The Last Poets. Christine Otten

a step ahead of your enemy; fear and how to combat it with prayer and weapons, how fear heightened your senses. Omar knew it well. The rules of security didn’t differ that much from the rules of the street. He closed his eyes. Fear was the last thing he felt—the complete lack of it, in fact, sometimes worried him. The dull indifference that came over him at the strangest moments. He never told Evans. He didn’t want Evans to think he missed the hustling, the drugs, the flashy cars. He was startled out of his reverie by the loud, agitated male voice that came through the loudspeakers. ‘They come from Harlem. Their poems are grenades. Give ’em a round of applause: The Last Poets!’

      Three men sauntered quasi-nonchalantly up onto the stage. The drummer slowed his rhythm. Omar recognized the man he had just frisked. All eyes were drawn to his brightly colored dashiki. He took the microphone. ‘Who’s the big talker from security?’ he shouted into the auditorium. Snickering from the audience. Omar straightened his back. He didn’t give a shit what that nigger from Harlem thought of him.

      ‘This poem’s for him and for all the other muthafuckas who think they’re ready for the revolution. When the revolution comes … ’ he chanted, and the other two men joined in at the same pitch. ‘When the revolution comes … When the revolution comes … ’

      The drummer stopped. The audience held its breath. He gave the conga a few cautious slaps, gradually built up the tempo: supple, round beats that seemed to reverberate around the room, faster and faster, becoming a single, drawn-out note that snaked its way around the hall.

      The poet moved his head with the rhythm. He appeared to be the youngest of the three. He had a deep, vibrant voice, a forceful, aggressive tone.

      When the revolution comes

      some of us will catch it on TV

      with chicken hanging from our mouths

      you’ll know it’s revolution

      because there won’t be no commercials

      when the revolution comes

      preacher pimps are gonna split the scene

      with the communion wine …

      Omar’s attention waned. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the attractive Latino who, in the background, kept repeating the poet’s words, ‘When the revolution comes’, like a refrain. He wore tight jeans and his shirt was unbuttoned down to his navel. His mocha-colored skin glistened. He danced. The other poet was older. His skin so black, almost purple in the sharp blue theater lighting. ‘When the revolution comes … ’ Omar thought of The Temptations. He imagined them standing on the stage in their chic suits, dancing to the monotone rhythm of this mesmerizing poem. The older poet walked upstage. ‘Tell me brother,’ he said, with a husky voice, ‘Tell me brother when you first saw yo’ child dead son born of a pussy long dead long black yo’ son stumblin’ in blind rage out past the box … swollen lips … ’

      The words kept coming out of the black poet’s mouth, faster and louder as he gesticulated wildly—faster, louder, angrier. ‘Tell me brother … ’ Sweat poured off his forehead. The Latino sang a gentle melody in the background. He had a high, attractive voice. The older poet was like a preacher in church. The poem resembled a sermon. He whipped up his audience with his lofty, solemn voice. ‘Tell me brother … how did you feel when you came out of the wilderness … screamin’ baby … baby!’

      The words melted into the poet’s jagged, gravelly voice. This kind of music was a first for Omar. He felt the bass notes reverberate through his body. His thoughts wandered back to the last day of school at South High, to the poem he had read aloud to the teachers, the applause and laughter from the students, cheering him on, urging him to continue, clearer and faster, how he glowed with exhilaration and triumph. The taut smile on Giovanni’s face. He thought of his father, who practiced the trumpet down in their basement, just in case someone invited him to play. No one ever did. Sonny Huling was crazy. Through the melodious violence of the words and rhythms that spattered from the stage he could hear the dreamy, soft tones of his father’s trumpet. ‘How come you don’t play? How come you don’t play?’ Right in front of him, a girl got up from her seat. She clapped her hands and swung her hips. Her small, round breasts swayed gently along. ‘Baby … baby!’ the poet screamed. Omar looked at the girl in the white blouse with the fancy stitching. Her bare, chocolate-colored shoulders. She didn’t notice him watching her. He heard the music and the words via her body, saw the sounds in the fluid movements of her hips and hands, her radiant young face. Omar wasn’t feeling like himself anymore, wasn’t in control of his thoughts. As though someone were pricking needles into his brain. He saw Uncle Jean, Mama’s brother. Uncle Jean, dozing on the chair in front of his house, the empty bourbon bottle on the ground next to him. He saw Uncle Jean’s yellow Pontiac. He was eleven. He stole the keys from his uncle’s threadbare dungaree pocket and opened the driver’s door. His head barely reached the top of the steering wheel. He started the car up. The engine drowned out his uncle’s snoring. He put his foot on the gas pedal and drove out onto the street and down the hill. The bright sunlight blinded him. Uncle Jean was livid. ‘You crashed my car! You coulda got killed!’ The beating he got, first from his aunt, then from his mother. The burning sensation on his back and his ass. But—he could drive.

      The music stopped. It was like waking up. Applause and cheers for the three poets and the drummer from New York. Omar left the auditorium. A few students were standing in the hallway, chatting and smoking. He ignored their suspicious glances and continued into the open air. Squinted against the misty white October light. He no longer felt the weight of the guns. From the auditorium he could still hear snippets of conga and the melodious voice of the Latino. Unintelligible Spanish words. He heard insects, animals moving in the warm, humid air. Silence. He saw wispy clouds, like feathers drawn on a blue background. It was a pleasant sight. Like seeing the sky for the very first time. He laughed. He knew that lack of sleep was clouding his judgment, that being wound up over Evans’s assignment was making him oversensitive, but he didn’t care, because after the performance he would go to the poets and ask that arrogant motherfucker in the ugly dashiki for their address in Harlem. And tonight, at home, he would write a new poem. There was bound to be an old notebook stashed in one of his dresser drawers.