Down a worn path,
Years etch my moveable roots,
Decades pinch the ripe, white, poison you call home.
We have seated ourselves,
Sipped the same deep-alley blues,
Seen them take lives.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Play Time
Play is the work of childhood. So the experts tell us. But a child's play is no longer what it once was. Child psychologists have re...
-
I'm a sucker for a good t-shirt. They are the foundational garment of my life. My day starts with selecting a t-shirt and it ends wit... -
I want to tell you about something. Something I've carried inside myself for a number of years now. Perhaps if I were a different kind... -
In the early 1970s ethnic studies classes for high school students were less controversial than today. The term “critical race theory” wasn’...
No comments:
Post a Comment