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It rained every day.
Cairo was rib-dry, glass-eye-dry
but every night in my dreams we drowned.
Looked up and saw on a telephone wire the most unbelievably beautiful black crow in East Oakland’s history.
I looked for it in the afterlight lapping the edge
of the long valley. I sought it in canopy, in the horizon’s
fringe, past. . .
In The Last Black Man in San Francisco and Bandana, black men hold fast to territory they’ve been told they should abandon.
How Omegle and Chatroulette demonstrate the internet at both its most poetic and insipid.
The pathos of Tarantino’s historical interventions.