On Passing (or Notes toward a Manifesto)
In a dream, a young Baraka slaps five with my father. They ask when I last got some pussy or whooped someone’s ass? On one side of the street are the black poets (their closed memberships, spider-fingered hand-shakes, invitation-only parties) tossing my journal with my father— Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit! I’m soft-spoken. He’s bullhorn. I believe […]