James Brown Takes it to the Bridge

In memory of James Brown
we will spread our capes

over tired shoulders
of the man with the dusty knees

who, having slid from the backstage
to the front, has saved the microphone

from a ballad worse than death
in a pop tune sung by white guys

in tuxedos that smell
like the ice in glasses of warm milk,

we will do the splits for
the rest of time,

we will spin and yowl
'til sirens fall from police cars

and phones give up
their rings with sharp reports

of the saxophone's grunt
and the insinuating nudge

of the bassist's thumb
at the door, feeling around

the cracks in the wood,
the grooves in the cement,

yes, suddenly there's
daylight and barbecue

and sex for the millions
as the waxed soles of

shoes help us glide in and out
of the spotlight

the many lights, the bursting drums,
every trumpet and triangle

making the funk stick
to the sheets

and form a trail
we take to the streets

on the offbeat, indiscreet,
shoehorned in tap and

leaps of hoarse cries of freedom,
sweet Jesus the band pumps it out hard

even as he said
he was leaving here tonight,

but James Brown has
no where else to be

but funky and pressed, tall shoe heels
and flared pants,

nostrils flare like mares in
night terrors in stately neighborhoods

where the trees are always
heavy with fruit

and where no one has to pee,

euuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuwheeeeeeeeee??eeeeeeeeEEEE!

let's hammer it down,
build ourselves a bridge

lets take it to the bridge,
lets throw off our cape
and take it to the bridge,

lets slick back our hair
high and black
and take it to the bridge,

lets drive at eighty miles an hour
'til they shoot our tires
as we take it to the bridge

let's say it loud
i'm black Irish and proud
at the foot of the bridge

that crosses a the fiery river Styx,
more sticks
than any full tilt angel of appetites should tote,
get out the vote,

get up
get on up
get up
get on up

where's that confounded bridge,
and tell us sheriff,
what's the tariff,
will the music
be as hip
when we get
to the
other
side?