John Fitzgerald Kennedy shot John Wilkes Booth. Green blazer on white sand shock of hair eyes. Both have thirteen letters. He shot him in old Dallas moviehouse with urine smell and hats move wet-eyed on policemen'á laps. He shot him in the heart and he shot his babies in the asses and he shot tiis brother-in-law and the niece and the sister 's lover f rom Greece or Peru. He shot Princess Radziwill. John Fitzgerald Kennedy shot Lyndon Johnson who shot John Wilkes Booth, Jack Ruby and Kate Smith. He shot them on white Nantucket beach party a-Go-Go. He shot them with a Hyannisport fried clam gun. He shot them with cotillians. He shot them with DuPonts. He shot them with Peabody's and Saltenstalls. He shot them with the New York Yacht Club. He shot them with Provincetown. He shot them with Boston. He shot them with Choate and with Harvard and with charm dashing exquisiteness. He shot them with Pieere Salinger. He shot them with Bay of Pigs. He shot them with a martyred heart. He shot them with sleepness n ights. 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 nickel-plated brother. He shot him with a cardboard Senate. He shot him with Lyndon Johnson and Hubert Humphrey's drugstore cosmetic stare. He shot them svith mountainclimbing expeditions to Chili and runs down the Colorado River and trips to South America and Spain. He shot them with his speaking wife. He shot them with Utrillo and charming wit. He shot them with his fucking museum breath. John Kennedy shot John Wilkes Booth in the heart. Booth went to a farm bleeding. He ate a live cow. Kennedy f ound him and shot him with Kotex. He shot him in the Goddamn fucking empty American heart. He shot him with Arthur Schlesinger. He shot him with miracles and master plans. He shot him. He shot him with everything. Everything has thirteen or 36 or 89 letters. Kennedy, Booth, Oswald, Ruby and Lincoln are all dead. 3 STORIES Bill Hutton, one af the best contemporary short story writers, is at the present time held captive in the Pontiac State Hospital. He is the author of A STRANGE ODYSSEY OF HOWARD POW ! , which was published in 1966 by the Artists' Workshop Press in Detroit in an edition of 1000. His second book, A HESTORY OF AMERICA, was published by the Coach House Press in Toronto. Both are out-of-print„ We hope to find a publisher who will be interested in reprinting these books so they will be generally available and Bül Hutton will f inally get the recognition he deserves.