I write this to the slurred black icky thump of D’Angelo’s “Devil’s Pie” (I know I/was born to die/searching to find/peace of mind), pausing
occasionally in my writing cockpit to look up at the grainy,
overdeveloped black and white Polaroid of my parents on the Hamilton
porch of my girlhood home. There is no phantasmagorical narrative. Their body language tells a sweet story.
Your black-ass president is a fag hag. A fag hag is usually a woman who co-stars
and co-signs in the lives of flamboyantly gay men. Fag hags are pesky cheerleaders buzzing
about meaninglessly to little affect; they are quick to appear down with
gay (and lesbian … dykes have fag hags, too) causes, but it’s all too
much, too little, too late.