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LO-FI/HIP-HOP OFFICE Geoffrey Ayers
The lampshade is lit like two mixing bowls on the moon, spilling their light into space. So I hop on the photon trail, charcoal carbonated pilgrim fumbling and throttling— accelerating through the office on an electric yacht. Whizzing past the hubbub and bustle of the streets of Minneapolis, I swoop through the gritty grouts on the sidewalks and then veer upward to ear level and listen to the poetry of wizened steps on concrete and TMZ gossip. The saddling of the seats on the cars that zip past is the worst of Tuesdays tiptoe from Mondays start. But even the white squirrels on twin oaks hide their precious goods. So on the sun-scattered sidewalk of Dinkytown I’ll whoop and yell, chest floating and eyes strobing.
