You could, if you wanted, go to NYC, and then to 9 East 71st Street. You could revel, revile, snap a shot.
You could, if you want, go to NYC, and 9 East 71st Street. Be there, happen there, happen to be there.
If you want.
Snap a digital shot? Sure! Snap digits, snap fingers, snap dead ringers, snap the dodge, the draft doge dodge, in homage. In homage of NYC, fingers, snaps, raps, snappy pixels:
“They were not no black kids working their ass off in no ditch digger alley lonesome valley, climbing the walls of fort, Fort Fortitude, Green Valley, volley a regiment guise, disquisition, dis quiz, love mama have breakfast in bed,”
For California, virgin territory, though symbolized by big bear, grizz, and the righteous, who are numerous, and let young kids into a gallery, wearing boxer rebellion, smacking lips, is part of USA, because USA is part of the world, and which part don’t matter much.
Has been dubbed steward of the woowarld, messanger of my black so solemn angry mess neutral, so neutral, so black top, so asphalt, nip into ale, for a young kid, looking back on black momma, wants her some trinkets, wants her to know love resides, buys a ticket, wants momma slow as to be, wrinkled up a walkway, blocked way, to have ringside seats. Muhummad Ali?
We took care of him?
Spam of Human Affection 
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