bitches brew

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we were able to crawl in-between the spaces
where there was no sound
and really dissect, I mean really get into
what the music was doing to our ears
our hips, our necks, our molecules-
we proclaimed John McLaughlin to be a god
reining sheet metal over our heads
in the most pleasant and intellectually satisfying
way possible, the dissonant breeze,
the twitches of noise crawling
to our amusement, we inhaled life on record
after record
we swallowed it whole, funk juice down our chins

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