It's As If I've Arrived In A

Six Months Of Looking For A Job Had Made Me An Expert At Picking Out The People Who, Like Me, Were Hurrying Up To Wait - In Somebody's Outer Anything For A Chance To Make It Through Their Inner Doors To Prove That You Could Type Two Words A Minute, Or Not Drool On Your Blouse While Answering Difficult Questions About Your Middle Initial And Date Of Birth.

The Intelligence Community, For The Most Part, Has No Accountability At All; To The Congress, To Us The American People, And So They Feel That They Above The Law.

There Is A Problem In America. An Irish Or Polish American Can Write A Story And It's An American Story. When A Black American Writes A Story, It's Called A Black Story. I Take Exception To That. Every Artist Has Articulated To His Own Experience. The Problem Is That Some People Do Not See Blacks As Americans.

Words Themselves Are Innocuous; It Is The Consensus That Gives Them True Power.

Time's Passage Through The Memory Is Like Molten Glass That Can Be Opaque Or Crystalize At Any Given Moment At Will: A Thousand Days Are Melted Into One Conversation, One Glance, One Hurt, And One Hurt Can Be Shattered And Sprinkled Over A Thousand Days. It Is Silent And Elusive, Refusing To Be Damned And Dripped Out Day By Day; It Swirls Through The Mind While An Entire Lifetime Can Ride Like Foam On The Deceptive, Transparent Waves And Get Sprayed Onto The Conciousness At Ragged, Unexpected Intervals.