Maison

Comsi. House. There ain't nothing like it, it's crack for the soul, it summons the
dead and brings back Orishas, Shamans, Santeros and Curanderas. Changgo talkin to him
tonight like he never has before.
It still slips out now and thien, ma cherie, but he picks up fast; from city to
town to village to barrio to ghetto. He, a good listener ever since he was a young
toddlah.
"Bonjou!" was the first word he learned, not mama not papa, well it;d be weird to
say papa when there weren't none present until late, but y'all do know what
happened thea'

“ MERDEEEEEE! If I see ya mothah fucking face here evah agin’.." Ces't Bon, no
need to continue, ya know the rest, oui?

His feet callused now like sandstone tread on from the gravel; the railroad;
the sand and the grass to here; an abandoned church where pews have become a
a place to play not pray. So here he is inside the soul of House Music, moving
every particle of his body. It's really the closest activity comparable to courier,
where he can completely feel everything and be devoid of all things.
No, no drugs, alcohol nor even sex can gratify when he is in constant motion
especially when the endorphins have come undone. It don't matter if he ran to a
place named after a city he has no desire to run to, but here where the House is
King and Queen alike; where degenerates regenerate; where men buy breasts
for themselves and where gender is a aphasia, he may and just might stay put.