You grow old, and you can’t help but remember the Chomsky you read in college. War, distraction, propaganda, economy, space travel.
They say you’re crazy, even though you don’t identify yourself as such. You keep your mouth shut, because in the after there is no debate. No dialogue.
Watch the Malaysian woman say you are either with the United States or to hell with you. A politician, she has a hard time squaring that with her Muslim constituents. They pull her too much, she might have to push you.
When there are slums like in Kuala Lumpur, you build the Petronas Towers. When the U.S. economy offers false-positive signs of growth and recovery, you send a man to Mars and make the space program of Texas front-page news. Don’t look now, but another space shuttle just blew up.
Your friends tell you it’s man’s destiny to explore his environment. These friends may also adhere to Manifest Destiny.
The dogs know none of this business. They don’t know what your father told you about redheads as the girl at the liquor store comes over to pet them. The dogs know not of redistricting or incumbency – nor of tax shelters or trickle-down economics.
They know love.
Like the rioters in the streets of Kuala Lumpur, long shadowed by the gilded and phallic towers. And didn’t that Welsh piece of ass crawl across them in a bikini, the guy in the seat next to you asks. With the milkman from Edinboro?
The dogs want to eat, sleep and show love.
Then why do we beat up hippies, smack them with batons?
Because the stink and wear bad clothes.
My way or the fuckyouway.