Those dreams in which one falls,
Uncontrollably hurtling
Toward what seems like certain death, or at the very least
Grievous injury,
Like a freeway insect making an abstract blotch upon a windshield,
Are supposed to mean something.
You like to dance to the music of your body
Unaware and drowning in bliss,
Certain somehow that all will turn out as it ought to,
If only in a dream.
The University of Michigan recently compiled the nation’s strictest set of “sensitivity guidelines” for their faculty and students. We take you to a faculty lounge on the Ann Arbor campus.
INT – A faculty lounge on a Friday afternoon. Several TEACHERS gather around the water cooler.
NATE: . . .so I told Jenkins, “Hey, come on, man. It’s Friday afternoon. Let’s not get all wrapped up in graduation rates. Enjoy the weekend, get refreshed,…
Writer, poet, artist, improviser, lyricist, former television personality, and generally decent person.
“I write to you from the predicament of Blackness,” is the opening line of Xandria Phillips’ new collection of poems, “Reasons for Smoking.” Unwritten, but deeply felt, is the predicament of Femaleness. And Gayness. And Differentness. All these challenges are met (and rhetorically bested) by this fierce poet’s keen sense of self and of the...
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