the salve trade

all down on perdido street, from san juan to inglewood, up on that bridge, up where the soul trees grow by soul, dance to fantastic information while we kick off the modern world. the whistle sounded good like a kiss on a train. a track below us in the cabinet in the tunnel under the water. a steady boom to lift us out. nobody lived, not without digging, but he wore that ivory waistcoat and we loved to see that shit. I love my people too much to be around them at school. I slip underneath the cinema tree, move myself in half, dance to fray, write a paper on the salve trade. the big fat women and the heliocopters they bring with them to watch them and their kids. whole long- ass sheets of improper names. we refused to act right at the hospital and I was right with ’em. at the wrong time I started reading my paper and ash flew from their big ol’ legs. we rub down and dance everyday at the broke clinic and I was right with ’em. johnny griffin turns to this long burning to pray for fire. make a song about the sky they stole. if you ain’t gon’ get down then what you come here for? what they bring your ass up in here for if you ain’t gon’ tear shit up? if you wasn’t just as happy to be here as you was to come then what you gon’ do, simple motherfucker? the salve trade