Thas whas up. Girl got the baby powder out. That can’t be taught.
I’m walkinn thru Fort Greene Park and it’s banginn and I text Mr. Loving and he knows. I’m sayinnn.
This ain’t the right outfit. I go home and change. Hot pink bra peekinn out the navy blue. Matchinn earrings. Matchinn purse. Yeaa. Everything is lycra. I’m ready to sweat. It’s hot as hell. It ain’t hot yet.
Dig it. He’s in the center. Bodies everywhere. Beats pumpinn. It’s like nineteen ninety eighty seventy whaa. I float through the waves of the crowd like I’m on a raft. My ass goinn up and down. Dudes everywhere. Allow me to rephrase. Old men. Old ladies. Workinn it out. Making me feel young. Like I’m Forever 21. Or 19 even.
“I love you” this guy says, lookinn in my eyes. I give him the thumbs up wonderinn if he dropped a tab. Shirts off. Shirts wet. Arms in the air when the breeze goes by. Water splashinn overhead. Everytime it rains the crowd screams. I can’t get enough.
It’s five o’clock. Maybe more, maybe less. It’s daytime. This is nightclub. Sounds by Sting International for the first Soul Summit of 2012. On the mic, the drop it like it’s hot. Like fifty thousand dollars. I love that. Who says that. Fort Greene WHAT.
Damn, I be that girl from BK and I ain’t from BK but I always knew I’d be. Because who I am is where I am and now I’m tri-boro, baby. I’m poppinn cherries and blueberries and strawberries and mango and we sittinn on a blanket where Jamel Shabazz used ta shoot. And time is collapsing because sound is memory and sound is a time and a place that is now and yesterday. Might even be tomorrow cause a few people brought they kids.
House is a Feelinnn. Damn it feels good.