knew i was never going back. i just pulled myself up and started moving. i grabbed at everything i could reach until i learned better i put my tongue on anything. once iate papaya straight from the tree and i mourned the abject state of created fruit i living in that state in my ignorance thought i loved. i denounce such love. i married a local. i taught myself how to keep his garden. i swear i'm staying away from that state for good. i heard this quote a while ago and i just loved it ever since. >> just before she died, gert trued stein was able to ask, what is the answer? she got no response.

her last words were, in that case what is the question? it is not who is it, are we there yet, is anybody home. not, how much for the lemon, not, how much for the ivory, leopard, the peach. not, when are we leaving. not, how will we leave. not, do you know who she came with? how many clowns will hit in the car. the head of a pin? no one cares how many angels. no one cares what you think of the smart bomb corruption, the mobs. your opinion on deregulation, no one's concerned much the question is not who done it the question is not what's for dinner, what's your beverage, where's the beef?

the question is not who is your daddy? is not, which way will the wind blow? is not, where's the car. you wash behind your ears; right . question is not did you turn off the oven or turn off the alarm what's that got to do with the price of tea in china. did you bite it. what's gotten into you no one's asking if you know where your children are. no one's asking if you can locate the nearest exits. in some cases they may be behind you. no one cares whether or not you are being followed. don't ask if it makes you look fat. the question is not, do you remember the time. do you remember the time? not, do you know the extension of the person you were calling. not, premium or regular. not paper, not plastic credit or

deb debit. the question is not what can you do for your country. not now. not later. not okay? the question is not, what your country can do for you. the question is not, who will save us. how are you getting by? [applause] >> i'll end with a love poem. >> my lover. who lives far. my lover who lives far away opens the door to my room and offers supper. in a bowl made of his breath. the stew has boiled and i wonder at the cat born from it's steam.

the cat is in the bedroom now. muling. the cat is indecent and i whom trying to be tidy, i whom trying to do things the purpose way, i who am sick from the shedding. i, am undone. my lover who lives far away opens the door to my room and offers pastry in a basket spun from his vision. it is closely woven. the kind of container some women collect. i have seen these in many colors but the basket he brings is simple. only black. only nude. the basket he brings is full of sweet burdens and i eat even the crumbs. as am i have not dined for days.

my lover who lives far away opens the door to my room and offers tea made from the liquid he's crying. i do not want my lover crying and i am sorry i ever asked for tea. my lover, who lives far away opens the door to my room pretending he never cried. he offers tea and cold cakes. the tea is delicious. spiced like the start of our courtship. honeyed and warm. i drink every bit of the tea and put aside the cakes. my lover who lives far away opens the door to my room like a man loving his strength. the lock i replaced this morning will not keep him away. my lover who lives far away

opens the door to my room and brings me nothing. perhaps he has noticed how fat i have grown indulged. perhaps he is poor and sick as emptying his store. it is no matter to me any longer he has filled me already so full. my lover who is far away opens the door to my room and tells me he is tired. i do not ask what he's tired from for my lover far away has already disappeared. the blankets are big with his body. the cat, under the covers because it is cold out and she is not stupid.

muse. >> thank you. [applause]. >> please welcome mr. douglas kaerny. [applause] >> how many know the song living in the city by stevie wonder. that great skit at end where stevie plays all the voices and gets arrested. new york city, skyscrapers and everything. this is a poem that reimagines that gentlemen exists the bus in that skit as john henry. this is a section of it. skyscrapers and everything. j hammer henry mallet [inaudible] could barely fit hammer poking out like natural man's skyscraper to the concrete for deep machine sleep abouts income. don't go john henry traffic man,

don't go across that street. the flood song poems were poems written in reaction to katrina. how can i enter that space of writing poems about that. i'm not from there and don't have family there. who benefits from that tragedy? who benefits from that disregard for humanity and the thought animals would benefit from that. this first poem is flood songs number 4 mosquitoes drinking didy. >> drink every hour next up this hour and every hour after. was born in the river there is enough to go around. drink every hour on the hour and every hour after. in the river there is enough to

go around. drink every hour. there is enough to go around. drink every hour and every hour after. go to the river there is enough to go around. drink up the hours and every after burned down by the river -- drink air land is here for after survivors go around they are enough. [applause] >> flood song 8 stray dogs duet. >> the every i learned. food. for the good. love. your hand smiled with me. you wanted me to understand you with -- my teeth.

hunger seemed the only -- tongue we shared. the sky -- opened. closed it's door. the sky -- opens, closes it's door. the sky -- hunger seems the only master. no, we both understand something like love. good doggie, good doggie what i do now. [applause] >> now you can feed pigeons and they know to go there to get food. sharks follow the ships because if you have humans packed and one gets sick you have to get rid of the sick one so it doesn't get the others sick you

3 them over board and the sharks follow. slim chance for [inaudible] it samples parliament, little mermaid. ts eljot and robert haden. >> never learned to swim. but we sure can dive. over million ships -- over million ship. iowa woo. let your fish bones live old man. let your fish bones before man. make a wish the black fish there is company coming, coming. hammer heads ham or head until hammer fed company knocking. great white shark. great white georgia no, no.

they company dining, dining. [inaudible] can't remember, can't remember. there is company [inaudible]. and all know was a dark room cloud and gullets filled with [inaudible]. cattle, chattel, channel of the deep blue. see all about that dark moon cloud and the gullets full of water and slaughter. assault, assault oh , channel of the deep blue sea. sure no one will see. just look out the world around you right here on the ocean floor. such wonderful things around you what more is you looking for. rag ed claws scuffling across the seas. tell be thin, fine, attention nigger mermaids, chains like

hooks and sifrpgs are didy don't bleed into the sea the stains won't watch out we ain't responsible for your mess. the management. there is company, can't remember. there is company. the stains will not wash out. [applause] >> he wasn't dragged death in a quick casual way. they had fun with his body they chained him to the back of the car did fish tails. forensic evidence suggests his body came lose and some of the men confessed and rechained him after rolling back over him to get him. most of us heard about this tragedy. something we don't hear is because dragged to death we assume he was dragged like this.

see that way chained to the truck it's not true. he was not dragged like that he was dragged like this. chained the back of the truck watching the road behind him. this poem is called big thicket jasper, texas. a crack is a buck shot. big thickel. crack, headlights staggering home. the road kills. crack, big thicket. the sticks, drink, drink, headlight stagger in the road. creek, crack, stick broke light kills. big thickel. buck shot by the white headlights to big thicket. what you looking at. crack, the white stick big thicket along the trees. the buck is staggering home. crack, we go to big thicket what

you are doing here. break for home. on the road, go, go, crack, crack, crack, big thicket. headlights what you think you are. huff, is this, critic o crack, a stick broke. buck in the brushes. put them back on. what you think. in the rushes. put them back o. big thicket we go to creek. go to head staggers along the trees. crack, a stick broke the creek breaks big thicket we go, buck shot, home we go, go, big thicket. road kill. staggering bucks. headlight rushes. screeching. road screeching, what you what you. we go, we go. crack. bones. road kills a broke stick along the staggering creek we go on.

[applause] >> i will close with a poem from the book it's live evil. a name of a miles davis album we know that miles davis abused his wife. physically. pearl initially had mad at miles the reason this poem exist system because of that esan and the epigraphs that will ground it some more. quote, miles was guilt of self confessed violet crimes against women we should break his records and burn his cd's until he apologizes. the trumpet's mouth is apology. you just write a poem about your need to do that a madual

johnson. all right. live people. the pins point come downs on the butter fly. the knuckle come down on ms. sisly. the mallet come down on the cd case. wait! the mallet come down on the butter fly. the pins point come down on the ms. sisly. the knuckle come down on the cd case. wait! >> the knuckle come down on the buttir fly. the pins point come down on the cd case. dammit. the butter fly, ms. sisly the cd case. the roses rips at the spit much the phoenix dazzling petals births something.

the martir's smile that saves something. what did we make? listen to the butter fly, the pinpoint makes no sound sticking the [inaudible] no brass wail to the air here it's silent as a necktie this is not right. ms. sisly a cd case and a pin striped suit did he stick her lips red. i don't know, i don't know. sometimes he wore a pin striped 3 piece and a dazzling tie. i have a mallet did he kiss her. lips red. did he stick her with a pins point much listen to the brass ware and butter fly the plastic and silence breaks. this is a man thinking he can build with a mallet. a martir with knuckles. this it is a man who through out

the notes. wait. dammit, ms. sisly why won't you listen to the man who writes lynches. he had a mallet and the oils in the hands cripple the butter fly won't fly again so butter wait. butter stay. butter still. what have we made that awakes. stay still. listen to the song of a man in his sleeping shell. it come down it come down. the pinpoint, the knuckle, the mallet. wait a bit. no birthing. no saving. no feeding. dammit! >> listen to the song of a man who makes what have we made? thank you. [applause]

>> patricia leanne caldwell born in tennessee. daughter of robert and irma. at age of 3 moved to missouri and returned when she was 12 years old. patricia grew up with segregation and injustices which she writes about. she spent many countless hours in the nashville public library. it was her family life that was bountiful and flowing with tales told by her story telling grandfather. raised with love of reading and oral tradition. graduated from tennessee state

and degree in english in 1964. she married her childhood friend on december 12. they are the parents of fredrick and twins robert and john. her education continued with a master's degree in early childhood literature, and programming in 1975 from webster university. patricia has a successful career as a teacher and children's book editor. she changed careers to become a full time writer of children and young adult books. her goal is to create books for and about african-americans. i write because there is a need to have books for, by and about the african-american experience and how we helped to develop this country. i present to you patricia

makinsik heart of literacy. >> i am from st. louis, missouri. a lot of you think i have said it in correctly when i said missouri. you think i got it slid into my southern dialect, right? no. i was not born in st. louis. i was born in nashville, tennessee, a little town side of nashville. that is where i grew up, went to high school, met and married my husband. moved back to st. louis where i lived part of my life. i heard people saying missouri and missouri. what is the correct pronunciation of our new home? the best place to go when you want information is where?

>> [inaudible]. >> of course, we all know that. i went to the library and the librarian gave me a wonderful book and began a life long friendship with the librarian. missouri is the native american pronunciation. in their language it is the people of the big boats. one word means all of that. missouri. frenchman who came up the mississippi river. they said that would be a great place to have a trading post. they set up a trading post and called it st. louis. missouri became missouri. now i ask you which is correct?

missouri or missouri? >> missouri. okay. neither one. [laughter]. you can't say the native americans were wrong for saying missouri. you can't say the french were wrong for pronouncing it in their language, just different ways of pronouncing the same word. that is where we have the problem with the word different. different isn't a synonym of the word wrong. we have to be careful how we use it and our children. it answers the question, why do you write that? i write to tell the story. one that has fallen through the

cracks, one marginalized by main stream history. either misrepresented or represented to the way in which it is a stereo typical, write to take those stereotypes, reshape them and give them back to you dressed in a new dress. i mean when i say different is not a synonym for wrong, it means that we should celebrate those things. everyone in this room is different in some way. but you should not feel bad about that. your uniqueness, as my grandson who loves to make up words, that is your wonderment. [laughter].

it answers that question that we get asked most often is why do you write? you can say pat is write to tell that different story and different is not a synonym for wrong. before i was a writer, however, i was a listener. i grew up listening to stories. listening to language. come with me to nashville, tennessee to an old farmhouse set back off the road, a little house, window here, window here and doorway that looked like a face. the windows, door, and front porch kind of sag so it looked like a smiling face. [laughter]. then there was a long sidewalk

that led up to the house. when you turn and started toward it, you felt like you were going to a warm and happy place. my grandparents loved to in the evening sit on the front porch. there was a radio that set in the window, my grandfather would listen to the ball game. i remember when marion anderson would sing, my grandmother made us be quiet and respectful before greatness. every once in a while a neighbor would come by and would excuse herself and come out with a pitcher of lemonade or ice tea. she had those tea cakes that i

loved. most of the time children would say go on and play. you wouldn't listen to grown up's conversation. at that point we were all welcome. the stories were layered. seniors got something that the young parents and fathers learned, then teenagers and little ones. we all got something out of the story. they were layered. i try to do that in my writing. i try to layer so that the reader who is sharing the story with the young person will get something out of it or see something they can learn from as well. my mother loved to do