I tag like a 15 year-old kid in the South Bronx with a box full of Krylons and a yard full of freshly sandblasted cars.
I tag like I just got jumped by a handful of punks who made the mistake of letting me follow them to their trailer park homes adorned with freshly cleaned aluminum siding.
I tag like I get told who I am, what I’m supposed to believe and how I’m supposed to act on a daily basis.
I go all city, hoping that one day, the vehicles I’ve touched get stitched together to form a complete sentence.
I tag because I saw you leave your mark and it was dope.
I tag because I know how to freeze, watch TV and (kinda) avoid the kissing bugs.
I tag because the words I drop in time will find a way to form a cohesive rhyme.
I tag because the world may be getting smaller, but it’s damn sure not coming together.
I tag your name, your spot, your position, your mood, your frame of mind when it’s too hard for you to see it for yourself.
I tag the expected terms of modern constructs.
I tag the post-modern undercurrents of miscellaneous descriptors.
I tag my tags so that when structure is forged out of chaos, you’ll know how to find me.
I tag so that it’s me you won’t be looking for.
When I tag, I’m regurgitating the meal I’ve caught for the chicks in my roost.
When I tag, I feel one with the universe of the collective unconscious.
When I tag, I can see the pillars of control quaking in their foundation.
When I tag, I experience therefore I understand.
When we tag, anything is possible.