Kevin Young
James Brown at B.B. King's on New Year's Eve
The one thing that can solve most
our problems is dancing. And sweat,
cold or not. And burnt ends
of ribs, or reason, of hair
singed & singing. The hot comb's
caress. Days after
he died, I see James Brown
scheduled to play B.B. King's
on New Year's Eve--ringing
it in, us, dropping to the floor
like the famous glittering midnight
ball drop, countdown, forehead full
of sweat, please, please,
please, please, begging
on his knees. The night
King was killed, shot
by the Memphis moan in a town
B.B. King sang, Saint
James in Boston tells
the crowd to cool it. A riot
onstage, heartache
rehearsed, practiced, don't
be late or you'll be fined
fifty bucks. A fortune. Even
the walls sweat. A God-
father's confirmation suit,
his holler, wide-collared, grits
& greens. Exhausted
after, carried
out, away, off--not on a gurney,
no bedsheet over
his bouffant, his conk
shining, but, boots on,
in a cape glittering bright
as midnight, or it train.
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