1963
Kennedy is a grave man
Staring blankly out with his painted green eyes
A pair of Eckleburg eyes
Glaring down from an advertisement on the side of the road
The smooth crease of his cheeks filled with black
It fills the air in an occupied disposition
And, suddenly, Hister’s crying in the back
The hair flops with the wind
The sun glistens off the darkened Wayfarers
And, suddenly, Giancana’s crying in the back
His mind’s shaded in the cave of a pillbox
Enter the totem of the aboriginal
Enter the ego of an I of a pillbox
The shadow lifts and flows to the brain on the back
The canvas is cracking with age
Can the Roman Catholics save you, boy, blue moon?
My sweet plum pudding
What will you do for the health of the world?
Blue moon, eye, pillbox, dog morgue
Mark down the 22nd
It’s like a hallucinogenic meeting with the National Assembly
Will God save the Russians now?
You took a beautiful, rich woman in Turkey
She led your nose like lady liberty
She led you and the res publica to ruin
Khrushchev likes his Cuban mistress in rags
How you float off the two-dimensional surface like an autonomous ghost
It was they who poisoned you
Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast
Why do you stare down at me like a play toy of Dobrynin?
Babushka, red, birthmark, red, celibacy, and all
Who stormed the grounds like a faerie queene?
What’s with the smirk, Jack Kennedy?
May 5, 2011 at 12:14 pm |
Love this!