For Bowie State University's marching band
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the funk is percussive that Loud smell it
through the phone stain teeth brown they learn to count
5 to 6 then 5 to 8 then 1 to 4
90-degreed stairsteps staccato a pointed toe yard up and out
to midfield right angled drummer’s lock
wrists twerking popping off
at a steel mouth katkatkat
doomba doomba call and response
tassle-topped, caped negriod, superhuemen
come to save us from stereophonic sound
note the origin egungun egungun snare call
egungun to the ancestors egungun
the congo keeps it in the pocket the gansta lean
born from a left leg drag under hollow bottomed resistance cymbals slap
a hot greased secret tsst tsst on a symphony
of soul it’s that black it’s that gold
it’s the crowded harmonies blaring from the stands
audience instrument themselves oohhhh talking out the side
a your neck a perfect storm when the horns
throat open-mouthed vowels a new aged spiritual
brass wailing woodwinds whining up a monument to
negro american sound in the back yard in the junk yard
of national politics a rare essence
they know my daddy’s name
so they know mine
keep us friends even after puberty’s
faultline trembles left us ready to brawl
can you hear it let them spell it out on the field
can you see it from the stands from orbit
the kind of praisedance that seeps into the blood
through the soles a funk spiritual that both shouts
and answers S O S leaves metal on the tongue