A fiery fist, forged in words, held up to scream: "Run, hide, fight, dreams,
justice, and peace." I'll always find ways to make feasts from the scraps
you've given me the way we made ghettos and soul I'll learn to play the
tunes of jazz from the blood that bleeds from those shades of black, turn
them blue, and then force them down—smooth jazz. Can you hear the
tunes sung from a song where I am the muse?