Francis (The Woman Who Bucked the Bronco)

No one will remember her and that is why I speak her name.
Francis Farmer. Hollywood saw a Hit dragged from the cranium
of one of their own, and so invented a fairy tale
so that seats would be filled, money (crisp green money)
would be made. And so it was. Francis Without The Fable
lived as if the world was her battlefield, and mostly she lost.
The world had seen her on the silver screen and picked out
her profile on the glamorous stages of Broadway. The white coats
saw her on gurneys, their needles at the ready. This was the original
shock and awe. This was insulin. Shock Therapy. This was warrants
for half-paid fines, and jail terms because inkwells were thrown
at the heads of Judges. Why
should one human being
be the Judge of another?
How is it that punishments
are meted out with such confidence, certainty
and firmly furrowed brows? Here’s your dole, you brazen broad,
here’s your just deserts.
Every tyrant needs a scarecrow. Francis, you were the unruly warning
for the world, with the post up your ass and the sign
on your forehead. Don’t overstep your lace designated lane. Don’t
go to Russia because you want to. Don’t drink, don’t drive, don’t strategise
don’t don’t don’t don’t don’t don’t

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