And those three beautifully grubby niggas carrying a red velvet couch across Harlem as if the hours, hugging it so tenderly and large in the heart like dripping sand, not knowing weather to laugh or cry/on a mission, but knowing they had an option, a right to choose. They made me wonder if I should blame our music for making ridiculous shit seem so beautiful under the right glance and abandon, I do. He shouted, I do dammit, I do blame the music, I do take this woman to be my lawfully. Somebody (else) be the object so we can be about something again, at least in September, under an entropic certainty. What does this have to do with immortality. Something about your thought forms and your reality uniting, outwitting blindness. Oh, trophy wife, wide beat of childhood inside your favorite looks, nudging them toward invisible prizes like a hooded alphabet, or a pond beside a soul valve, let him love you on the couch once in a while. It must have been Saturday, I was looking out the window.
