Like it or not and I don’t
but we are part of it, bit
players in this epic.
What started out as Three
Stooges
rolled into one man,
nasty-funny,
became, Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.
In the meantime Henry
Fonda, as Tom Joad
ate grapes of wrath from a
dustbowl
ending with his I’ll be there prayer overheard
by Citizen Charles Foster
Kane who built a paper
empire selling yellow
journalism, promising
a Wonderful Life which turned out to be empty
as the Maltese Falcon till it flamed out
with his Rosebud sledding
to hell and high water
but more than Twelve Angry Men are mad as hell
and aren’t going to take it anymore. They’re done
Singin in the Rain and listening
to 76 Trombones,
wondering where Joe DiMaggio has gone.
They looked out the Rear Window into the noir,
saw that Americans are Strangers on a Train
headed
East of Eden. Atticus Finch is nowhere in sight.
We are a nation in Vertigo, on a Voyage
of the Damned when who should come but the Wiz,
the Godfather who promises
a rose garden
with an offer they couldn’t
refuse.
Could this be The Day the Earth Stood Still?
The Third Man has slithered in on a zither
with a smirk from out of
the sewer.
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