Do Not Be Afraid Of No, Who

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!

I Believe We Should All Know Each Other, We Human Carriers Of So Many Pleasurable Differences. To Not Know Is To Doubt, To Shrink From, Sidestep Or Destroy.

Exhaust The Little Moment. Soon It Dies. And Be It Gash Or Gold It Will Not Come Again In This Identical Guise.

What, What Am I To Do With All Of This Life?

First Fight. Then Fiddle.