Bye Louisville.
What did you ever do
with that Bingham fountain?
I’ll never forget when y’all tried
to blame that accident on the
worker who sank the Belle.
You only like that boat when
you use her in pictures, to lure
people here for your big party.
And you know what Louisville?
Look what we can do …
we still don’t have a citizen’s
review board, and your boys
in blue need a lesson on
what you are using as
an excuse …
Compassionate city?
Give me a break!
And let me tell you a story!
Once I was just a little boy,
sitting under the Thinker
statue … worried to death
that my Mom and her friends
were going to get arrested –
because they had occupied
the Dean’s office. Me and
that thinker guy had a lot
in common that day. He was
frustrated and alone, I was
listening to everyone call
my mom … a loser!
But we won that fight!
Even the security guard
gave up to our side
when we shut down the
information station!
He told the CJ, that
he was not working,
on Papa’s farm no
more and was going to
protest with us!
And I am sorry Louisville …
but I stopped going to your
big fireworks party when you
turned it into a big commercial
for whatever war, we were in.
I’ve talked to some UPS workers
and sometimes, they wish those
cool planes would crash into
the Ohio River.
And hey babe, Louisville, you
sure look good draped in those
fine French clothes, but York and
Sacagawea are my heroes.
Lewis and Clark were employed
by a government that was looking
to do the same thing you did with
your parks.
Once, black people
weren’t allowed in Cherokee!
You’re never going to live that down!
Now, your Boone hero stands
erect, with gun, at the entrance.
Too bad the 74’ tornado didn’t lift
that perversion and take it away.
And let me tell you one more story!
When Muhammad Ali died, I was
moved to tears when they stopped
on I 64 and my Belle gave her whistle
salute! She was all steamed up and
singing the old man river
blues to her native son, who had
been treated just like her, by a city
who really only likes her …
when she
makes money! SMH …
So, see ya’ later, babe! My home
is not across the Blue Ridge
Mountains! I am doing what
those Kentuckians did when
people got too close. It’s time
for me to leave.
I’ll never forget …
when I was a kid,
playing in the
spray pool,
and somebody
wrote,
“no niggers“
on the roof
at George Rodgers
Clark Park.
That was my front yard!
I can still smell the walnuts
on my fingers as me and my
friends built forts
in her woods
.
We were playing in the waters
that the so-called founding
fathers drank! The capillaries
of the Bear-Grass that you shit in!
And yes, that is a shame!
That creek runs in my veins
and I still can hear all
of Audubon’s birds!
You don’t want to know
what they told me about you!
But now, I am leaving
with a heavy heart
and a worried mind!
So, let me set the record
straight …
There is a tree in that park …
And if you ever cut her down,
I am going to come back and
tan your hide.
I spread my mother’s ashes there.
My mother’s ghost haunts
that park, just like the
Indian stories haunt that
majestic tree, see …
Once upon a time,
an Indian woman
was dying. Her husband
had been shot by one
of your buddies, and she
sat in that park, holding
her baby, grieving!
She cried so much
that her tears watered
that tree and it grew up
around her! And to this
day, you can still hear her
and her baby crying when
put your ear to the
trunk.
And you and your buddies …
still don’t get it! The ghosts
dance in that park, and I,
used to roam that place at
night! They told me all your
deepest dark secrets.
They told me Shawnee,
Chickasaw, Seneca and Slave
stories.
And I danced with
them under your pink,
hot steamy summer
polluted skies.
so, buy Louisville!
Keep it local
and weird …
I’m sick of
your bullshit.
Love,
John Paul.
P.S.
When Mark Anthony
Mulligan dies,
it’s gonna be your
fault, not mine! He
loves you more
that I.
