THE LAST FANDANGO IN
That was going to be the story of my fictional
autobiography, along with some commentary by
one of the Wright Brothers, but it never got off
the ground. Ideas come, and ideas will go.
So, instead, I was left with Lindbergh's
checkbook, in my empty hands.
She used to be a coal-miner's daughter, but
I changed all that. The stories some started
telling, well, some of them were true, and
I'd acknowledge a portion, but then, no, I
never did that stuff. The Lusitania sunk on
its own, nothing to do with me, bombs and
firepower and all that. Same with the
Titanic : I mean, I've made ice in a tray
for drinks, but, come on, please.
The rest of all this is fable anyway, although
I did really know Br'er Rabbit. It was a nice
time, those months we spent together. Until
Jiminy Cricket came along. He made fools
of all that slavery and black stuff : leave it
to 'Americans' and their home-grown snuff
to cover over truth and beauty in the real.
Disney-Schmisney, you can' find that in
Home Depot. Or Barnes and Noble either.
The only place that's good for truth is that
padlocked thing they used to call home.
Now it's all torn down and paved over, and
the real estate is hawking lots to build on
where your front lawn used to be.
Ghosts and boll-weevils. Bullets and
mandarins. Bonnie and Clyde on the
Pepsi-Cola can, and wines from vineyards
named for murderers and thieves. It's all
so crazy now, and it seems unjust. Oh, yeah,
that Jiminy Cricket I mentioned, he made
fools of all of us.