I Don't Want To Die Leaving The

I Very Much Dislike The Word "race," And I Never Use It. I Use The Word "racist." Race Is Not A Fact. There Is Only One Race: Human. Skin Color Is Less Than 2 Percent Of The Dna.

Not Everybody Feels Religion The Same Way. Some It's In Their Mouth, But Some It's Like A Hope In Their Blood, Their Bones.

Writers In A Profit Making Economy Are An Exploitable Commodity Whose Works Are Products To Be Marketed, And Are So Judged And Handled.

It's Hard For Me To Talk About The Terrible Things That Have Happened In My Lifetime Because They Didn't Need To Be.

Literary History And The Present Are Dark With Silences . . . I Have Had Special Need To Learn All I Could Of This Over The Years, Myself So Nearly Remaining Mute And Having To Let Writing Die Over And Over Again In Me. These Are Not Natural Silences--what Keats Called Agonie Ennuyeuse (the Tedious Agony)--that Necessary Time For Renewal, Lying Fallow, Gestation, In The Natural Cycle Of Creation. The Silences I Speak Of Here Are Unnatural: The Unnatural Thwarting Of What Struggles To Come Into Being, But Cannot.