What is deep house. Many people think that deep house its just a rhythm. Noo! Deep house is a rhythm that speaks to our soul and flow make us dance. The spirit of deep rhythm touch our soul. Other people says I love this would yeah is because of love of music. The brightness and the light of deep will never be dem. Escaping from no rhyme to rhyme. Is luck success. We say we've been bladed by other hide spirit of the deep rhythm inside. Life without deep house music is like light without switch. The light must be bright to bright up the would. Deep house is the beat, deep house is a spirit ,deep house is love and joy ,deep house is untouchable love. But you can feel it   I've been hiding my feeling of music inside ******* of rock they used many materials to can removed the graphical feeling inside the rock. But they failed wise man said let's spin the deck and put speaker next to the rock push play button .the love of deep house explode out. They call me hidlacore deejay graphic. I'm on lucky I'm blessed by the love of deep house music the love I have is unconditional

You at least went.
so that meant the party could finally be awkward.
that's homeroom
at your personal Harvard
your low self esteem was the head dean
[ claimed you had promise ]
then promptly vomits
but you promised to maim
your lollipops with hot topic's
most goth  night-shade of hemlock
iron-on, henna tattoos
for your thin lips.
like two gates
to a birdcage
where you keep
ravens...
pecking the tip of your tongue
where your brave words die
for lack of oxygen... pecking
the flesh off the skeleton key
to the heart of your insightful
comment,... stymied -
a black raven
savors the succulent eyes
of your hurricanes, so
braille maps for blind rage
fly off the shelves... fly like
led zeppelins to
fresh hell.
you lose your window seat
on the wing of a prayer
to Charles Bukowski.
now you're scowling a gilded smile
at all the Ed Hardlys'...
good thing you brought Jello Biafra Shots
to the shindig... cubes of gelatinous absinthe
each with a sugar box
lodged in supermax insecurity prisms...
fey emeralds.
monochrome rubicons
you pop
when cross.

like wainscoting the panic room
that came with a deejay
who thinks you're
a boy who got
lost.

We like to dance
Feet moving in a trance
Transition to a different stance
All of us jump and prance

We get in a groove
People’s rhythmic motion is smooth
The head banging is proof
Dancer’s enjoying the beat and *****

With Deejay YouTube on rotation
Music revives the good sensation
As boys and girls pair up to charleston
The vibe is lively in Camden

Everyone is revelling
In the style of crip walking
Zimmer frames towards the ceiling
As the old start break dancing

My identity has been stolen enough times now

Four or five different people use my name with six different credit cards

I’ll clean them up, then ill be the real Johnny Appleseed again.  In no time,

Fine

... enough echoes have made it from the deejay to the tenders tip to the whisper, and enough men have checked up on that, silently,toward myself. When it’s all said and done, it’s still my fault. Then I need to find the next place to go...


And you know?  You’ll find me, eventually, at the starbucks furthest north in the northwest corner, blasting “Bulls on Parade,” enjoying the pints of beer and



Creamer in my coffee

Lets settle down to the quiet storm
And listen to the beat of our favorite song
Lets call the deejay baby
And explore this love that we've found
You look so beautiful to me pretty lady
Like a star shining so bright
I'll teach you what my love can do
So softly in the night
So softly in the night
So softly in the night
We shared a secret that could last forever
So softly in the night
So softly in the night
We cherish every moment that we spent together
There was something that our hearts was missing
That we soon discovered through our hugs and kissing
We fell into ecstasy as we awaited the morning light
Yesterday you told what our love really means
So softly in the night
So Softly in the night

You Facebook messaged me today.
**** it’s been a month or two!
I remember at Velvet I tried
to be like Lennon to your friend Roxy!
“dance?” I said, raising my arms; eye contact; smile.
She smiled and said, “Oh no that’s ok…”
“Ok, I’m not John Lennon haha…”
Twenty mins go by. I lit a jack.
You and I geeked about Murakami.
I was three Natty bo’s deep. I glanced up; rain fell
Your friend Sara pushed up her huge [ellipses] umbrella.
You mentioned your boyfriend is a Deejay at Flash.
You Facebook messaged me today.

friday morning,
we wake up hungover
from last night's binge drinking,
because even though we love our jobs,
no one really wants to work for their entire lives,
when so many things are unanswered,
perverted, and misconstrued.  
hashtag all of those millennial catchphrases,
to garner hearts from your friends
who you haven't seen in years,
friends who work in San Fran,
Chicago, Greenwich Village.
crank up your laptop speakers,
as Neon Indian's Polish Girl
plays that **** synth,
and take a drag from a P-Funk,
before your Grandma hits your
shoulder with the newspaper daily—
right after she speaks in Vietnamese,
asking you what is your name,
because she has Alzheimer’s.
but in these social media days,
isn't everything that is worth mentioning to your sister,
everything that is worth fighting for,
everything that is ****** in this world,
on the internet (maybe, just Twitter tbh).
screenshot the cat meme you like,
save it,
share it,
move on.
if only she wasn't allergic to cats,
maybe it could have worked out.
that was 7 years ago.
—*** ova it. Then, mix your red bull with your coffee,
because the next 10 hours of your life,
will be revolving around caring about people
other than your ungrateful and ingratiating ***.
don't cry,
when I say good-bye.
stay for a while, under the shade of the rooftop
where the deejay spins Frank Ocean
and Frank Sinatra records,
as everyone is drinking scotch, or Yuengling,
and ashing over the veranda bansister,
; the bad boys try to open their souls
to the good girls. and the bad girls,
reveal too much to the good boys.
we devoured those drugs, as though
they were jelly beans from a convenience store,
and then we broke into the store
and ate some more.
break the coals on top of the hookah,
puff, puff, pass—
inhale, exhale,
fit the deformed piece
back into the Dinosaur puzzle,
and crawl back into bed,
pull the covers over
your trembling body,
shut your eyes,
and reflect,
for the day is heavy with regret
and unsaid things.

Here I am, dancing,
plastic wine glass full of that purple
dream, that cabaret sleep. By the deejay yelling
requests to be played.
Then there's photos, there's selfies, there's
a hand on my *** because "What? It's funny!"

Alone. Again. So alone, I fear that I might go insane
from want, from jealousy, as they waffle their fingers
together, cleanly. I watch. I dance some more,
moving my hand through my hair because I know how that makes
some men feel. And you? And you. Not here, but as loud as the
wind that wakes me up the next morning.
Not here.

As the beat breaks,
the floor trembles,
the records spin, and we
all dance
on the hardwood floor
covered in spilt beer
cocktail napkins,
at a house show in DC,
where I'll always remember
rushing on the stage
and waving my cellphone,
as though I brightened
the light in a beacon
tucked away in a lighthouse
on a grotesque rock formation,
in the corner of the James River.
I studied her movements:
tiny and minute,
enough to bring exposure
to the deejay scratching records
on a set of turntables,
cut from a maple tree.
The lights cut off,
like a road raged driver
who maneuvers frantically
around my vehicle,
this vessel containing my space,
personal and untouched,
a lonely cabin in a dense forest.
Now I'm considering whether
I should break the beer bottle over
the bar booth, or send her an emoji, a meme, or a gif,
to let her know my heart
possesses multitudes,
beyond the scope of your timeline. Found life in
the bottom of a Murakami Well
deeper and larger than the cavern
behind the hidden waterfall,
in a tourist attraction in Chattanooga.
This is for when I'm sorry; make me
forget
about drawings you’ve sketched
on the back of your pair of converses.
So do me a solid,
give me the first home video
of your newborn crawling around
the carpet, or the dance floor.
And then tell me why can't I be great too.

God is the world's radio station, Jesus is the deejay, and the Holy Spirit is the frequency, tune in and be blessed

Who didst unknowingly, unquestionably,
and unwittingly script vitality
and the prologue to Thanksgiving,
(which theme poem initially written)
about three hundred and ninety seven years,
and nine months after February third 1621,
yet genesis of American November tradition
pronouncing Meleagris gallopavo domestico
sacrificial bird spurred them to revolt enmasse.

Wise no adulation, dedication and gratification
not emphasized the other three hundred
and sixty four days a year
question their role as consumed
end product of taxidermist,
gnome hatter clucks fie against industry where
when thanksgiving gobbledygook brouhaha
glib lets deified whereat
a countless range of turkeys sacrificed veer

rill lee with commendable,
gratuitous and laudatory plaudits
bequeathed to the cook,
who held as the grand umpire
calling bastes time to bring in the pitcher -
though such an action tends
tubby viewed as fowl, with tail feathers there
be fluttering in sync with shutterfly flapping
at least one angry bird

sent to the slaughterhouse -
whose peck within four square
foot locker enclosure
breeds base sill wrath bone,
which Birdseye view dispensed,
though tis grim fate
doth behoove turkeys to rear
up and protest their predestination
forbidding grim intuition

via special Turkish communication
from axe of cruelty,
the butcher will not deem queer
yet questions pop up why
this singular twenty four hour
Fitbit of time fosters the people
to summon beneficence,
and when whatsapp did appear
rent lee clinched this American custom

squawks back hundreds of years
sans "The First Thanksgiving,"
a spontaneous oscillometer
ocular venerated, feted,
and celebrated requisitioned,
when Governor William Bradford
organized a three-day long feast near
the tip of Cape Cod,
which was too far north
of intended destination.

One month later,
they made maximum headway
to Massachusetts Bay
celebrated Native Americans friends,
the year 1621 feasted
between Pilgrims and Wampanoag
at Plymouth Colony a green day
(know your enemy unsung)
arbitrarily chose spread of turkey,
waterfowl, venison, fish, lobster,

clams, berries, fruit, pumpkin,
and squash mebbe fish fillet
Thanksgiving, currently celebrated
on the fourth Thursday
in November by federal legislation
in 1941 recalling hooray,
or more particularly regaling
the maiden voyage 1620
viz a ship called the Mayflower

ambitiously disembarking stalked
by death and injury
from Plymouth, England
for the New World
after a difficult battle at sea
that lasted 66 days;
the 102 passengers roped a deejay,
which essentially doubled up as conductor,
and struck up psalm songs

for a guiding buoyant gull
they named Oak Kay
of the Mayflower landed near
and the Pilgrims began
to build a new home at Plymouth,
whence an annual tradition hay
begat by founding fathers and Mother Nature
incorporating some marketing spin,
thence United States

by presidential proclamation and fiat Gerry
rigged obeisance (essentially honoring
those brave hearts
that dared traverse
the Atlantic Ocean
without life jackets nor a whit,
they didst courageously ferry
themselves in a rickety craft
(where many perished at sea)

since 1863, and state legislation
since Founding Fathers donned gray
powdered wigs (served
to trumpet political stance)
forging fledgling colonies
slated crude establishments and primitive bidet
wrought forth from deep
within the bowels
of fecund fields broke ranks with Britain,
and pioneered United States array.