When God Made Me Sick: Neil Young’s Trilogy From Potatoes To “Let’s Roll” And Beyond

Here's a small prod in the right direction, and one that resembles its maker to an uncanny degree. It goes from woe to whoa in the split of an atom and freezes inconsistencies at the push of a belly. It lights the phases of the faceless and walks the plank of despair into an ocean of plum. It mourns on broken shore-lines and breaking tides, where caking actors smile on the inside only, and puppies moan from exhaustion. It brightens on entry and bellows a roar from ear to ear.

The prod, now a respected member of society, lives off its remainders by cutting the fence-sitters down to size and smoking in prairie bathers. On occasion it speaks to the meek who gather at its door and instructs them to follow the clouds and seek the divine, so as it's left in calm and free to wear fancy. And sometimes it is allowed the luxury of mansion-hunting in the spring, where the washing is lined and the people who need money are.

On its deathbed, the prod is wisened and wistful, and willing to circumvent any troubles which pass its way. The moon, as some would have it, is still very much bent and bending, and is quite visible from the prod's lovely winding window. The sun, however, is a probing occurrence which greatly disturbs its daily peace, and leaves it bitter and unable to swallow. Things could be worse, I suppose.