Art Hurts. Art Urges Voyages - And

The Forties And Fifties Were Years Of High Poet-incense; The Language-flowers Were Thickly Sweet. Those Flowers Whined And Begged White Folks To Pick Them, To Find Them Lovable. Then The '60s: Independent Fire!

I Don't Like The Idea Of The Black Race Being Diluted Out Of Existence. I Like The Idea Of All Of Us Being Here.

Do Not Desire To Fit In. Desire To Oblige Yourselves To Lead.

My Last Defense / Is The Present Tense.

I Who Have Gone The Gamut From An Almost Angry Rejection Of My Dark Skin By Some Of My Brainwashed Brothers And Sisters To A Surprised Queenhood In The New Black Sunam Qualified To Enter At Least The Kindergarten Of New Consciousness Now... I Have Hopes For Myself.