Scraping myself from the sidewalk. Jumping from rivers to bridges. Drowning in pure air. Hip-hop is lying on the side of the road half dead to itself. Blood scrawled over its mangled flesh like jazz. Stuffed into an over- sized record bag. Tuba lips swollen beyond recognition. Diamond studded teeth strewn like rice at karma’s wedding. The ring bearer bore bad news. Minister of Information wrote the wrong proclamation. Now everyone’s singing the wrong song. Dissonant chords find necks like nooses. That NGH kicked the chair from under my feet. Harlem Shaking from a rope, but still on beat. Damn that loop is tight! NGH found a way to sample the way, the truth, the light. Can’t wait to play myself at the party tonight. NGHs are gonna die! Cop car swerves to the side of the road. Hip-hop takes its last breath. The cop scrawls vernacular manslaughter onto his yellow pad, then balls the paper into his hands, deciding he’d rather freestyle. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to remain silent.
