Ode to Fetty Wap (written after strip club)

...    then Rap Gawd formed a man

from the dust of the auto-tune

&breathed into his nostrils

the breath of Rémy Martin

the man became Fetty Wap.

Rap Gawd saw fit to

make Fetty a counterpart.

so he caused the man to fall into a deep sleep;

while he was sleeping

he took one of the man’s eyes

then closed up the place with flesh.

then the Rap Gawd made a woman

from the eye he had taken out of the man.

the creation story of Fetty

the first trap rapper to make a song

I might play at my wedding.

there’s a choir of church mothers

smiling down on the brown boy

that sings of a woman’s worth

in a culture destined to nullify it.

do you know how long

sisters been waiting

for a brother

to willingly let us hit the bando?

(after patiently explaining what the fuck that means.)

l’union fait la force

your music emblematic of the motto of Haiti

unity makes strength

as we scream SQUAAADDDD!

the weight of that bass

hits hard

like Gawd’s tears

landing on glow in the dark floors

’cause Gawd does not just “cry”

He makes it rain

on a crowd of women

in heels higher than most GPAs

dancing their way through

nursing school

&out of some deadbeat’s

roach-filled 1 bedroom.

the fellas

big brother

arm-wrapped shoulders

singing off-key

about Ki’s &pies

and other shit

they have no real idea about.

the only song in the club

that allows a hetero male

to gaze into the eyes

of another

[suspected] hetero male

and/or stranger

singing his fucking heart out.

make him more mathematician

than murderer

spewing lyrics repping

the urban district’s finest cognac

this

is a black man’s

“Sweet Caroline”

oh, oh, oh!

Fetty, you got me —

I, too, see heaven

peering through

the pearly-gated smile

of that gap-toothed princess

in your video.

I, too, have a glock in my rari —

in the form of a master’s degree

but don’t get it twisted

this summa cum laude bloaw

anytime a motherfucker think

they know me!

&my trap look a lot

like a dimly-lit cafe

with semicold

red stripes

a microphone

a couple judges

but I’ll be damned

if anyone tell me

I ain’t a queen of this shit.

&then I blink

&the bass subsides

&the song fades

into another brother

caring more

about his golden grill

than making the best

of a family business.

&she picks up her ass

her purse

slides off the pole

disappears

into a mixture

of low-budget smoke machines

&catcalling men

wedding bands tangled

in the drawstring of their sweats