A Southern African-American poet has just published a work of radical literary integration. It storms the last bastion of dead-white-guy literature, the “whites only”
four o’clock coffee: first baking from the Sellwood Safeway risen early with no real purpose, no plane to catch, a habit shaped equally of
nothing beat shoving a girl. My father said they should paint flames on my cleats when I chased down a breakaway, took an angle
What was the word I can’t remember, what words did I know at nine ? Plenty with a father like mine. His sister cornered