My Funk

If my funk were music, who would it be?

George Clinton, the father of funk? An original and powerful influence on others? One that branches out to form other fusions? P-Funk, of superior quality.

Sly and the Family Stone? Harmonious and shared with my peops? Wearing bell-bottoms and sporting fros?

Maceo Parker? A strong force and leader, but always behind an even bigger force of the Godfather of Soul? Nonetheless one that hits you to the core?

Rick James? Nasty one, but loveable, nonetheless. A serious darkside to that one.

Red Hot Chili Peppers? White and rappy? One that has been around forever and comes and goes like the Santa Ana winds?

Prince? Short and sensual? One that morphs constantly but still has so much soul.

Modeski, Martin, and Wood, Robert Randolph and the Family Band, Galactic, Karl Denson’s Tiny Universe?

“I want the bomb. I want the P-Funk. I want my funk uncut.”

33 and so much more.

Remember when we first met? 1998. You were so young, so fresh. No, no I said. Not for me.

Remember our first kiss? Wow! I said. So delicious, so tempting. But not for me.

Remember the first time we lay together all night? You held me so tightly. Ah, it won’t last. It’s not for me.

Remember the first time you told me you love me? I knew I loved you, but I was too scared to say it. You weren’t for me.

Remember when we decided you should move in? Well, maybe he can be mine for a little while.

Remember when we picked out a dog together? I like having him around. Maybe we can love each other for a while. Maybe I can pretend he’s mine.

Remember when you asked me to be yours forever? I am.

Happy Birthday my love.