Usually, we lose power along the T-shaped
intersection where I live in Walnut Hills when somebody spits on the
sidewalk or a moderate wind blows through. So when the lights flickered
the first time in TJ Maxx, I knew what was up.
Postmodern black American enslavement is quite a spectacle. Witness the temporary thunderclap of
comfort and the blinding shinola emitting from the upper middle classes
every time a black American charges an expensive purchase or, better
yet, uses payday Friday bill money to floss. All black everything.
Rodney King, long the butt of so many
jokes with lead-ins about failed civil rights, police brutality, racism
and profiling in the era of Arsenio Hall and NWA at the dawn of
videotaping everything before the “broadcast yourself” edict of
YouTube, the self-flagellating narcissism of reality TV and the faked
friendliness of Facebook, was found dead Sunday at the bottom of the
swimming pool he’d built himself inlaid with tiles with two dates.
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.