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Jamaal May

 04-12-2016

 
Jamaal May
 
Ask Where I've Been

Let fingers roam
the busy angles
of my shoulders.
Ask why skin dries
in rime-white patches, cracks
like a puddle stepped on. Ask
about the scars that interrupt
blacktop, a keloid on my bicep:
this fogged window. Ask how many
days passed before the eyebrow healed
after a metal spike was torn out,
uprooted lamppost in a tornado.
Ask about the tornado of fists.
The blows landed. If you can
watch it all-the spit and blood frozen
against snow, you can probably tell
I am the too-narrow road winding out
of a crooked city built of laughter,
abandon, feathers, and drums.
Ask only if you can watch streetlights bow,
bridges arc, and power lines sag,
and still believe what matters most
is not where I bend
but where I am growing.

 

FBI Questioning During the 2009 Presidential Inauguration

Have you always been named Jamaal?

Yes, my name means beauty.
Yes, my name is Gemal in Egypt
and Cemal in Turkey. In Kosovo
Xhemal, and Dzemal in Bosnia.
What it means, in the language
you fear, is beauty has always lived
with the sound of awe at its center.

How long have you lived in Detroit?

Ivy leaves have taken back
a house on the block
where the memory of me is still climbing
the slope of a leveled garage.
A yellow excavator has taken one in its mouth.
The temptation to become ash
has claimed several others.

Are there any explosives in the house?

The new president's hand
presses to a bible like a branding iron,
and I want to say something
about the eruption of love poems
written by fifth graders on my shelf.
Which list carries my name?
I don't ask. How many Jamaals
are being questioned right now? I wonder,
but don't ask. The agents have not come
to burn the pages or cut out my tongue.
They are here to arrest the delusion
of a moment when anybody had one.

Have you spent much time overseas?

I tried to paint an ocean
across my bedroom wall,
but my blood reddened 
as soon as it hit air.

I wanted to build a house
from my name, but every letter
in every word was as thin as my arms.

It would be nice to quarantine the county,
tape off city blocks, make a fence
of my teeth, and protect every laugh
inside the borders of me, but when I reach...

the hurried unravel of sinew,
that peculiar popping sound in my ankle.
Teach me how to get my hands
into the air without the gods
knowing about it, because I hear static
sometimes, wonder if my voice is being taped-
listen, listen; someone is writing us down.

The Gun Joke

It's funny, she says,
how many people are shocked by this shooting
and the next and next and the next.

She doesn't mean funny as in funny, but funny
as in blood soup tastes funny when you stir in soil.
Stop me if you haven't heard this one.

A young man/old man/teenage boy
walks into an office/nightclub/day care/church
and empties a magazine into a crowd of strangers/
enemies/family/students.

Ever hear the one about the shotgun? What do you call it
when a shotgun tests a liquor store's bulletproof glass?
What's the difference between a teenager
with hands in the air and a paper target charging at a cop?
What do you call it when a man sets his own house on fire,
takes up a sniper position, and waits for firefighters?
Stop me if you haven't heard this one before.

The first man to pull a gun on me
said it was only a joke,
but never so much as smiled.
The second said, This is definitely not a joke,
and then his laughter crackled through me
like electrostatic--funny how that works.

When she says it's funny she means funny
as in crazy and crazy as in this shouldn't happen.
This shouldn't happen as in something is off. Funny as in
off--as in, ever since a small caliber bullet chipped his spine,
your small friend walks kinda' funny and his smile is off

                                -from The Big Book of Exit Strategies

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Jamaal May was born and raised in Detroit. His first book, Hum (2013), won a Beatrice Hawley Award and an American Library Association Notable Book Award and was an NAACP Image Award nominee. Hum explores machines, technology, obsolescence, and community; in an interview, May stated of his first book, “Ultimately, I’m trying to say something about dichotomy, the uneasy spaces between disparate emotions, and by extension, the uneasy spaces between human connection.” May’s poems have appeared widely in journals such as Poetry, New England Review, The Believer, and Best American Poetry 2014. His second collection is The Big Book of Exit Strategies (2016).
 
May’s honors and awards include a Spirit of Detroit Award, an Indiana Review Poetry Prize, and fellowships from Cave Canem, Bread Loaf,The Frost Place, the Lannan Foundation, and the Stadler Center for Poetry at Bucknell University. He is the 2014–2016 Kenyon Review Fellow at Kenyon College and a recipient of the Civitella Ranieri Fellowship in Italy.
 
May has taught poetry in Detroit public schools and worked as a freelance sound engineer. He has taught in the Vermont College of Fine Arts MFA program and codirects, with Tarfia Faizullah, the Organic Weapon Arts Chapbook and Video Series.
 
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A Review of Jamaal May's The Big Book of Exit Strategies, first published at Publishers Weekly
 
May follows his brilliant debut, Hum, with poems that are at once an extended ode to his hometown, Detroit, and a resounding protest against the many violent and oppressive ills that plague America, including gun violence and racism. The poems soar when May finds their center and grounds them in lived experience, revealing his genius for reframing old concepts into new images: “Coming black/ into the deep south,/ my friend says,/ is like returning/ to an elegant home/ you were beat in/ as a child.” Similarly, when May lets his subconscious roam, each line seems to turn the next like a skeleton key opening an endless hallway of doors: “I am trying to say/ the neighborhood is as tattered/ and feathered as anything else,/ as shadow pierced by sun/ and light parted/ by shadow-dance as anything else.” Yet given the ambitious nature of the work, it’s an uneven read. Some heavy subjects, such as war, are approached with grand metaphors instead of hard-hitting, grounded images. Other poems seem too overt in their intellectual or humorous intentions to maintain an element of surprise. These are presumably the growing pains of an excellent young poet treading unfamiliar ground, and like the Detroit that May describes, these poems are full of both shadow and light.
 

A Review of Jamaal May's Hum by David Winter, first published at The Journal

Jamaal May’s self-reflexive debut, Hum, is musically understated, performative yet private, a spiritual voice in dialogue with a post-industrial landscape. “Dedicated to the interior lives of Detroiters and the memory of David Blair,” the book takes its formal structure from the combination of that landscape with the speaker’s anxieties, which range from the mundane to the mortal. But ultimately, the book invests the word “hum” with a particular sense of the human, a spiritual music that finds its way up from between May’s words and defies straightforward analysis.

The book opens with a poem entitled “Still Life,” an anaphoric series of images of a boy costuming himself and playing imaginatively with urban detritus ranging from barbed wire and bent nails to a bath-towel cape. The end of the poem takes an inward turn with the lines, “Boy with a boy / in his head kept quiet / by humming a lullaby / of static and burble.” The first of many references to “humming” throughout the text, one might read these lines as a self-portrait or analogue of the author as a young man and a description of Hum’s nascent project. But only a few lines after this framing of the poetic text as personal solace, that project is placed in jeopardy. May writes of rust as a metaphorical thief the boy “doesn’t see / but knows / is coming tomorrow / to swallow his song.” This tension between the transformative potential of creativity and the consumptive action of time seems central to Hum, underlying the anxieties that structure the text.

May’s marriage of interior life to external form is unusually intricate, particularly for a poet’s first book. Many poets have used the sestina, a traditional Italian form in which lines end with particular words that repeat according to a mathematical pattern, to explore themes of obsession or anxiety. The second and second-to-last poems in Hum are sestinas that share a single set of end-words: “machine,” “ignore,” “sea,” “snow,” “needle,” and “waiting.” Six other poems in the body of the manuscript take their titles from phobias associated with those end-words. Such ambitious projects often come at the expense of attention to individual poems, but the eight poems of Hum’s spine each feel as carefully conceived as the overarching structure itself. “The Hum of Zug Island,” the book’s second sestina and penultimate poem, even earned May a Pushcart Prize. However, the function of these formal devices is not simply to impress; they build the themes of obsession and anxiety into the structure of the text itself.

Though subjects such as “snow” and “waiting” may seem rather mundane foci for phobias, in May’s poems these subjects become pathways through anxiety into trauma, raising questions that resound long after the poems end. “Chionophobia: Fear of Snow” is a second-person elegy in which we know the deceased protagonist only as “you.” In the poem, the windblown ash and sand of a combat zone recall the snow in which “you” and “your brother” played as children:

   Can two snowflakes be the same

   on a ghost-white street where enough gather
   to construct faceless snowmen? In this desert,

   sand blinds the way snow did back home.
   Your brother patches holes

   in men with names he can’t or won’t learn,
   and wonders if, somehow, you are still here,

   using an earthmover to pour sand
   into foxholes.

These lines highlight the particularity of the minute and familiar—snowflakes, grains of sand—while also pointing out the anonymity of bodies in war. How can snowflakes be unique when survival seems to depend on blinding ourselves to the individuality of the suffering and dead? Images of “your brother” and “you” patching and filling holes may gesture toward healing and peace, but the comfort they provide restores neither the identities of the soldiers nor the landscape.

The poem continues, weaving meditatively between images of past and present, sand and snow, before arriving at the apparent source of the protagonist’s fear. When a fruit stand appears to shiver in the desert heat, “your brother” recalls how his family heard the news of “your” death:

   Your brother shivers

   remembering your mother’s shiver,
   the way she sank to the ground, heavy

   with news, and your body comes home again.
   Your bone-colored casket repeats

   its descent, sinks under the flag, and a thud
   resounds. Fades. He still hears it.

In these lines the poem’s dichotomous elements blur together, resolving momentarily into a scene where sand and snow, innocence and mortality, the living and the dead all coexist paradoxically. The leaping progression of images through which we arrive at this transcendent moment not only makes rhythmic and resonant connections between disparate settings, it also reflects the fact that post-traumatic stress is often triggered by seemingly innocuous experiences.

Such associative leaps are common in May’s work, but they seem particularly suited to describing the dissociation experienced by this poem’s speaker. In the final lines of “Chionophobia: Fear of Snow,” May capitalizes on this dissociation as well as the second-person mode of address to enact the protagonist’s identity crisis on the reader: “Deafening like footfalls / against the icy driveway, resonant / like your mother’s voice, calling / the wrong name—your name—again.” The ambiguity of identity in these lines shifts attention from the protagonist’s grief over the trauma of his brother’s death to the realization of his own mortality. And this artful closing completes the poem’s journey from a phobia’s innocuous trigger through personal trauma to the temporal source of so many obsessive anxieties.

While this review has focused on how the poems that act as Hum’s most explicit structural elements explore the speakers’ anxieties about time and mortality, the other eighty percent of the text also deserves critical attention. The images and themes introduced in the sestinas and phobia poems recur throughout the book, adding to the impression of anxiety while re-contextualizing key words and images in surprising ways. As mentioned above, Hum is intimately concerned with Detroit’s post-industrial landscape and legacy, and several of the poems explore relationships between humans and machines in terms that are both spiritual and bleakly realistic. In “Hum for the Machine God,” a title which plays on the word “hymn” as well as other meanings of “hum,” a boy prays for his abusive father to be injured but feels remorse when his prayer is granted more brutally than anticipated. In “On Metal” a handful of lay mechanics huddle around a broken down car as the speaker realizes that the human body and the tradition of mechanical repair—both of which he reveres with a nearly religious sense of mystery—are rapidly being rendered obsolete by computerization. And in “Hum of the Machinist’s Lover,” a machinist serenades an automaton he’s created, but whom his breathing corrodes. In these poems, the speakers’ anxieties about mortality intertwine with spiritual tradition and technological innovation to render a portrait of the human condition during a distinctly postmodern moment.

May intricately weaves together these themes and others to create a wide-ranging and surprisingly coherent debut. But what makes Hum remarkable, perhaps more than its structural sophistication or thematic content, is the intimacy and authenticity May’s voice conveys as he thinks and feels his way through each line and stanza. In “Thalassophobia: Fear of the Sea,” a poem addressed to the Detroit poet David Blair who drowned tragically at a young age, May writes:

      . . . You know
      I get like this sometimes—I listen

   for footsteps that will never come,
      remember waves I’ve never seen,

   watch them fold and break and slowly
      whet stones that jut up from coastlines,

   and today I learn something old
      about the sea . . .

In these lines May makes himself vulnerable by sharing his creative process—a process of discovery in which imagination blends with memory and sensual perception—with someone he loves. And while not all of the poems in the book exhibit that process as explicitly as “Thalassophobia,” an impression of May’s vulnerability suffuses his poetry. Formal sophistication and conceptual implication may make Hum a significant work of literature, but it is May’s human touch that fills these poems with the irreducible combination of feeling and music.

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An Interview with Jamaal May by Anna Claire Hodge, first published at The Southeast Review

Ann Claire Hodge: Hip-hop artists are often categorized by region, and Detroit has produced both legends (Eminem, J Dilla) and newcomers making names for themselves (Danny Brown, Angel Haze, Big Sean). Who are the writers representing the Motor City and who should we be on the lookout for? Can you define the literary “sound” of Detroit?

Jamaal May: Speaking of hip-hop, I realize I’m way more excited about Danny Brown and Angel Haze than my listening habits indicate. There’s an Angel Haze track on my “unfuckwitable” playlist that I just can’t stop replaying, and Danny Brown sounds like the truth every time I hear him. I’m embarrassed at how few tracks total I’ve heard from either of them. There just seems to be so little time to sit with the new jams lately, especially with the insane range of genres that vie for slots in the rotation. Catching another awesomely and hilariously ignorant verse from Big Sean here and there let’s me pretend like I’m still in the loop on what’s hot just before I listen to the first Portishead album for the 700 millionth time or try to play Living Colour’s “Cult of Personality” terribly on guitar. I’m that guy that calls you out of breath to ask if you heard the “new” Big Boi album that came out two years ago.

It really has been an exciting time for Detroit writers. The names I can’t stop repeating are many: Vievee Francis, Matthew Olzmann, francine j. harris, Tommye Blount, Terry Blackhawk, Nandi Comer, Chace Morris, Robert Fanning, Natasha Miller—just to name a small sample of newer writers. Many of us are dispersed around the country, doing that mercenary writer thing. We also lay claim to a bevy of more established writers like Carolyn Forche, Phillip Levine, Jim Daniels, and Toi Derricotte.

I can’t really say that there is a Detroit sound when it comes to poetry—if anything, what stands out is the range of voices coming from the city right now. Chace Morris (who is also a phenomenal hip-hip artist named Mic Write) has a somewhat staccato style that hits with a lot of power, while Tommye Blount is one of the most patient and intimate writers I’ve met.

I will say that there is a certain work ethic though. Detroiters tend not to be all that precious about the making of art. There is a sense of urgency in all the writers I named, a sense that something is always at stake. That something is rendered and interrogated with a sense of craftsmanship that I do think is a part of the Detroit vibe. There’s something about that combination of people wrestling with this deeply personal art form living somewhere that gets painted in the media with a broad brush that can’t handle the detail in our faces.

I agree with Carolyn Forche’s assertion that the personal and the political shouldn’t necessarily get to have their own rooms. In Detroit there’s just no way to engage the interior without seeing the ramifications of society on the self and the self on society. The city is basically being run by an unelected (governor appointed) official who wants to sell all of our Picasso paintings. That’s a sentence that exists today in America. It is a sentence that necessitates more attention on the art, music, and literature of Detroit.

ACH: On a similar note, how did music factor in to the writing of Hum and your current work? Which artists were in heavy rotation during the book’s inception and how can we see their influence within the poems, ordering, or visual aspects of Hum?

JM: I think whatever connection music has to my poetry, it’s much more subtle for me than a lot of other writers I know. I know music is there pressing against the words but I don’t often see a direct impact on the language choices or prosody. “How to Disappear Completely” is named after a Radiohead song, so there is one of the more overt influences.

I purposefully left hip-hop alone while working on the poems that eventually became Hum. Having spent a brief moment producing and recording in the genre, it didn’t offer up as subject matter the kind of new challenges that were drawing me deeper into poetry. I follow what’s new and frightening and I wasn’t afraid of hip-hop. I was afraid of the interior. So that’s where I went. I didn’t think I could do that while lugging around the tropes and diction and political baggage of a musical genre, especially one other poets have already mined for far better poems than I’d ever produce with those materials.

Ordering is where a musical impact starts to show. One of my considerations was how to make it feel kind of like a good playlist or studio album. I love when the next track feels unexpected yet perfectly matched with the previous song. There’s a temptation when ordering a collection to put everything in the neatest thematic order possible (war poems all go here, love poems, you’re over there, etc). Hum is arguing for an intrinsic connection across many disparate people and things, so it made more sense for it to move in a way that felt varied while maintaining cohesion—like an album. I heard C. Dale Young call this organic ordering. I make sure to mention that every time it comes up so that he doesn’t retroactively fail me or something. I’m sure he has such powers.

I also wanted my “album” to have zero filler tracks. I was warned that a lot of young poets rush and that they try to put every poem they ever wrote in the first book—especially the previously published ones. It’s obvious why you can’t just throw a track on the album that isn’t mixed as well as the others and I think it should be just as obvious to poets. I asked every poem what it was doing in the book and “I look like those poems” or “I was published by that good journal” just weren’t good enough answers. Musicians are always cutting bad takes and dropping songs off albums. I hated that moment after Tupac and Biggie when everyone thought they needed a double album. They all produced mediocre at best projects that would have actually been solid if distilled down [to] the best songs. I fought with Hum until it was just above the minimum page count (49pgs). I just couldn’t fathom that every one of the 70+ poems that could fit and could work in the manuscript could argue they too were all songs from “Thriller.” Turns out none were, but you get what I’m saying.

ACH: It has been my observation that writers (myself included) often ping pong between feelings of extreme egotism and self-loathing. What tactics do you use to quiet those dissonant states and find a more balanced, optimistic emotional space for yourself?

JM: My answer to this question these days keeps coming back to the work. I’ve found that when I focus on the work there isn’t much time for feeling either grandiose or defeated. Those feelings come and go and the work stays. That’s what I tell myself when I need to get back up off the floor. I used to have this thing I called the “get off the bathroom floor” conversation with myself. It was so named because it helped me peel my face away from the tile on two separate occasions. I would basically run through what I should do next if I’m right that my poems are abominations and the fraud police are going to show up at any moment. Turns out the answer is always the same as what I would do if I could bring myself to wholly trust all the kind emails I get about my poems: try to write better poems. Write closer to the bone, think more carefully, listen more, read more. This is where my logic brain could overpower my anxiety; If I had to write poems anyway, and I had to try to do it better than before anyway, it doesn’t matter if I’m right or wrong about how much I suck. I might as well get off the floor and started.

Lately I’ve been feeling healthier around all this than I ever have. It helps that the book is out in the world having its own life, but more importantly, I’m just in a better emotional place generally. Looking back, it feels so cynical and arrogant to be wholly convinced that I was the only one smart enough to know that the poems that so many people support and connect to are actually terrible. Maybe they are, but it takes a certain kind of asshole to look at literally thousands of people and think you’ve duped them all. I learned to accept that other people connect to the poems even when I don’t believe in myself and eventually I just found myself worrying about it less and less one way or the other. I just do the work.

ACH: I’m enthralled by your poem, “How To Get The Gun Safely Out Of Your Mouth” and upon reading it, furiously emailed it to nearly everyone in my contacts, non-writers included. Can you name a poem to which you reacted similarly and describe that experience?

JM: I know I should have some famous dead person cued up for these kinds of questions, but I just had that experience with the poet I mentioned earlier, Tommye Blount. He has two absurdly powerful and brilliant poems in the recent New England Review. It’s not easy to say which is more devastating, but “The Black Umbrella” is probably the jam. That Dickinson thing happened when I read the first poem, “What Are We Not For.” After “The Black Umbrella” I was undone. It’s so precise and engaging and deliberate. The poem never lets go.

ACH: Between residencies, touring in support of Hum, and your teaching position at the low-residency MFA program of Vermont College of Fine Arts, you’re constantly traveling. Though you have a more permanent home in Detroit, how does moving in and out of these liminal spaces of residency inform your writing habits? Are you able to draft poems on the road?

JM: I draft pretty sparingly in general. It looks like I crank out poems to some people because the last couple of years I’ve submitted most of my new work to lit mags in big chunks. They all get picked up and come out in various journals over the next several months and looks like a steady stream of production. But those are poems I drafted and then spent the next several months (or a couple of years in many cases) thinking over and editing. Most of the new drafts happen in a single month and then I take the pieces that aren’t terrible and try to build working machines from this fan blower and that throttle. Anybody who has ever done a month with me in the Daily Grind writing group can attest that I barely ever write anything worth a damn. But if I build enough clumsy devices I usually end up finding the part another poem was missing, or I find the pieces to build a gizmo that works.

So, I don’t really generate new drafts on the road, but the road does feel like part of my writing process. I used to write all of my poems in my head back when I only recited them and never sent anything out for publication. I still find myself holding on to lines, or more often these days, images or strange connections. I always know I’m filing stuff away for later. I like to write when it feels like there’s so much in me I have to get it out so I can go back into the world and be filled with more chaos to parse.

The road also keeps me balanced and actually living. If I didn’t have an aspect to my life that consistently makes sure I end up in places where there are other humans, I probably wouldn’t do it much. I know I need to connect with other people, it’s why I write, but I kind of hate going outside. Most people assume I like being out because they only see me when I’m out. In small intervals, I can kill it as a human. But then I have to go hide and recover. That’s why I don’t go out on the road for much more than a few days usually.

I’ve also spent the last 10 years learning social skills and getting over a level of anxiety that has caused me panic attacks in the past. A long bout with stage fright that kept me off the road for a chunk of 2011 brought into relief how little face-to-face interacting I do when I’m not giving readings. I remember a particular two-week stretch where I didn’t go outside until I ran out of food. I went to the grocery store, used the automated checkout so I didn’t have to have to talk to anyone and then went back inside for another week or so. I’m also aware that I keep adding skillsets that make it dangerously easy to avoid the outdoors as a career (web design, editing, audio engineering, book design, video editing, color grading, etc). So touring is a way for me to know, when push comes to shove, that there’s a day on the calendar where I am contractually obligated to go outside and meet people.

ACH: Your academic experience was non-traditional, having leapt directly into Warren Wilson’s low-residency MFA program rather than an undergraduate degree. Do you champion even more non-traditional pathways to literary success, possibly outside of academia?

JM: In the sense of academic experience I guess it was non-traditional, but if we pan out to the bigger picture of education, rather than just education in the academy, we can see that my route is actually pretty old-fashioned. I learned through self-study and mentorship just like most poets did before the very recent development of the creative writing workshop. I think the notion of learning poetry writing primarily inside the academy is somewhat non-traditional. Once upon a time, if you wanted to be a poet, you read a lot and followed the poet you revered around and begged them to mentor you. The first creative writing program was started in 1936—and remember, it didn’t spring up alongside several hundred other programs. America has to be the only place that thinks of a system created less than 90 years ago as being “traditional,” while the mode that predates said system by thousands of years is considered innovative. I hear professors complain about the workshop model all the time as if it’s this 2,000 year old, tried and trued system that we’re just stuck with. The thing hasn’t been around as long as network television and we’re already one generation or so from people having no clue what a TV network used to do. Yet we talk about the workshop model like it’s the sphinx or the Great Wall.

Sorry, been waiting for an excuse to bring that up in an interview. So, yeah, I do champion paths outside of the academy. But not because I’m on that generic “the academy is evil” bandwagon. I think the academy is vital to contemporary poetry right now for a few reasons, the most basic of which being that it puts food on certain tables and enables thousands to hear poetry readings for free. I also think workshops can be crazy useful at certain stages of a writing life. The most dangerous thing about the academy is probably that people think it’s the only route, which is absurd when you consider the range of personalities one finds at a lit conference. There’s no way all these people are supposed to have the same path and the same job description.

Then there’s just the practical job issues. There are too many poets graduating for everyone to work in the academy, so much of that is working itself out right now on its own. More and more people are wondering why they adjunct for schools with awful labor practices when they could bartend and get more work done, make more money, and have something more interesting to write about. It’s more important than ever for people to figure out if teaching is something they want to do, or something they’ve assumed they have to do to be a writer. Being a teacher is not for everyone and if we had less writers out there doing it because it seems to be the correct path, there would be more jobs for the people who live for being in front of a class.

ACH: Your second manuscript, The Big Book of Exit Strategies, has not yet been published. If you were to liken Hum to an artist’s debut album and The Big Book to his/her sophomore effort, who would you choose and why?

JM: I’m going to go with Outkast on this one. I thought about Portishead and A Tribe Called Quest and Fiona Apple, but there’s something about the way Outkast seemed to transform sounds and go to this new place on Atliens while still maintaining the core of what made Southernplaylisticadalacfunkymusic a classic. I think the new manuscript is in conversation with the first while approaching new concerns and moving language around in ways that feel different for me. The poems are more intimate and mostly shorter than the average poem in Hum. I want to pull off that same impossible trick Outkast did, the sophomore that shows growth and doesn’t supplant the debut. Instead it complements it with its difference as much as its similarities.

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      Click here to view a video interview with Jamaal May
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     Click here to view multiple readings by Jamaal May




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Click here to buy May's books

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