This is a poet who was appended to the geography
of the near past collection, and I put him
in a separate section.
Equal but separate section.
And he calls himself O. O. Gabugah.
And I could tell lots of stories about O. O. Gabugah,
but maybe the easiest thing to do
is to read his biographical note.
Ah, here's the water.
Excuse me.
I find that a poetry scene can get so dreary
with self-righteousness and seriousness
that sometimes it's fun to have fun.
O. O. Gabugah writes that he was, quote,
"Born in a taxicab right smack on 125th and Lennox
in Harlem on Lincoln's birthday, 1945."
Franklin Delano Watson was the name
my poor brainwashed parents gave me,
but I had that racist tag legally
altered once I got old enough to see what was going down.
The O. O., by the way, stands for "our own," i.e.
we need to do our own thing.
Can you dig it?
In addition to being one of our strongest young Black
revolutionary voices, Brother Gabugah
is the author of half a dozen volumes, all of which
have appeared since last year.
[LAUGHTER]
"Slaughter the Pig and Git Yo'self Some Chit'lins" is
the title of his most popular work,
which is presently in its sixth big printing.
Other volumes include "Niggers With Knives," "Black on Back,"
"Love is a White Man's Snot Rag," and it goes on and on.
The brother is presently the recipient
of both a federal arts agency grant
as well as a Vanderbilt fellowship
to conduct research on Richard Wright.
Currently vacationing in Australia,
he is preparing a collection of critical essays tentatively
titled "Woodpile Findings."
A militant advocate of the oral tradition,
he chooses to dictate his poems through me
rather than write them down himself.
So I will presume to speak like Brother Gabugah,
and this is one of his biggies called "The Old O. O. Blues."
Like, right now it's the summertime,
and I'm so all alone.
I gots to blow some funky rhyme on my mental saxophone.
Brother Trane done did his thing,
and so have Wes Montgomery.
Both heavyweights in the music ring.
Now, I'm gonna play my summary.
It's lots of y'all that think y'all are white--
ought I say European--
who think Mozart and Bach's all right,
denying your Black being.
Well, honkyphiles, y'all's day done come.
I mean, we gonna clean house and rid the Earth of Oreo scum that
put down Fats for Foust.
This here's one for-real revolution
where ain't nobody playing.
We intends to stop this cultural pollution.
Can y'all get to what I'm saying?
Sitting up there in your Dior gown and Pierre Cardin suit
downtown where all them devil clowns hang out.
And they ain't poot!
We take the white man's bread and grants but do our own thing
with it while y'all bees itching to get in they pants and taint
the true Black spirit.
I'm blowing for Bird and Dinah and Billie,
for Satch, Sam Cooke, and Otis, for Clifford, Eric, and Trane
out of Philly who split on a moment's notice.
Chump, you ain't gonna never change.
Your narrow ass is sinking.
Like Watergate, your shit is strange.
You're drowning while we sink thinking.
My simple song might not have class,
but you can't listen with impunity.
We out to smash your bourgeois ass.
And by "we," I mean The Community!
[APPLAUSE]
I'll pass the word on to Brother Gabugah about it.