/reading/ 2 min read 311 words 11 links

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#poetry

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To program a drumbeat is to align an external rhythmic device to an individual’s biorhythm. — location: 158 ^ref-19092

Trigger sound. Trigger gun. Drum machine. Machine gun. — location: 573 ^ref-52402

The wind plays the world like an instrument. Blows through trees like flutes. But trees won’t grow in cement. And as heart beats bring percussion fallen trees bring repercussions. Cities play upon our souls like broken drums. — location: 669 ^ref-5228

Slaves to city streets. Where hearts get broken when heartbeats stop. Broken heartbeats become break-beats for NGHs to rhyme on top. — location: 675 ^ref-50923

NGH WHT, I represent the truth you claim to be. The hero of the eastern sky, the storm’s eye, westerly. Rough, rugged, raw, eternal law recited over beats. Some poetry to oversee the dance floor and the streets. — location: 778 ^ref-48845

I am no earthling. I drink moonshine on Mars and mistake meteors for stars ’cause I can’t hold my liquor. But I can hold my breath and ascend like wind to the black hole and play galaxophones on the fire escape of your soul. — location: 924 ^ref-43771

As is the science of the aroma of sleeping women.” — location: 961 ^ref-43683

In the beginning her tears were the long awaited rains of a parched Somali village. Red dusted children danced shadows in the newfound mounds of mascara that eclipsed her face, reflected in the smogged glass of Carlos’ East Street bodega. — location: 965 ^ref-15019

Beneath the surface of our purpose lies rumor of ancient rain. Dressed in cloud-face, minstrels the sky. The moon’s my mammy. The storm holds my eye. — location: 990 ^ref-31213