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seven ways of looking at King james

funk is the sound
of a math problem
solving itself

Griot Maximus
Of your Descartian universe
The Creator himself was jealous
For he’d wished he’d written
“I can’t stand myself”
Since that one always hit him
Right where he lived.

we when write what we think is ours we are covering you every singer who wiggles on a stage spitting into an SM57 between a broken monitor and an all night band that hopes to be tight owes you royalties (we’ve even sampled your dna) even white two bit speed freak bards with guitars owe you because all anyone is ever saying when they are screaming from the stage and playing is…

“i got soul
and i’m super bad”

except most of the time
it doesn’t sound like it…

you taught Fela
how to be African
the band
how to be a drum
the moment
how to be eternal

brain dead newscasters grinned
spinning your dramas into comedies
you morphed into a punch line
african kitsch doctor

living in america was a pandering nightmare of a song
it sounded like a wedding band covering itself
while being held at gunpoint
By Reagan’s henchmen
but the rednecks and black republicans all sang along
on separate sides of the stadium, mind you
dipped in red white and blue
it was fucking embarrassing
and yet this song was you

daily you bring sock footed wedding party america back from the dead
you pump the lurching corpses with a life force they were born without
and they are your happy slaves, James
dancing merrily on your funk plantation
Yes Massa Brown
You owned slaves
these dancing corpses
(in this coffin of a country)
which you taught
how to move

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