Writing Is A Delicious Agony.

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 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.

At A Certain Moment In Social Proceedings, I Am On Fire To Leave: I Have A Leaving-fit.

There Can Be No Whiter Whiteness Than This One: An Insurance Man's Shirt On Its Morning Run.

Already I Am No Longer Looked At With Lechery Or Love.