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Nowhere
is homeless like parties. Voices escape, movements take shape in windows, light spills out, finds night-filled eyes. Outside, the final arrival—confused, yet invited, observer. Suddenly interior, an approachable mess, forms occupy the structure. Structure is to form as urn-- ash. First, nowhere, now here. Music is hot. Everyone-- hot. To ignore the flame beneath the rug simply mute the guest. I know of no sizable group of negroes in this country who want to revise American institutions. They want to be part of those institutions, for good or ill, as they now exist. —Bayard Rustin |
VOLUME 53.3
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CURRENT ISSUE
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CONTACT
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DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH
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