Fall 1993 • Vol. XV No. 4 Poetry |

Sly and the Family Stone under the Big Tit, Atlanta, 1973

We waited and waited. Stoned for Sly. Southern sons and daughters of the Rainbow Tribe. Under Georgia Tech's Big Tit. Sucking in the marijuana, blowing out the heat. Former debs with shag cuts and torn jeans; their good old boy friends who used to hunt and fish, now glitter rocked, ready with red painted nails and the latest Mott the Hoople tape on their dashboards. Rebel boys back from Nam who used to party with the brothers on the DMZ--that is, when they were not each beating the shit out of each other before the VC struck up yet another victorious attack. Sly's the perfect foil for this crowd. "Sex Machine" and "Don't Call Me Nigger, Whitey" are our anthems of choice. "I want to take you higher" just seems like dessert. And of course, Sly is late. Real late. Sly may not even be in the vicinity. Like the airport. Then the house lights actually dim. The band comes out ragged. Like every musician from Provençal to Paducah, they have to play, but their bodies droop.

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