What, What Am I To

Art Hurts. Art Urges Voyages - And It Is Easier To Stay At Home.

The Poetry Is Myself.

A Poem Doesn't Do Everything For You. You Are Supposed To Go On With Your Thinking. You Are Supposed To Enrich The Other Person's Poem With Your Extensions, Your Uniquely Personal Understandings, Thus Making The Poem Serve You.

We Real Cool. We Left School. We Lurk Late. We Strike Straight. We Sing Sin. We Thin Gin. We Jazz June. We Die Soon.

It Frightens Me To Realize That, If I Had Died Before The Age Of Fifty, I Would Have Died A 'negro' Fraction.