“Colorful rag bodies draped about like notes without a clear rout to tha finish line. Story reads from left to right while he left ride upon to device lines. West to east you better keep your time. Last bus might stop in world you don’t recognize. Fuck everything he thought he knew before two sides to this shit bipolar apposition struggle when wrong came thru rights door. While stopped at the intersection between old an new streets. One from the past the other his future dreams. Steady salutin a higher protector hands clenched to different selection held to sky with tatter’d wings he now fly’s it feels good alright next stop locke high”

Terrace Martin