I Been Through Living For Years. I

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.

Someone Is Always At My Elbow Reminding Me That I Am The Grand-daughter Of Slaves. It Fails To Register Depression With Me. Slaver Y Is Sixty Years In The Past. The Operation Was Successful And The Patient Is Doing Well, Thank You. The Terrible Struggle That Made Me An American Out Of A Potential Slave Said "on The Line!" The Reconstruction Said "go!" I Am Off To A Flying Start And I Must Not Halt In The Stretch To Look Behind And Weep.

To Avoid The Consequences Of Posterity The Mulattos Give The Blacks A First Class Letting Alone. There Is A Frantic Stampede White-ward To Escape From Jamaica's Black Mass.

Grab The Broom Of Anger And Drive Off The Beast Of Fear.

Every Heart Has Its Graveyard.