I’m No Hamlet
 
To dance, or not to dance – that is the question.
Whether ’tis nobler in the candy and phat pants to suffer
the whispers, rolling eyes, and jaded comments
or to take action against the sea of bitter elitists,
and with a spirit of PLUR break them?
 
To dance; to smile; to hug; no more
and by raving to say we end the bickering and thousands of jokes
pacifiers and whistles are heir to.
’Tis a dream devoutly to be dreamt; to dance; to rave
To rave; perchance to feel the vibe once more.
 
Ay, therin lies the rub
for on those decks what vibe may come
when the beats have been spit from the speaker stacks
must give us nods and smiles; There’s the kudos
that make worthy such events.
 
For who would endure the skips and trainwrecks of the DJ,
the quest for map points, the secret info line, the hidden venue,
the searches at the door, the insolence of the Police,
and threats of shutdowns that patient raving of the unworthy venue takes
when he himself might his fun make with a CD and a glowstick?
 
Who would records spin, to revolve and play to an unforgiving crowd,
but that fear of better beats after a set, the undiscovered beat
from whose vibe no raver returns, interests the spirit, and rather makes us bear
the crowded nightclubs, and house parties
than dance in warehouses or open land
we haven’t yet found?
 
Thus raving makes fools of us all
and thus the native oldskooler of our scene
is disturbed with the thought of beats spun to no one
beats of strength and frequency
With this thought his mind becomes boggled
and forget the true thought of the raver.

Impulse, April 2, 2004