week business urge to blaspheme the classical
Station of the near-retired family prize

Where loss disturbs the graying open
In a lawn-tempered drive through perfect memory
In the ingenious art
Instilled as ice on the brain
In a factory filled with fish-worn Guatemalan eyes
Beating on the beached flesh of an antiquarian whale
Bone-dry with anxious grace
Peaceful with a warming hatred
Bringing in close seeds, fostered yet unprepared for the raised urban soil
Feeding off the solar imprint of ancestral law

In northern skies, thinning in an atmospheric sense
Towards dismayed reason
Over all human failings, since recorded time
Since the fine rumblings of surplus rent astir religious imaginings
In caves of word-horded greed

Angelic money in the form of ideas

Bled on the knife-edge cloak-whispering cold of Calgary’s busted future
To sweep the blue rug of worldly instrumentation
Catching on the tongue of the popular drug
Inside song and the vocal push to color and make lush
The southerly child and the unredeemed passion
Inside the traumatized infancy
Resonating to heart’s untrained timeless tuning