They call me Cheeto Jesus, and I got my own authority.
It is sprayed on every two weeks in the shade, “tangerine beam,”
it’s in the way I pout my lips to the skies while these bitches yap. 560 more words
Yesterday, I was reading The True Account: A Novel of the Lewis & Clark & Kinneson Expeditions, one of couple of Howard Frank Mosher novels I hadn’t yet gotten around to, when I received word that the author, and my dear friend, has entered hospice care with an aggressive, virtually untreatable form of cancer. 417 more words
Congratulations to my brilliant wife Patricia Smith, who just received a starred review from Publishers Weekly for her forthcoming poetry collection, Incendiary Art.
The review says in part: “Using the 1955 murder of 14-year-old Emmett Till as her anchor, Smith explores how the lives of black Americans get cut short by racism, particularly by white fear of black masculinity. 87 more words