Many people have cited the absence of *drKiwi* as the first sign of my downfall. I may agree. Well, we spoke today. We’re getting closer and passed the hang up’s of before. She was good to me, I was good to her. Thing is, I sinned against women. And Jamaica, if we’re being ambiguously honest (figure it out).
But as the conversation rolled on, my homoerotic brick wall crumbled, and I was back in puppy love with…
Simone Porter.
We talked about everything. The rise and fall of us, our influence, justice, rage, copycats… she’s still as sharp as ever. She just doesn’t write anymore. Shit, neither do I. Sidebar, I may get back into writing full time. It’s a feeling. Back to regularly scheduled, I can’t front like I’m not under her control. She has a swag that consoles you as it puts your lights out. I’m not even thinking about sex. I can’t handle sex with anyone at this point. I CAN, however, trust Miss Porter.
I don’t want to be like this. Love shouldn’t motivate my life this way. I’m dependent on love. I’m gonna rock these shows, for the love of Dre and Leroy. I’m gonna get fly, for the love of Porter. I already don’t harm myself for the love of YOU.
I imagine Sun Ra being critically suicidal. To imagine what a piano can do, OUTSIDE of playing melodies, is a task for the human mind. The nigga had an orchestra (Arkestra, rather). He probably couldn’t get the music out of his body fast enough.
I love you, Miss Porter. But you know that.
Let time be the judge of what we already put into The Universe…
I know. Briana. But she was post-Porter and… yeah. I guess I need a shot like that rn…
#CzH
