i woke from the nightmare of a gutted macom, not because i have not yet bled my life in yellow, but because minarettes looking sky ward. one burly buffalo looking for hooves and hot breath because the skin is not yet numb and the lights are not yet flickering, i will continue to sip at my hot tea and stare at the dust-colored noon. one white dasha screams with the brilliance of red. can you hear them, the melodious intent, the glimmering mood in their eyes. face stitched by seam, a garment i have sewn to my skin. whatever remains of el gubenchi's 1932 cairo studio recording lives between the old cobblestone quarter and my still-warm mahogony ear. i should have gotten up to shake his hand, this uncomfortable tension between me and god. medina, its streets adorned with smells from the bazaar, yet i have chosen to adorn myself in the still concrete of columns. i am for the transcription of the arabic. in the morning, he howled the song in the name of his father, perhaps new fathers weep at the birth of their sons. do not cry for leila or for him, but drink the red wine and grow your love doubl

the witnesses of the state, with the exception of the sheriff of macom county, has presented them to yourselves, you gentlemen, of the court in their confidence that their testimony would not be doubted. believing that you gentlemen would go along with them on the assumption, the evil assumption that all negros lie, that all negros are basically immoral beings, that all negros are not to be trusted around our women. which, gentlemen, as you know in itself a lie as black as tom robinson's skin. a lie i do not need to explain to you. you know the truth and the truth is this -- that some negros lie. some negros are immoral. some negros are not to be trusted around women, black or white. but this is a truth that applies to the human race and not to any particular race of man. there is not a person in this courtroom who has never told a lie, who has never done an immoral thing and there is no man living who has never looked upon a woman without desire. one more thing, gentlemen, before i quit. thomas jefferson once said that all men are created equal, a phrase which the yankees and the si

i woke from the nightmare of a gutted macom, not because i have not yet bled my life in yellow, but because minarettes looking sky ward. one burly buffalo looking for hooves and hot breath because the skin is not yet numb and the lights are not yet flickering, i will continue to sip at my hot tea and stare at the dust-colored noon. one white dasha screams with the brilliance of red. can you hear them, the melodious intent, the glimmering mood in their eyes. face stitched by seam, a garment i have sewn to my skin. whatever remains of el gubenchi's 1932 cairo studio recording lives between the old cobblestone quarter and