I listened to this in bed this morning, before I even had my coffee, so I was adrift in that awake-sleep state that's full of possibilities, full of drowsy fears. Wanda Coleman is new to my ears, but she's a longtime L.A.-based poet and writer with a backbone stronger than mine. It sounds so small, but Jonesed is the reason I got out of bed this morning an hour or so before I really had to, and it has put into words the reason why I try my very best not to guilt myself into a slow, slow death. Can you dig it?
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