Forgiveness was like charity: You could dispense it, or not. And, as with charity, the one dispensing held the power.

The light and the heat tantalize, but stray too close and face obliteration.

He so often felt as though he hailed from a different species, not quite human. He’d always been different, had never fit. Negroes looked at him askance, questioning his credentials as a Negro man. Whites did, too. For both groups, he wasn’t Negro enough.

Having nothing to lose liberates.

A sidewalk café. Coffee. Beignets. A favorite book of poems, the pages edged in gilt. A serenading band. Wistful jazz. Happy jazz. Glo. Gin. A poem dancing off the nib of his pen. The sun and moon holding hands in the sky. A tickle of champagne. A stroke of reefer.

Strings were out. Jazz was in.

His lover. His muse. Admirer. Critic. His antagonist. His protector. Defender. His savior. His.

Harlem had been hit by a hurricane: It was raining cats and jazz.

It’s better to die with your worst enemy in the room than to die all alone, right?

You could have love, or you could have pleasure, and rarely did the two commingle. Love was difficult. Pleasure was not.