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The Pillars of Hip Hop
Dear...
Our parents danced to the same songs
in the same red lit basements but in
different time.
Acrobatic asymmetry and ragged
rhymes were once cipher and new - not
pretense but warning - gravelly parents
of the cannibal arts.
Their records only spun. Too long out,
sometimes, the music stumbles home
amnesic, hopeful to find a nurse.
As I exit, smoke plumes behind me into
the orange night, obscuring great red
walls with chronicles scrawled in dying
alphabets.
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