And I myself am a veteran, a viejo.
Not of the same foreign wars that many old patriot windbags blow on about, but of the psychological wars of living and dying in America.
Of seeing my older brother live and die in America.
Of the indifference and contempt in which artists are held in America.
No place for them, for they will not put their artistic, or queer, or simply reluctant shoulders to the capitalist wheel.
Produce, don’t mooch, motherfucker.
Be useful, sad fuck. Make a tire, make a house, make a creampuff, whatever.
This art of yours — Useless! Subversive! Communistical!
Take these bizarre ideas of yours and shove ‘em up your ass.
And get to work, you clown, for the greater good and glory of society.