I Want A Busy Life, A Just

Tea Cake, The Son Of The Evening Sun, Had To Die For Loving Her.

There Is Something About Poverty That Smells Like Death. Dead Dreams Dropping Off The Heart Like Leaves In A Dry Season And Rotting Around The Feet; Impulses Smothered Too Long In The Fetid Air Of Underground Caves. The Soul Lives In Sickly Air. People Can Be Slaveships In Shoes.

Justice, Like Beauty, Is In The Eye Of The Beholder.

..she Began To Stand Around The Gate And Expect Things. What Things? She Didn't Know Exactly. Her Breath Was Gusty And Short. She Knew Things That Nobody Ever Told Her. For Instance, The Words Of The Trees And The Wind. .. She Knew The World Was A Stallion Rolling In The Blue Pasture Of Ether. She Knew That God Tore Down The Old World Every Evening And Built A New One By Sun-up. It Was Wonderful To See It Take Form With The Sun And Emerge From The Gray Dust Of Its Making.

Mama Exhorted Her Children At Every Opportunity To 'jump At The Sun.' We Might Not Land On The Sun, But At Least We Would Get Off The Ground.