after Aubrey Graham
 
I’d bet on the point guard’s cornea
that, from the private cockpit of
some dimly-lit panopticon,
we can see the ways in which
our subtle declarations can
bust up a nightclub. But this is
about dissonance—this is the
self-inflicted isolation that
accompanies an hour-
long break beat—
this is the appropriated
aphorism we’re committed
to drop-topping—
this a slow-jammed
sort of sincerity that we only
emit when inebriated.
But now is not the time
to recommit to Judaic
rituals. We are at a
stage where we can
pretend our
automobiles are
planetariums.
We are at a point
where we have to start
displaying our table
manners with new-found
bravado. We are
at a place where
we will love and
will we emote and
we will YOLO crewneck
through the most
lukewarm neuroses.