Fast typing - "Buccaneers: 'Hollywood Africans,' 1983"

Not Los Angeles but Boston we are allergic to pollen.

We don’t smoke tobacco but I’m sure an ancestor did in a field after the field work after the turn from sun

after pondering the pale pink blossoms like bugles she may have thought.

I’m distant inside of the yellow its glare its toil.

I turn away from it not a hero but the quiet one dissolving. That’s my self-portrait.

Here not here excluded. Two of Basquiat’s artsy New York City friends were his buccaneers in Los Angeles.

They all missed New York City. They all smoked. They all played music.

Not banjos like us, something more electronic, something always spinning.

I’m spinning even though still. My mind is a pinwheel. I read the world.