Bob Kaufman was redacted from Beat histories for being often on the street and always black. His works were the colour-treated nebulae of an outlawed space project, rendered in a noise-to-signal euphoria. Busted for being, he sent his eyes away like snails to bring back glints of fiasco and emerged saying more than he knew. One time his head gave off a subway spark, wounding his shoulder. His red footprints led to the stained wallpaper of a solid wall, at which they did not stop. He was through.
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