The Sun Had Become A Light Yellow

Someone Is Always At My Elbow Reminding Me That I Am The Granddaughter Of Slaves. It Fails To Register Depression With Me.

I Made Up My Mind To Keep My Feelings To Myself Since They Did Not Seem To Matter To Anyone Else But Me.

Folklore Is The Boiled-down Juice, Or Pot-likker, Of Human Living.

From Barren Brown Stems To Glistening Leaf-buds; From The Leaf-buds To Snowy Virginity Of Bloom…it Was Like A Flute Song Forgotten In Another Existence And Remembered Again. What? How? Why? This Singing She Heard That Had Nothing To Do With Her Ears. The Rose Of The World Was Breathing Out Smell. It Followed Her Through All Her Waking Moments And Caressed Her In Her Sleep.

When I Pitched Headforemost Into The World I Landed In The Crib Of Negroism.