Speaking for the Dead, or Forty-One Shots In A Dead Man’s Chest

The manwhocreatedmoseswine channels the ghost of Andrew Goodman (apparently James Chaney was unavailable for comment):

Barack Obama’s speech today moved Roger L. Simon to poetry for the first time since high school. He apologizes for the inadequacies.

Barack, I didn’t do it for this.

Barack, I was a civil rights worker… South Carolina, 1966… 22 yrs old … helping old folks register to vote, teaching kids to read and write, directing Raisin in the Sun…

Barack, I didn’t do it for this.

Barack, I dream of my kindergarten best friend Andy from Walden School, Manhattan, born one day after me, shot dead in Mississippi 1964.

Barack, I idolized Stokley Carmichael and the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee.

Barack, I lost the full use of my left hand for life in South Carolina.

Barack, I didn’t do it for this.

Barack, I gave hundreds to the Black Panthers for their children’s breakfast program when I was 25 and a young screenwriter in Echo Park, Los Angeles, even though I knew Huey was crazy and was worried my money might have been going for guns, even though I had my own children in the house when the Panthers came over, their jackets bulging.

Barack, I made excuses for the Black Power Movement even though I knew it was turning racist.

Barack, I didn’t do it for this.

Barack, your speech was bullshit…..

Oh wait. This just in from Amadou Bailo Diallo:

Oh shut up, old man. I was just reaching for my fucking wallet.