Chicago Writers Collective

Marlon Billups

Mellifluous Songs

He stood prophetic
In the crowd.
On stage, James
Slid and screamed
“Soul power”. Sweat
Poured black. Packed in
A hot joint. Smoking.
He commanded, the crowd
And the band, to get up
Into his sound.
His perm never lost shape
Nor sight of this young
Fela standing disciple like.

With every “huh”, “give
It to me”, and “take it
To the bridge” the bush
Burnt higher
Into a Nigerian beat.
While the first two broken stone
Tablets were being reconstructed
In a funk language.

I’m playing his song for you
Can you hear?
See it, feel it,
Taste it children,
Afro scented funk.
Honey note sticking
Wet to reed. Come now
Run now children
Shhhh

I’m here children
Come. Dance now
In his Monday Morning
Shake loose
Shake loose that Zombie
Dance now for freedom
My tongue never loose
Sight of your names
Shhhh

He plays painfully,
Pain for me.
Ebony winds blow warm
Across broken bones and
Onyx fingers holding sax
Thrusted between lips
Shhhh

Taste it children
Taste it children
Follow his sound home
Ausirus hold your sister’s hand
Come now
Come now children
I’m here
In this Black Man’s Cry
Inundated with sound

III

Don’t ask me
That awful question
Your shoulder isn’t prepared
For my weight

Their rooms compile dust
Instead of dreams, laughter
Or bedtime stories
(Isis always requested before the dark)

Don’t ask me
For their whereabouts
No compass made by humans
Can point home

Burning of nag champas
Cannot defuse the thick scent
Nor clear the meditations
For peace
(Ausirus childish humor of broken wind
always was a stomach clutcher for Isis)

Don’t ask me
Why this numerical destiny
Of parental separation
Equate to blind
Consequences for children

I try not to think
Of myself as the good parent
I try to think
Of myself as the other parent
Trying to put out the fire
On the bridge
So my children can cross

…maybe today

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