Langston Hughes 3·24·10
March 24, 2010 by admin
The south swell killed our dreams for a magical morning at the Queen and so we drove south in search of better options. We surfed as the sun climbed into the heavens, but those dreams remained deferred: like a raisin in the sun they fester like a sore, and then run. They stink like rotten meat and crust and sugar over like a syrupy sweet. Maybe they just sag like a heavy load. And then explode?