No man can give me any word but Wait.
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!
People are so in need, in need of help. People want so much that they do not know.
Abortions will not let you forget. You remember the children you got that you did not get.
Nothing could stop Mississippi.
at a certain moment in social proceedings, I am on FIRE to leave: I have a leaving-FIT.
Life for my child is simple, and is good.
I've always thought of myself as a reporter.
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