Be careful what you swallow. Chew!
The poetry is myself.
Nothing could stop Mississippi.
I am interested in telling my particular truth as I have seen it.
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!
First fight. Then fiddle.