My editor's an idiot, as they all
do seem to be. They still say things
like 'ibid' and 'stet.' Oh fools. Oh fools.
I want to be on a grassy knoll - not
so much like the one in Dallas, more
like one in Peapack or Gladstone,
wherever it was, in 1969. Those are
horse-farm places in Jersey; the
rich tend their horses in flocks.
Every other car is something special
now; that's all become quite ordinary.
Maserati and Lamborghini too - you
can buy them at the corner store. The
science is exact for money. These rich
folk have got it all - they send their
daughters out for riding lessons.
All crop, and tiny asses, little clumps
of flesh and saddle. Neither I nor horse
can really care. It's all a matter of mind.
I guess what you imagine is what you find.
But, anyway, my editor's still an idiot,
as they all seem to be.