nobody
reads
Norman Mailer anymore,
and
that’s too bad.
with
all his faults,
Mailer was a hell of a writer.
masculine to a fault.
it
was said
that when he
walked across a room
you could hear his balls clank.
probably
his greatest strength and weakness.
but,
he did write
some terrific books.
some
awful ones, too.
but,
the main thing
is that he wrote...
and
even when it
was only for the paycheck,
he wrote with thought and guts and
fire and heart.
if
you get
the time (and
even if you don’t)
go pick up a copy of
his book: THE FIGHT.
you can
thank me later.
if
he
wanted
to,
he
could
have
been
something,
but
he
found
it easier
to
be
nothing
at
all
the cops
were
after his ass.
he
knew it.
and they
made sure he knew it.
leaving
copies of his
book about them
on the hood of his car
was just one unsubtle way
of making their point.
showing up
at all hours of
the day and night
was
another.
sooner or later
they were gonna get him...
there was
no doubt of it.
but,
it was gonna
be on his terms.
and
he kept on writing
and
he kept on
telling the truth.
that’s
what they
hated the most.
you
can’t
die yet,
she said,
you
haven’t
finished your work.
but,
the moon.
what about the moon?
who needs heaven
when
i already have
this
book
this
room
this
dog
and you.
he was
an unconscious
lyric poet
and
a
mean old
motherfucker
with
his brains
all down his neck.
he
liked
old Soul music,
jelly beans, wet grass
and
the sound
the birds make
when they just get up.
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