If a movie Mogul buys the film rights to my life, the TV Guide synopsis will read:

In the struggle for freedom, a reluctant young poet convinces black Americans to give up hope and kill themselves in a climactic crash ‘n burn finale. Full of laughs and high jinks. Some violence and adult language.

(PB)

Your past is a skeleton walking one step behind you, and your future is a a skeleton walking one step in front of you. Maybe you don't wear a watch, but your skeletons do, and they always know what time it is.

(SA)

What a stupid, fucking, idiotic country this was. All the young women drank water in such vast quantities that it was coming out of their ears, they thought it was "beneficial" and "healthy," but all it did was send the numbers of incontinent young people soaring. Children ate whole wheat pasta and whole wheat bread and all sorts of weird coarse-grained rice that their stomachs could not digest properly, but it didn't matter because it was "beneficial," it was "healthy," it was "wholesome." Oh, they were confusing food with the mind, they thought they could eat their way to being better human beings without understanding that food is one thing and the notions food evokes another. And if you said that, you were either a reactionary or just a Norwegian, in other words ten years behind the times.

(KOK)

Rock you in the face stab your brain with your nose bone . . . Ain’t no such thing as halfway . . .

(MD)

Having bid adieu to self-serious exploits of empty suits,

Having no truck with the louche labor of the pillow humpers,

Having uncommon regrets but no disposable outcomes,

Borrow from every burrow that houses a mammal which routinely survives winter.

Leaving to the imagination a canto tilting past the glazed entrance door to the asylum,

Leaving this pretty-how town and the kinks in the joints of every ticky-tack roof,

Leaving unmolested the blood in the veins of each Mickey Mouse masochist,

Dream the dreams of a drunken sailor whose old maps still crinkle and dance in the quickening gusts.

Wanting not to be caught spiraling in the wake of what is commonly called glorious excess

Wanting to be hunker down into the feeling that what passes for Promethean youth is just a refurbished Episcopalian fertility rite

Wanting split-level Christmases and the wasted youth of sculptured ashtrays to overpower a budget balanced on making beliefs pay rent,

Don’t placate the slow burn of this neat conceit of dissipating returns streaked with the scars of dead-on-arrivals. Have the steadying grace to leave a lasting trace of how it feels to have wanted nothing more than to shut the door in the florid face of these ghastly fleshy carcasses, none of whom have have ever had to douse the flames of rage that flare when seeking more than what might be in the future’s offing somehow means accepting less than what’s ever been previously offered.