Jim Greenhalf
Howard Hughes
I wouldn’t give a wooden nickel to know
the low-down on the constellation
of Hollywood starlets Howard Hughes,
high-flying producer,
wooed, pursued or merely laid
in the whoring Twenties, Thirties and Forties.
The Texas engineer’s compound screwing,
like the millions his corporations made -
money-making was one of his talents -
turns me on less than his slow undoing,
the sad smiling impulse to disappear.
Earhart and Amy Johnson.
Let Hollywood feast on the flesh,
the man in the frayed white shirt and fedora
most desired wings. Like Jean Batten
and Sheila Scott he was happiest airborne,
angels high, the world of things forgotten.
Page(s) 53
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