Boomed and baped with that machine gun funk fire, boppers wore saggy jeans in 94, baggy from the seams to the screams of black bodies dying. Head nodding, beat rocking beds and boats, blunt rollers toasted, cops and the killer East coasters, Mingus cool and the ugly beauty of colloquialisms, native to your borough, drop deep like the lyrics held captive in the flow. It’s unbelievable.
I like the music of equipment punctuated with grunts and exhalations of grind. Not Grime. Not Trap. Not happy House or Acid. I’ve got enough toxins to deal with just from the warm air in circulation. If it got any warmer we’d be gossiping Harpies haggling for a ride before being escorted away to endure a crimson Carson sterilisation. Banter tonight is who would be a Gunner? Think i’m playing? The noise of the apparatus put into action alkalinises my mind. The silence in the space between an extended hour and leg extensions never sounded better. Yep. Who would be a Gunner tonight. Jolly good thumping and the young men that spoke a good game crumbled. Extended hour never seemed so long as it crawled tonight. Stretched out like her name before me. An apparation. A song in waiting.
Yesterday I felt almost as worn as an old record, but Neo Terra awaits the woken, broken, polka dotted. A sigh. A stumble and a landing, and a neck turned head that isn’t hising. Blushing tongue will pay later. Flushing eyes will smile again. Toxin taxes taxied out of town and laughing longs to crown your heart. Lungs to run the clown out of paper truths. No lie. Lungs so long, you dare not reply. Too much breathing. This is life. A song. The hat of the heart and your hand over it. Held back. Chords that cheer down the upper. Mellow up the downer. Spinner. Head tripping, thinner, like blood to clot, vital too.
We woke up today and watched you walk out of the dry seasons, and run through the scales of the uncertainty that is so dear to you. What would you do without the trigger and the chase of reasons? Hand me your curiosity and drop the grinding axe. We beheaded our love to know about everything. Polytonal like the sweet nothings in a kiss. To know is to know that you will never know why I like the way I feel inside you when i’m outside of me. Riffing without a score, I bet the house I don’t yet own that i’ll never love like that again.
Bring in the Garrison and hold down the fort. Hold that thought while McCoy takes flight. John knows his way in through the back door, and Elvin’s cooking soul food ’round midnight. Anchor the heart that beats in time, the rage of mad men who curve the line, five four, who mend the wings of broken dreams, not gods or monsters, but sacred sinners who swing five for love between the marrow.
And while we’re on the subject of life and the virtues within this mortal coil, living through all senses, and awake to the wonders our eyes breathe in to exhale the fumes of melancholy and her lover’s kiss on the hand that held you back from the possibility of escaping death, a persistent aroma that lingers around you and confides with the fears you try to hide in your past’s pocket, it took less than a moment to find your hope transfixed, with your doubts swept away by the sheltering wind that clothed you when your love was naked. You hear it too.
Napoleon Dozier's Dabbler's Hand 