Thursday, March 24, 2016

No New Jimmy Choos

Andre Leon Talley, Pardon moi Monsieur, introduce me to that country place of Von Herrs, White Sugar Daddys. Tonight I speak French. Tonight I call up Vincent. We smooth talk hood negresses. Hit up NYC kitchen cupboard queens of underground literati for colloquialism. Like a cocksure East Village Jesus in a Hugo Boss working on a dissertation. We'll turn the Fuck You's into Parlez-Vous. Tall boys in order. Perhaps a shot of Alibaba. Burn smoke into this. It was branding before the white girls got funny about all this got sleeve tattoos and clit rings. Shamama, psychic-kill! Facial exfoliation turning Yoruba housewives into Nollywood Barbarellas. Bronxville flat of a Latino film critic. The fellas get with the others talk New York politics, German Expressionism. I sell them nude portraits of an Italian house sitter. Go where the girls go Iko! Iko! Your NO WAVE, New Wave trend-setting got me noticed. I became Isaac from Bukom. Subliminal Afro technique. Blonde girls doing cartwheels in Harlem shyster basement drug dens. T'is the citizen from Le Frak cut-creating the rewrites for his soon to be urban crime detective novel. Some say love is dead. What do you know about sex you never been a Guy/Gal Friday. You never sold sex to a puppetress, one hand inside her Buddhist husband, the other jerking off a parliamentarian. In the hot decade I god-swiped cafeteria girls from their mothers impressed them with my knowledge of Burt Bacharach. You say Liberace I say La Cucaracha. Some nights she prefers Cosi Fan Tutti Frutti. I like Black Coffee in Bed. Listening to Delphine Blue on WBAI. I make mixed tapes for my love girl. Black appropriation. Even the Polish girls talk honey into me. Brooklyn orgies where the dee-jay plays Johnny Cash hands out condoms covered with graffiti. This is not Anti-Folk. This is country come to Ludlow. This is not Antietam. These are dead bodies dumped into the East River. Candelabra! Candelabra! Dinner with art girls at Shakespeare's Fulcrum. Tomorrow it's Kostabi's kitchen. When they waltzed us all out of our rent-controlled it wasn't with a gun to our head. We got the message. Whatever happened to Kate Spade? No new Jimmy Choos. You'll celebrate your birthday tonight dancing barefoot, pedicured and manicured drinking mimosa with a Brazilian model. Cheers, Ambrosia! Here's to Balthazar Getty! Here's to James Spader! Here's to all them white boys who made your little negra ass bounce.

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