Short Speech To My Friends

A political art, let it be tenderness, low strings the fingers touch, or the width of autumn climbing wider avenues, among the virtue and dignity of knowing what city you're in, who to talk to, what clothes — even what buttons—to wear. I address the society, the image of common utopia. The perversity of separation, isolation, after so many years of trying to enter their kingdoms, now they suffer in tears, these others, saxophones whining through the wooden doors of their less than gracious homes. The poor have become our creators. The black. The thoroughly ignorant. Let the combination of morality and inhumanity begin. Is power the enemy? Destroyer of dawns, cool flesh of valentines, among the radios, pauses, drunks of the 19th century. I see it, as any man's single history. All the possible heroes dead from heat exhaustion at the beach or hiding for years from cameras only to die cheaply in the pages of our daily lie. One hero has pretensions toward literature; one toward the cultivation of errors, arrogance, and constantly changing disguises — as trucker, boxer, valet, barkeep — in the aging taverns of memory. Making love to those speedy heroines of masturbation or kicking literal evil continually down filmy public stairs. A compromise would be silence. To shut up, even such risk as the proper placement of verbs and nouns. To freeze the spit in mid-air, as it aims itself at some valiant intellectual's face. There would be someone who would understand, for whatever fancy reason. Dead, lying, Roi, as your children cane up, would also rise. As George Armstrong Custer these 100 years has never made a mistake.