A poet in a vest and black stovepipe pants stands in the center of a mostly young, black crowd in the subterranean space of Literary Explosions, the Afrocentric bookstore in a basement at the intersection of North, Damen, and Milwaukee. His hair is a nest of sprouting baby dreadlocks that point straight up. A skinny Snidely Whiplash mustache covers his pouting mouth, and sunglasses hide his small brown eyes. His head is cocked to one side, and his hand rests on a raised ledge as his quirky voice, slathered with sarcasm, pierces the silence.
who thinks.
I am not to be confused
bus fare.
a tit lover,
I am a popular nobody,
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The first time I saw Marvin Tate he was crammed onstage at the Metro with the huge throng that forms the dance funk band Uptighty. He wasn’t center stage or even singing solo, but he tossed his head, flung his arms, and shook his body with all the ferocity of an Ikette. Singing backup on a stage full of people, Tate still managed to stand out from the crowd. It’s one of the things he does best. He has a penchant for tight pants, platform shoes, and bold-colored vests that expose his chest. His skin’s a smooth chocolate usually glistening with the sweat of excess energy. He moves with the cool of an underworld figure but without the hardness. He nods his head a lot in the manner of old southern gentlemen, with a slightly gallant tilt, but his gestures are fast and jerky and slightly feminine.
