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drowning in the broun sound. dreadlocks flailing. sax wailing. bass
thumping. drum beats bumping. ching-ching-ching of the high hat tickles my ears... vodka induced buzz. i sit back checking visions of pale blank visages. ‘jes grew' hasn't invaded but a few bodies counted on one hand. no pumping fists, no bobbing heads, no ululation. vodka's got me open. open to the good the bad the ugly. i peep my boy D. shiny chocolate skulled. donned in vestments of the streets. gold hoop lodged in his earlobe. ambassador of hip hop. jams knowledge through 106 plus megahertz of airwaves into the domes of the uninitiated. brother extraordinaire. pure of heart. pristine blood. pasty-pale saxon maiden sidles up to D. ghost of attitudes past swirls around her as she runs a red lacquered fingernail up and down imaginary tracks on D's sleeve, red waxed lips pouting, breasts quivering and thighs vibrating in sausage casing clothes. D gives pasty-pale saxon maiden a questioning look. 'hey, bay-bee, you got any smoke? i wanna get high,' old girl meows. D jumps back. taken aback by pasty-pale saxon maiden's insolence/ignorance. 'smoke?' my boy calls out in astonishment. 'no pot, honey?' old girl whines. 'what else you got?' 'no drugs on my person or in my person.' 'whaaaat?' pasty-pale saxon maiden cries. 'umh-humm. don't sell drugs. don't partake. i just bring peace and happiness to folks,' D clowns. 'mmmm,' she purrs clawing at him. 'why don't you bring me a piece of happiness, bay-bee.' with that D adroitly/politely excuses himself . fades into the night. but he can't fade the ghost of attitudes past.
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