I Made Up My Mind

The Morning Air Was Like A New Dress. That Made Her Feel The Apron Tied Around Her Waist. She Untied It And Flung It On A Low Bush Beside The Road And Walked On, Picking Flowers And Making A Bouquet… From Now On Until Death She Was Going To Have Flower Dust And Springtime Sprinkled Over Everything.

Folklore Is The Boiled-down Juice, Or Pot-likker, Of Human Living.

But For The National Welfare, It Is Urgent To Realize That The Minorities Do Think, And Think About Something Other Than The Race Problem.

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.

I Know That Nothing Is Destructible; Things Merely Change Forms.