The Feces Of A Very Small Cow, Or, I Love Amiri Baraka.

For my little smattering of readers who might give a fuck about what I think about anything, I think this is important. I hope Amiri Baraka gets his $10,000. He's a poet who changed my thinking time and again, and I love him. He's no crazier than any other writer, and there's nothing in his agreement to appear twice and read that included a clause suggesting that he couldn't read any goddamned thing he pleased.

If you've never read it, go read "Somebody Blew Up America," but it's better if you can hear him read it. Wait, I found the video. Read it and watch him read it!



Oh, and also The Dutchman. Or really, read anything he ever wrote. He rocks.

I met him once at The Bowery Poetry Club in Manhattan. I was absolutely smitten, and terrified, but he was the sweetest man, taking me backstage, giving me a hug, signing my chapbook, and talking to me for a few minutes. He didn't care that I was a poem-addled white girl from the South. He cared that I cared about his work, and he liked it that I was teaching his stuff to my inner city college writing class in Brooklyn, and I felt like a teacher and writer talking to another teacher and writer. He rocks. I hope the court hears his case.