Fela
His saxophone blared from the speakers of my Father’s BM
With the drums bouncing against its slick-black exterior
No matter the destination, Fela Anikulapo was sure to invite himself
His third wheel stabilizing the turbulence of our journeys
Each cycle supplemented the soundtrack of our lives
As Fela led the way during our untelevised revolution
He left my Father and I cavorting to the rhythms of morality
And watched us become turgid from his stream of consciousness
Fela and my Father possessed congruous visions
Both composing similar hymns from the Gospel of Charisma
As Fela’s music and my Father’s words continued to trade center stage
Each man became instrumental to my ascent into manhood
As the flames engulfed the atmosphere
And the smoke suppressed the airways
I remember the spark conceived from the friction
between the tip of my thumb and trigger
While I tan against the bed of combustion
And bathe in the jacuzzi of ashes
I embrace the insurrection around me
And wait for my chaos to simmer
If I Dropped
The Needle and Thread
Every time I stabbed my fingers
I would have my perfect thumb
To shiver with me as I’m naked.
