ABSTRACT
The second battle of 2016 felt progressive as the words released themselves from the chamber of the structured and de-structured self. The tournament revealed a second place end for me, with the last opponent prevailing in overtime. My skills are nearly back to where they need to be to “restroy and debuild,” to borrow from Brooklyn’s theopoet MC Curly Castro. 1 The instrumentals over which our swords met were classic, prehensions of the nineties era of boom-bap’s greatness. They are God and reminded me of God. In the midst of the theopoetic blood that was shed upon the floors of the ears that heard the war, several Gods died. Because several died, several more were reborn in the energy of the juice within which creativity swims. Both my opponent and I shake hands after our blows of novelty shattered each other’s complacency, persuading us to re-create ourselves and our world in the midst of the new Gods we birthed in the struggle to underlie the “next universe.” This reminds me of the khora, where the universal majic is performed … by the chaotic nexus that is us.
