my thinking consistently leads me down a path where early Hip Hop, urban blight, and the legacy of Robert Moses intersect. This apparition has taken on the form of paintings made on cracked walls; installations with the striking scent of Vicks VapoRub and aging abuelitas; spoken prose interrupted by dissonant melodies; and On 2 Salsa choreography riddled with spastic movements. However, the visceral experience of growing up in the Bronx of the early eighties continues to keep me up at night. I can still feel the tug of its infamous reputation as I sleepwalk through the hallways of the pre-war buildings south of the 95, spared the bulldozing of the late 40s and the flames of the 70s. I’m pulled further down its fiery past when I visit the tenants that have lived there since and, for that short time, commune with the Nuyorican Poets awaiting a rooster’s crow as we sip Bustelo in purgatory.