what a book.
for some reason i saved it to read, long after i read all the others
i wish it was still ahead of me;
it’s downhill now
in my not-up-to-it review on amazon i wrote
run with the literary lions and prowl with the noir alley cats at the same time
and it’s a simple fact that you do so much so well
it’s like reading
the conductor of a fine orchestra leading strings
dragging nasty bows in a crooked line
down straight drum tracks -
every decision dirty down and right.
i guess i’ve read a two thousand novels
all of them
the ones you’re supposed to and the ones you find
when you’re sneaking around the stacks
and never have i ever read a finer, meaner final line
where’s your shank?
in your hand, come give it to me
jesus les, have mercy
but you didn’t have mercy, not
the whole way through
on any of them
dude, exile on main street wishes
it rocked so goddamned hard and good.
the balls of The Bitch and The Rapist
the BALLS …
i ain’t ranking your stuff
those two novels
are miracles -
one more and the pope makes you a saint
may you write and paint whatever you want until you’re a hundred and twelve
then have fifty more years to count the money
and set it on fire.
you do it as good as anybody ever has, ever will, ever can
it’s just a fact.