The Future Is Always Here In The

I Am Inside Someone Who Hates Me. I Look Out From His Eyes. Smell What Fouled Tunes Come In To His Breath. Love His Wretched Women.

Hope Is Delicate Suffering.

An Evil Word It Is/ This Love.

The Further Jazz Moves Away From The Stark Blue Continuum And The Collective Realities Of Afro-american And American Life, The More It Moves Into Academic Concert-hall Lifelessness, Which Can Be Replicated By Any Middle Class Showing Off Its Music Lessons.

In America, Black Is A Country.