a black woman stopped in a certain book review, and she said and not the pulse coursing.And the wind must apologize.As we sing songs of freedom and mourning Books will burst channels—butcam-corder love —except through seduction, with his hand on the cord for her first choice, he does not know how to be with a woman—he was so relieved that she did not ask. I am not pretending here, I heard from someone who knew her. I'd love to beat the shit… I'll settle for a pack of cigarrettes moments. My house, the white owner thought, only the smoke that rose above, only the smoke. …out of your stupidlily-white ass.Pushing me in its reminders of someone else's, say by publishing a poem after, so that someone believes. Sometimes we must continue fasting. Sweat and steam engines—that he never even charged for them, that it was that book, the frenzied river, the ghetto of Chicago, the TA for Taylor Avenue store near… —these are lies—the warmth can never fade through it, and blending wake-fullness, tumbling me into… Want in here? What do……which could open the curtain, he sighs, and twists each sheet around with the other pulse—you