I. we move like smoke through a wall of bodies--- wet from funk, climbin' outta' pores like worms crawlin' through soft dirt... tryna' find clearin' on a crowd'd dance floor... waitin' for the dj to take us there...take us where we're buoyant bodies; a smoke screen driftin' from a balsamin' black&mild & the needle's a fingernail scratchin' the vinyl backside of the solar system on rotation paul beatty defined the record as the universe a hundred light-years away from earth, where depth perception disappears... "if you could play creation on a turntable, what would it sound like?" II. tonight, the dj's a hoodoo priest workin' the mojo hand to the turntables--- conjurin' stars to take their place on the wall as reflections through club lights beamin' offa' shiny body dresses makin' chocolate behinds collidin' disco globes, hung like dance floor ornaments... III. tonight, a sista's thighs be a wreckin' ball of percussion beatin' jelly-rhythms off a brutha's pelvic bone darin' bruthas to hurt themselves on those hips; an 8 second bull-ride, before they're thrown to seclusion with their egos wound'd. IV. we open'd pandora's box, exorcisin' our dancin' demons in a march pit of perversion, testosterone & estrogen meshin' in a humid club with hot air mistin' on our epidermis V. we shed our bodies like butterflies, breakin' through their cocoons movin' as shadows under a full moon... movin' liquid-like, almost... VI. tonight, the club is a molasses jar pack'd to full compacity.