We’ll all sit on the balcony, watching the project houses disappear. One and two, and gone. We’ll sit and watch as dust vanishes into the machine-ghost whirlwind of modern living as our ruptured backbones ride pedal-first into wherever, beckoning a flood of sport utility and moderately priced sedans into high rises among projects.
“Has the keg floated yet?”
Bass. Lots of bass to knock hard bowling-ball booties together. Lil’ John, Lil’ Kim, Lil’ Mo. Lil’ hearts in the Lil’ night bumping, grinding. Come in. The men and women of projects are falling out of their windows, tired and hungry. Let’s get drunk. Let’s shake some ass, yuppies.