October 5, 2014
"I’m getting along alright. I say a little prayer. mama’s baby Sadie mae
ms. davis’ blue and red. at the duck inn mighty lions roar. You and
bobby bradford run away together. his earth tone air is b.c. marks’s
pine bluff Arkansas, asleep in new pajamas at the desert inn, to walk
joe williams pieceway home to waycross, you and me against the world, every time we say goodbye. I’ll be seeing you in all the unfamiliar places where they till our long advance. this is the cluster song of our romance."

— Fred Moten, “b jenkins”

October 4, 2014
Before the Law

newyorker:

image

In 2010, Kalief Browder was accused of stealing a backpack. He then spent three years in Rikers Island’s Robert N. Davoren Center—more than half of that time in solitary confinement—without ever standing trial. Jennifer Gonnerman investigates the case and offers a rare account of life inside the notorious jail for adolescents, in this week’s issue.

Photograph by Zach Gross

October 4, 2014
"A woman sitting by herself is not waiting for you."

— Caitlin Stasey. (via mysharona1987)

(via dion-thesocialist)

October 3, 2014

"This that life beyond your own life"

September 30, 2014
"When I came out of college into the world of work, I realized that it was quite possible that my plan of training a talented tenth might put in control and power, a group of selfish, self-indulgent, well-to-do men, whose basic interest in solving the Negro problem was personal; personal freedom and unhampered enjoyment and use of the world, without any real care, or certainly no arousing care, as to what became of the mass of American Negroes, or of the mass of any people. My Talented Tenth, I could see, might result in a sort of interracial free-for-all, with the devil taking the hindmost and the foremost taking anything they could lay hands on."

— WEB Du Bois, in a Memorial Address delivered at the 19th Grand Boule Conclave, 1948

September 22, 2014
"I want to talk about the relationship between black men and women and our fathers, as I understand it. This means I want to discuss growing up black/brown/yellow/gold-in American and not knowing your own father or being afraid of him or forcing naivete in order understand him or taking him for granted because you landed in a fairy tale and didn’t know he was the author like in Those Winter Sundays or him being one form or another of gone: Iron Mask or Cosby Sweater or Nowhere Man, I want to talk about that. And I want to talk about how that moody, pageanting oracle affects and defects the main arteries running through the whole nation: how when black men are both revered and feared from the inside out by their children as much as by their nation as much as by themselves, how the country becomes a playground for the triptych so-trite fantasy, at once folk hero and folk villain and the rituals and ceremonies therein."

— Harmony Holiday, “Alternate Ending/Why We Are A Destiny/ Why Are We A Destiny”

September 16, 2014

the-samsara-blues:

XXYYXX - Alone 

(via seventhlioness)

September 13, 2014

Terrance Hayes at the Villanova Literary Festival (2011)

September 10, 2014
"What I saw happening was black people being treated as a kind of raw material. That the history of black people was something you could use as a note of inspiration but it was never anything that had to do with you—you could never use it to explain something in theoretical terms. There was no discourse that it generated, in terms of the mainstream academy that gave it a kind of recognition. And so my idea was to try to generate a discourse, or a vocabulary that would not just make it desirable, but would necessitate that black women be in the conversation."

— Hortense Spillers

September 5, 2014
"Birds" by Robinson Jeffers

The fierce musical cries of a couple of sparrowhawks hunting
on the headland,
Hovering and darting, their heads northwestward,
Prick like silver arrows shot through a curtain the noise of the
ocean
Trampling its granite; their red backs gleam
Under my window around the stone corners; nothing gracefuller,
nothing
Nimbler in the wind. Westward the wave-gleaners,
The old gray sea-going gulls are gathered together, the northwest
wind wakening
Their wings to the wild spirals of the wind-dance.
Fresh as the air, salt as the foam, play birds in the bright wind,
fly falcons
Forgetting the oak and the pinewood, come gulls
From the Carmel sands and the sands at the river-mouth, from
Lobos and out of the limitless
Power of the mass of the sea, for a poem
Needs multitude, multitudes of thoughts, all fierce, all flesh-eaters,
musically clamorous
Bright hawks that hover and dart headlong, and ungainly
Gray hungers fledged with desire of transgression, salt slimed
beaks, from the sharp
Rock-shores of the world and the secret waters.

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