MARY J. BLIGE SINGS “NO ONE WILL DO”

James Brown’s waxed face graces the New York Post
Carnival starts in Harlem two months early

All of Soul Nation steps to the curb and kicks it
SAY IT LOUD

Oh Verily, his brilliantine hair, tight pants, and tiny dancing feet laid out
BEAUTIFULLY—the sullen city unsignified—tears and dancing
Like church, girl, like church

Yes, the Ambassador of Soul has returned his credentials, no regrets
“Godfather”—a misnomer. He was here to represent SOUL NATION
And like Cuba, SOUL NATION has no embassy.

But folk visit SOUL NATION daily, crossing the border to that Shining Party on the hill
where folk are eating fried chicken, drinking Seven & Seven, and smoking Kool cigarettes
As disco balls swerve and curve the smoky air like plump women having
a really, really good time.

This behavior continues to shock citizens of SOUL LESS NATION
Busy as they are with their markets, markers, and ministers without portfolio

They see only the smiling countenances of miserable men and women
Oh so folkloric in fake fur floor length coats, rhinestone collars, and hot pants.

SOUL NATION gives up polyrhythms and an occasional orgasmic shriek

GET UP OFFA THAT THANG and make yourself feel better
GET UP OFFA THAT THANG and change the shape of weather

Because some times what you are ON
Ain’t no good, no way

YOU REALLY REALLY GOTTA GET OFFA THAT THANG

De Man, De Woman, Dis Soul less Nation with the odd
White Man in Charge—on a ranch, a barge, fishing—

Violent death follows.

Best to join the Ambassador of Soul, now recalled,
who brought us the ache and art of Black America, claiming
Patriarchy of funk and feeling just about as good as you can get

When you walk a walk as defiant as his was, some see a kind of ambrosia
Take to sampling the thump, working the funk,

And this year, Mary J. sings about who will do and who won’t
We of the folkloric know that only the hardest working man will do.

And even in repose, he’s working the room,
lit like a saint and made up
Better than any well-off hooker.

Hands and feet hidden beneath tufted satin
So we can’t see the wings.

MY ANGEL #1

My angel refuses to be like the others
He removed his wings and is not on television

He’s a “he” which I find ironic
But then, to be spiritual in an age of religious
fanaticism is to be ironical

My angel leaves spider webs undisturbed.
He traces tears and claims salt from the sweat of pyramid builders
He has a droll sense of humor—he’s my angel.

I often think that if he were human, I’d marry him.
But his immortality keeps us apart. It’s such an old story.

As for now, I am grateful for his ability
to capture curses before they make their way
towards my soul.

MY ANGEL #2

Sings with me in the shower. Our duets are pretty crazy.
I still sing alto, but I want to sing soprano. I want to carry melody

My angel laughs at my desire and allows me the occasional
Cracked note.

My angel walks with me in the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens.
He is fond of the blue bell’s scent and shares my love of bamboo’s
suavity. We listen to the stone coyotes that guard the Inari Shrine.
My angel is respectful of angels of all faiths.

When the first daffodils opened in March 1993, my angel let me walk
the four blocks from my apartment to Daffodil Hill, welcoming me back
to wholeness. All that yellow and the cool spring air.

Bold or bossy or quietly shining, my angel wears his welcome.
Humming, you need protection. You need righteous air.

FATS DOMINO SINGS “WALKING TO NEW ORLEANS”

Remember when the fat man with diamond rings on both hands
Could walk to New Orleans, head high, heart sad
And see heaven's gate on the bridge to Lake Pontchartrain?

The world turned inside out—strange so many had to walk away
from New Orleans. Strange, how they still know this tune.
Shoeless, pitiless, sunlight an enemy.

Oh Fats found alive
His mansion sunk in dirty water; his old song soften

hunger for a place for poor people to just hang out
Do their jobs, get by, live like the earth was their due

Forsythia burst yellow past Easter, what manner of weather thus
Precipitation masters drainage, locks, dams. The back up is backed up

Three years and levees remain unsafe
Four years and the wars go on
Five years and the poppies bloom as never before
Six years and the hole in the ground is filling up.

DOLLY PARTON SINGS “STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN”

July hot, the hay barn half full,
In flight, predatory birds swoop on
The unlucky field mouse

Who says always the city is brutal
Go forth on country roads where dead and dying animals lie
At the night the contrails of illicit fireworks
Scar the raven colored sky

Terrifed stars dim their luminosity
Having given up on camouflage.
What can redeem this pitiful montage—

A witch’s wand?
A pallid drunk?
A womans desire for the perfect makeup
To conceal the predator’s mark upon her cheek?