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From 6 to 10 on a Friday night, in a little brick building stashed amid the neglect of Euclid Avenue, black kids get to be gay without looking over their shoulders. " screams Poetry, a hulking figure who prances around in socks and a shirt that reads, "You don't have to be Chinese to enjoy my wang." The rent-a-DJ feeds more juice into the mixer, spitting out something akin to African-tribal-rhythms-meets-industrial-techno. He's done this gig before, and it's no bar mitzvah. Two guys move to the center, one wearing red throwback hightops, the other's ears bejeweled in diamond-encrusted marijuana leaves.