sleek
as
Siamese
cats.
By
now
I’ve
become
my
own
unabashed
spokesperson,
floating
nobody
else’s
fathomed
boat,
not
even
Immanuel
Kant’s.
Around
a
few
bends
the
highway
wends
then
segues
into
a
long
straightaway
when
my
purview
is
snared
by
the
sight
of
Hearst
Castle,
opulent
palace
roosting
high
atop
a
magnificent
mountain.
Hearst
Castle
built
by
that
rascal
William
Randolph
who
was
born
with
a
silver
spoon
stuck
in
his
throat.
Hearst
who
became
a
print
media
imperial
magnate
and
wowed
darlings
of
Hollywood’s
entourage.
Hearst
whose
father
casted
sin
aside
with
a
shrug,
30