so this is the song we play. here is our dance. you look at me, innocent as a new lamb entering the world. tell me you love me. kiss me goodbye. hang up the phone. then you scribble some little angry remark and post it. and I? I look up at you and smile ever so sweetly as you mill about the room, or eat the sandwich that I, for the hunger of my love, rescued from the jaws of lame co-workers, and its my turn to hammer away at the keys like liberace on speed, playing out my angry tune as retort. they say that call and response is a fundamental part of black music, it’s at the root of who we are as products both of africa and this “new” world [thank you, mr. baraka.]. who knew it would pervade our love making as much as it does our ass shaking? (of course you know, I took liberties with that last sentence…parallelism above all things, mi amigo…I never met a trope or a scheme I didn’t like)