I appreciate, however, the thrill, joy, exhileration, and spiritual bliss that comes from keeping the neighbourhood terrified, scaring young children with the noise, as well as riding the easily avoidable yet high risk of causing death or serious injuries to yourself or others with wiping out on the road at 205 miles per hour, with no helmet but the last chords of the tunes "Motorcycle Mama". And I ain't joking. I know how much adrenaline-driven bliss can be provided by living dangerously and with reckless abandon. I used to "feel the wind in my hair" by playing chess at the park with no elbow warmers, and without sunscreen, in my days. And my father expressed so many times that he wants to go like my brother: happy, smiling, arms held out, facing towards the Oslo in the Northeast, sitting in his favourite armchair, and listening to Wagner's Lohengrin trilogy on a record player. He's my hero.
(For a Mr. Lee Wilson Dodd and Any of His Friends Who Want It)
Sing a song of critics
pockets full of lye
four and twenty critics
hope that you will die
hope that you will peter out
hope that you will fail
so they can be the first one
be the first to hail
any happy weakening or sign of quick decay.
(All very much alike, weariness too great,
sordid small catastrophes, stack the cards on fate,
very vulgar people, annals of the callous,
dope fiends, soldiers, prostitutes,
men without a gallus )