I Shall Create! If Not A Note,

Life Must Be Aromatic. There Must Be Scent, Somehow There Must Be Some.

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!

Writing Is A Delicious Agony.

It Is Brave To Be Involved

I Believe We Should All Know Each Other, We Human Carriers Of So Many Pleasurable Differences. To Not Know Is To Doubt, To Shrink From, Sidestep Or Destroy.