I was tiptoeing across the hearts of my heroes—myself, runaways and clear-eyed stayers. A farce of raids and jeers and ghosts are played out/everywhere like the urge to kneel at sundown.
And what's a stayer again? In this day and age. And everything. Everything is so easy to say these days like sincerity is a step ahead of reason and it must mean the ego and the eagle keep interlocking in a blank field until even a white flag is too dark to feel. And avoidance is so corrosive we fit our heels in the mud and roses bloom up of them. I pitched the idea to Jerry Seinfeld in a dream. A series about a black family running a plantation tour business in the invisible green or they don't know they're there even as they're dreaming it and in that same dream we ate a meal of mangoes, basil, and mint yogurt, and then washed the dishes side by side with tears in our eyes and grins on our faces. Smiles not grins. It must have been. Really strange. To be a slave and love life this much. We thought to ourselves in silent unison.
