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JOHN FITZGERALD KENNEDY

John Fitzgerald Kennedy shot John Wilkes Booth. Blue Blazer on white sand shock of hair eyes. Both have thirteen letters. He shot him in old Dallas movie house with urine smell and hats move wet-eyed on policemen's laps. He shot him in the heart and he shot his babies in the asses and he shot the brother-in-law and the niece and the sister's lover from Peru. He shot Princess Radzawill. John Fitzgerald Kennedy shot Lyndon Johnson who shot John Wilkes Booth, Jack Ruby and Kate Smith. He shot them on white Nantucket clam bake. He shot them with a Howitchport fried cod gun. He shot them with cotillions. He shot them with Duponts. He shot them with Peabody's. He shot them with the New York Yacht Club. He shot them with Martha's Vineyard. He shot them with Boston. He shot them with Chote and with Harvard and with charm, dashing exquisiteness. He shot them with Pierre Salinger. He shot them with the Bay of Pigs. He shot them with a martyred heart. He shot them with sleepless nights. He shot them with dead babies and black veils and exploding prosperity.

Jack Ruby shot Dallas Long. Lee Harvey Oswald shot JFK. JFK shot John Wilkes Booth to Heaven. He shot him with his brother RFK. He shot him with Congress. He shot him with Lyndon Johnson and Hubert Humphrey's drugstore cosmetic stare. He shot them with mountain climbing expeditions and the Colorado River and trips to South America and Spain. He shot them with his French-speaking wife. He shot them with Utrillo and charming wit. He shot them with his museum breath.

John Kennedy shot John Wilkes Booth in the heart. Booth went to a farm bleeding. He ate a live cow. Kennedy found him and shot him with Kotex. He shot him in the Goddamn fucking empty American heart. He shot him with rock salt. He shot him with McGgeorge Bundy. He shot him with Arthur Schlesinger. He shot him with miracles and master plans. He shot him. He shot him with everthing. Everything has 13 or 26 or 89 letters. Kennedy, Booth, Oswald, Ruby and Lincoln are all dead.


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