First Fight. Then Fiddle.

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.

People Like Definite Decisions, / Tidy Answers, All The Little Ravelings / Snipped Off, The Lint Removed, They / Hop Happily Among Their Roughs / Calling What They Can't Clutch Insanity / Or Saintliness.

When You Love A Man, He Becomes More Than A Body. His Physical Limbs Expand, And His Outline Recedes, Vanishes. He Is Rich And Sweet And Right. He Is Part Of The World, The Atmosphere, The Blue Sky And The Blue Water.

When I Start Writing A Poem, I Don't Think About Models Or About What Anybody Else In The World Has Done.

Words Can Do Wonderful Things. They Pound, Purr. They Can Urge, They Can Wheedle, Whip, Whine. They Can Sing, Sass, Singe. They Can Churn, Check, Channelize. They Can Be A "hup Two Three Four." They Can Forge A Fiery Army Of A Hundred Languid Men.