we’re writ with juan. you must’ve broken the tuner on Amsterdam and 127th, dancing for the barrio under the nom de plume: coiffeur of chivalries, but rained upon, (in this city) a corpus chorus of beats and’ll dance in the face of anyone.
at the end of natural flight, slurred steps. big strokes of lone casemate leaps, dates signal headwaters ahead. a bend in your fog for a few flying graves to follow you through. graves filled with mood-valets; putrid peons.