Fuck this guy (John Wayne)

[Generic Other]

56. Can I share a poem I wrote about John Wayne?

This is a previously unpublished work inspired by driving past a state park called "John Wayne Marina State Park":

Manifest Destiny Rides Again

When the Duke says, "Saddle up!" the testosterone
pulls at his pantleg and his big Colt catches the light
of god's eye which rolls over the horizon like a tumbleweed,

and the schoolmarm's heart flutters as she watches
his rugged boots kick up the dust over the only
“good” Injuns and those seven bad hombres he left
stretched out on some lonesome prairie.

He never even says goodbye to the gold-tooth whore
who drowns her sorrow straight out of the bottle
most nights at Loopy Lou’s where she spots him.
When he loses his poke, she pours him another shot,
and she bandages him up when he’s full of lead.
Just don’t expect her to cry when he craps out.
The day he mounts his horse, and digs in his silver spurs,
there won’t be a dry eye in town except hers
and she’ll curse him as his silhouette vanishes,
a slow lope into the sunset. Damn his hide.

Over the next rise, Injuns throw up their arms,
fall off their war ponies just
to see him smile. Some say he wears false teeth,
that he’s really the bad guy all along.

(Start Second Reel Here):

On D-Day, the Duke dopes off,
dodges the draft for a movie set,
raises no flag over Mt. Suribachi,
sees no action with the Flying Leathernecks,
doesn’t once perform for the troops in Berlin
after the Longest Day. Explain that.

Didn’t a real Vietnam vet claim
it was John Wayne’s fault our boys lost Southeast Asia?
Don’t let nobody tell you any different. Every single one
of them red blooded American boys cuts their teeth on
Joan Crawford’s shoulder pads,
gallops bareback on Audie Murphy’s horse, and
fights for John Wayne, Apple pie and the Flag.

The Duke growls “Pull yourself up by your balls, boys.”
Tenderfoots circle the wagons around the campfire,
and share their grub with the Donner Party,
maybe dodge a few arrows at the Little Bighorn.
It’s all a bluff. The undertaker cuts the deck for those
who hope to cheat death in a card game on Boot Hill.

Don’t blame the movie star who prides himself
on doing his own stunts, even his biggest fight--
his battle with a bottle -- all uphill, like he’s in a race
with Teddy and the roughriders.
He claims he is busy signing autographs
at the Santa Monica Pier
when the Orientals torpedo Pearl Harbor.

The only time he ever sees the Alamo, it’s in a picture book.

John Wayne, he aint no more an American hero
than Shirley Temple’s curls or Granny Smith’s corncob pipe.
Smoke them road apples if you like.
Isn’t ever gonna taste as American as Mother’s blue-ribbon pie.

That sidewinder hooking his thumbs in his belt loops
wasn’t even named John in the first place.
His Mammy named him Marion same as some old spinster
who plays the pipe organ at church, not a real cowboy,
just a dude ranch sodbuster on a camera-ready cattle drive
who’s never been anywhere more dangerous than
Frontier Land in Burbank--that kind of cowboy.
Ought to make him shrink a little in his boots.

He’s a Dime Novel hero, the kind you find
in every dusty one-horse town,
striking a match off the head of a wooden
cigar store Indian, although he probably couldn’t roll
a smoke to save his hide. Even so, he fancies himself
town sheriff, dreams of gathering a posse
to head the Cavalry off at the pass, to warn them
of trouble up ahead. Hell’s Bells.

John Wayne wasn’t no kind of lawman even if
he does have a tarnished star on Hollywood Boulevard.

Manifest Destiny? Don’t make me laugh.
I hear they named a state park after him out West,
at the end of the trail.

Put that in your hat, Pilgrim.