This poet is a griot in search of a village.

Racist writing is a craft failure.

A lot of people say they want to leave this city to go somewhere else. Not me. I love this place for what it is. Ugly and pretty. Rough and tender. Chaotic and smooth. Loving and murderous. All of it.

If you wait long enough, all murders will have lost their scream, all bloodlines forgotten, all dynamite broken, all storms settled, all bones cleaned of the memory of sin.

I am listening to the wind, to the voice in the wind telling me to write it all down. So I do.