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There is a new mythology emerging, 
Howling from the hind end of the pack, 
Scorching the composted leavings 
Of established orthodoxy as a pillar of flame 
Showing the way for true rock & rollers. 
It’s a faith to be reckoned with, 
A Force with a capital FUNK, 
Running renegade from the reservation. 
The rebel has been reborn. 
He’s The Killer come to Harlem 
In the bottom of the ninth 
On the Short Rib Special from Detroit. 
He roll like an eighteen wheeler 
With two blown tires. 
Got a wine glass for the rhythm 
And a shot glass for the soul. 
He writes all the old stories 
Plus a few you never heard. 
He’s a high priest in white face 
Full of biscuits and grits, 
With sundry degrees from learned institutions. 
He pitched his letters sideways 
From the first time on, 
and the curve he throws is dicey, 
With so much of such like, 
As to ghost between the batter and the plate. 
At heart he’s black African 
Of the deepest, darkest kind. 
He goes by Jupiter Apollo 
On the chicken feet and chitlin circuit. 
He’s all you need for dinner 
When the bottle’s been uncorked. 
He goes heavy on the hot sauce, 
But has a warm spot for girlish delights. 
He’ll roast the meat of the matter 
And lay it out on the table wood. 
He drinks cheap box wine 
From a sterling silver goblet; 
That’s just the way he is. 
He’s a published philanderer 
With papers to prove it. 
But he won’t disparage his ethnicity 
To words on a t-shirt. 
His appearance is not so much martial, 
As Cossack-like. 
He comes with just a thin pamphlet of back story, 
Being used to living out of pocket on the cheap. 
He wrought a fusillade of acorns 
From the Charter Oak 
Last time his wind kicked up a ruckus, 
And cracked some tempers at the club house 
With a vine-wood cudgel 
Because their manners begged for intervention. 
He likes to set himself at a point 
From which it’s an equal distance 
To the first abstraction in any direction.
Any point on his number line could be zero. 
He’s taken Easter Monday hikes 
Among the bluffs and ravines 
Behind lock 60 of the Schuylkill Canal 
Near Al’s by the Sea, 
And arrived at a place where 
A man gets certain ideas. 
He keeps an aftershave called Probable Cause 
In his steamer trunk, 
Just in case he needs to leave in a hurry. 
He ran into Eddie and the Cruisers at the DMV 
On their Final Crossroads Tour 
And came away with a briefcase 
Full of splendid riffs for next to nothing. 
He knows Ophelia’s last soliloquy 
In thirteen variations. 
He’s followed Native American vapor trails, 
Keeping close in line with the rain shadow, 
Till perched on the edge of the Sand Creek Blues 
Straining just out of reach of an eagle feather.
He reckons keen on the insight acquired by the practice 
Of entering a room a little ahead of himself 
So as to make his presence known 
Before declaring his intentions. 
He learned to ride a steed among the heathen 
Where the mistress of the stable 
Gave him bare-back lessons. 
He’s a far cry from the orphanage 
Where breakfast was a cold butt smack 
And the day’s other meal paled by comparison. 
He’s been a conspirator to several minor subversions 
And has dabbled in Balinese fire. 
He drove a dump truck to the junk bank 
And made a perfect midnight deposit. 
Someone saw him with a bull float 
Same day Hoffa disappeared. 
His hairline’s been receding since the day he was born. 
He’s spent a lifetime losing track of all his markers. 
He mastered shooting craps from hell to breakfast; 
Keeps his snake eyes in a boxcar 
With a new pair of shoes.
He takes his bitters as a staple, not a tonic. 
He says the Holy Spirit was the quiet Beatle,
And Lenin was a Marxist who let Yoko be Yoko. 
Yet he’s not some contemptible lotus eater, 
Given to spontaneous meditation 
When coming in sight of a wooded lake, 
Though he won’t talk long 
Without paying tribute on the merits of women. 
He’s always had success with women of a certain age, 
Whatever that age happened to be. 
When some lonely Sheila feel a deficit of sugar love, 
He goes buzzing beeline for her honey pot pie. 
He always falls for crazy, dishonest dames.
He loves the melodrama.
On his stage, Scheherazade smells of teakwood and hibiscus, 
While he be creeping cat-like through the mist, 
Bearing Oberon a potion for Titania. 
He finds the secret passage every time 
And takes it to a place so deep, 
He has to get there by himself.
He’ll wander beyond the periphery 
Of useable floor space 
To light upon her yin 
And lavish her with yang. 
He’ll leave his mark upon the gatepost 
Where the hinge is getting cranky, 
And help her liberate the sorceress within, 
Forever and ever. Amen.
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