Mary J Blige sings no one will do.
Now James Brown died, and he went on tour kind of.
One of the first places he went to was The Apollo.
And there was a big thing that says
you're not supposed to take a picture of James Brown lying
in state at The Apollo.
This is the New York.
That did not last long.
The New York Post had him on the front cover.
But Harlem went wild.
Black people who had not been acting black for years
went uptown and hung out at The Apollo.
They had fun.
It was a moment.
OK.
"Mary J Blige sings 'No One Will Do.'" James Brown's wax 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.
Now, I have to explain this.
James Brown was called the ambassador of soul,
and one of his various wives took that seriously
and tried to get many parking tickets taken,
because he was the ambassador.
Yes, this ambassador of soul has returned his credentials.
No regrets.
Godfather a misnomer, he was here to represent Soul Nation.
And like Cuba, Soul Nation remains unrecognized.
But folk visit Soul Nation daily,
crossing the border to that shining party on the hill where
folk are eating fried chicken, drinking 7 and 7 and smoking
Kool cigarettes while 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.
That's hard to say.
OK.
Oh, so folkloric in fake fur floor length coats,
rhinestones, and hot pants.
Soul Nation gives up poly rhythyms
and an occasional orgasmic shriek.
Get up off of that thing and make yourself feel better.
Get up off of that thing and change the shape of weather.
Because sometimes what you're on ain't no good, no way.
You really, really got to get off of that thing.
De man, de woman, dis Soul Less Nation with the odd White
man in charge.
On a ranch, a barge, fishing, whatever, violent death
follows.
Best to join the ambassador of soul, 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 so defiant, everyone
wants to sample your will.
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.