“Oh, Black known and unknown poets, how often have your auctioned pains sustained us? Who will compute the lonely nights made less lonely by your songs, or by the empty pots made less tragic by your tales?If we were a people much given to revealing secrets, we might raise monuments and sacrifice to the memories of our poets, but slavery cured us of that weakness.”

“I think we look for the differences in people because it makes us less lonely.”

“No. Take the heart first. Then you don't feel the cold so much. The pain so much. With the heart gone, there's no reason to stay your hand. Your eyes can look on death and not tremble. It's the heart that betrays us, makes us weep, makes us bury our friends when we should be marching ahead. It's the heart that sickens us at night and makes us hate who we are. It's the heart that sings old songs and brings memories of warm days.”

“You have made us to be free,But we crave the cheap comforts of our chains. You have made us to serve others,But we have eyes only for ourselves. You have made us to love,But we are inflamed with lust. You provide, that we may be generous,But we greedily hoard as if your well will run dry. You forgive time and again,But we hold fast to the sins of others. You offer light for our path,But we insist on making our own way. You are the God who saves.Lord, save us from ourselves. In your great mercy, restore and heal us, and grant us your peace.”

“You made peace,” said the buffalo man. “You took our words and made them your own. They never understood that they were here—and the people who worshiped them were here—because it suits us that they are here. But we can change our minds. And perhaps we will.”

“My love is a thousand French poets puking black blood on your Cure CD collection.”