Silent Slave Auction: Solange and Jay Z on the Block

Propaganda again, God, again, Serge Gainsbourg are lyrics relevant again and forever, New York, USA—I knew I'd see the day in black and white and lazy eyed american green room green with the volume delightfully and eternally muted/scenic acoustics, when a professional rapper turned professional husband would off the Huxtable myth like a beige Cinderella's pump at midnight. Pump is an outdated way, just say stiletto or red bottom, Othello / other woman / mellow / gold-in-training for the white teeth of dainty soldiers, your soul,  I'm mad I know the terminology, I'm grateful. Midnight is an outdated fairytale grace, and niggas are outdated and dazed, my favorite Cinderella ran as fast as a savior, and made it, in that dream, and became a windmill millionaire mammy meme saying hit me again with sugar aflow in her empty bowl—I remember how it feels to want to turn a black man to dust just because some days, the heroic way what can't be articulated and isn't scorn and is only a forlorn and unkempt and contemptuous love, can be danced, choreographed in a Standard hotel elevator like the ones we take down to the lobby in broken stilettos early in the morning after a night of wine and mating, we all made it!, through, the sky is the new underground byway archive of the lies or lives wade in and waitin, and my fugitivity sleeps soundly in my fists some nights too, two shots of espresso later it's just another day, another form of courage, how playful and fable it feels to watch your own life on a silenced surveillance camera and know you never make mistakes.