Malcolmdo not speak to me of martyrdom,of men who die to be rememberedon some parish day.i don't believe in dyingthough, I too shall die.and violets like castanetswill echo me.yet this man,this dreamer,thick lipped with wordswill never speak againand in each winterwhen the cold air crackswith frost I'll breathehis breath and mournmy gunfilled nights.he was the sun that taggedthe western sky andmelted tiger-scholarswhile they searched for stripes.he said, "fuck you, whiteman. we have beencurled too long. nothingis sacred, not yourwhite face nor anyland that separatesuntil some voicessquat with spasms."do not speak to me of living.life is obscene with crowdsof white on black.death is my pulse.what might have beenis not for him/or mebut what could have beenfloods the womb until I drown.
This wildly inventive short film takes you on a whirling, spinning tour of the Big Apple