DJ (1965)


I lay in bed at night and listened on my transistor.
Radio waves seemed an active miracle and still do:
I can't believe the silent air brims
With those chattering arrows.

I was listening to a Negro man: "Greetings, earthlings,
From the big hot boss with the big hot sauce,
The man with the permanent sun tan, the jock
With no hair, no worldly care,
Your soul leader, oooh-poppa-dee-der."

Jumping Jesus, I thought to my dizzy self,
How did a man become a word-motor?
As the Dynamic Daddy-O, Master Metaphor Mixer,
Unblinking Syntactic Flicker of African-American Schtick,
Trick and No-Trick, he was ultra-bardic.

I lay there softly mimicking him:
The clicking consonants, alto rises and bullfrog plummets,
The flicking feints and jabs of sex-teasing phrases,
The long vowels caressed-oooh!-until they seemed
Like vocal limousines.

I knew it was genius to equal the Bulwark
Of Western Lit camped beside my bed.
I listened till I felt drowsy and hoped I would dream
Of that glowing yet raspy voice, that lovely razor of elocution.