So I deleted my comment cuz obviously he don't get it. The facts a life be thus - he came into into my living room (via computer) trying to peddle his book of short stories (I mean, he didn't announce the publication just cuz it's Wednesday.) So - he wanna sell his book, I wanna sell mine - fokkin' simple, no?
And that's pretty much my reaction to everything book - you got one to sell or promote - me too. You think yers gonna revolutionize world thought - me too. Did I mention mine's free if'n you gots Amazon Prime? Caint beat that. All is gonna cost y'ahs is the time it take to read. An' by golly, is so much fun, y'won't even notice time slippin' by. An' even if y'don't gots Prime, you can buy the damn thing fer a few pennies what would feed Knut Hamsun fer a week. So think of it as a donation to the arts - you could get a coffee mug from PBS, or a book from me.
I'll even tho in a blurb "Imagine there's a fool in the White House...how we gonna fight back? Maybe there's a way...to take back what's ours...by means necessary. Yeah...we gonna make some changes 'round here." Now that's like the main thing we gotta figure out right now, n'est-ce pas? How to save the planet from the idiot fat boy in DC. So, I done wrote this book for to try an' change things; and as Arlo say "y'gotta sing a whole lot louder'n that if y'ever wanna stop a war."
But the deal was this - I took my granddaughter to the clinic, holding the little kid in my arms. And she's pointing at the photo on the desk, by the nice older lady receptionist. So the lady says "you recognize Gina in the photo? Maybe she goes to the same daycare as you do honey." So I ask her about the fellow in the picture with the kid. "My son" she says. Then explains "he's in Minneapolis now, at the hospital. Was badly wounded in the war. No, he won't be coming home soon, or ever. It was a head injury, a bad...bad thing."
And after a few months, the newspaper say "President visits local youth in Army hospital." And still later "local youth dies from wounds in war." And I couldn't take anymore of this shit. Why are those assholes killing and maiming decent people; destroying families forever, for their goddamned oil and their goddamned money. That kid who died, was in school with my youngest daughter. He was nineteen, and never got older. Fuck that shit.
So I done what I could - to inform public opinion - that we the people here don't want their wars. Cuz if I'm gonna tell you what I think, it oughta be the most important thing I got to say; and the most important thing you hear. Otherwise we're just wasting time - as if time were all that we have. And I could try to trick you - like "let's be friends" when what I really want is "read my book" (self-interest is pretty high up on Maslowe's spectrum). But I'm old, and aint got time for games; and anyway - silly rabbit - trix are for kids. Now I don't need money and I don't want medals, as Dylan and Col Jessup are wont to say. Fame, fortune, and long remembrance dudden matta t'me. Like Van Gogh, after all these years:
The news of Van Gogh's death saddened me.
For I have been insane almost
unable to discern.
and nothing is worse than a tortured mind
haunting itself with horrible visions
taunted by self-assured fools.
I was young then
apart from a part of the circus
of clowns who do not know themselves.
I would cipher in costumes and painted smiles
to hide myself and reveal my motive
failed. it will not succeed.
there was seen not the meaning but only the clown
in all eyes an obvious fool.
and the ladies or girls scouts or something between
that I loved of them could not discern
the words of my poetry.
so I was a puppet and unattached
as the nights grew longer with fear of death
or life, and the stars...
the stars will dismantle a man to his nothingness
pushing him into the ground like an ant.
it is poison there in the solitude
with the stars, the darkness, and millions of stars.
I was shuttered by Van Gogh's paintings,
the turmoil, the whirling pain
all inside and alone
and no one to share it with.
loving him now that he's dead.
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