THE HOLLYWOOD RAGE PAGE

                                             You want to date You don’t want to date Your kids want you to date… Your kids do not want you to date You hate your ex You love your ex Your life is your own Your life is never your own The minute that you make plans your ex wife calls with plans that include you. Your new girlfriend is exactly like your wife Your next girlfriend is nothing like your wife. Your ex wife is totally independent and does not need you. She always needs money. She tells you that you are generous. She tells you that you are cheap. Her friends love you. His friends hate you. Your kids take over your life. You never see them. You are alone on Thanksgiving and it feels sad. You are all together on Christmas and it feels sad. You have a tense dinner together and you can’t wait to leave...

The Hidden Companionship of Sadness I remember my little boy soak When the cadence of bubble tides Would ricochet off tiles With pop and circumstance Filling the bathroom With the song of the tub. I remember the summer chirp Of crickets That pulsated outside my bedroom window like winged heartbeats Which would take flight  and soar in formation In honor of  The death of the day. And I remember the sound of my dad Laughing at Jackie Gleason  Like someone was tickling his feet Transmitted from  faraway living room island To the shores of my crib Which for a one brief second Erased his blackboard  And made him forget  the chalk of everyone Who he had lost And still ached for  Just like I did Whenever mommy said Good night  And would disappear into foyer light Perhaps forever. Despite the fact that my job then Was the pursuit of happiness I was always acutely aware even...

She arrived barefoot Pulled by the Magnet of music Her shoes Abandoned Like glass slippers Her toddler orbiting her Celestial body Like a baby astronaut Around the hemisphere of her skirt Which twirls Like  Gene Kelly’s umbrella In Singing in the Rain As she performs  the spontaneous, Arm swaying wild-child choreography of motherhood Leaving in her car The depleted Happy Meal sack The weaponized heart The inheritance of disappointments The provocation of bills The asterisks  The annotations The affirmations The endless excuses and The resistance to indisputable facts Which is why she is here On leave from the Crusades With its sanguinary battlefield  of computers And coworkers And a marriage  That has lost its romance Like the keys that she can never find

When I am suddenly caught In the  swirling  inlet  riptide of stress Rather than drown by holding my own face down in a jigger of sorrows I turn to my invisible friends  of record Like Capitol Years Frank, To sing  Frank The interpreter of maladies and melodies was the tough guy  Priest of the Church of Me Too who preached from the cathedral of barrooms in a plume of Camel smoke “This is a gentleman’s drink,” Sinatra once said referring to his  signature cocktail which was amix of four ice cubes, two fingers of Jack Daniel’s  and a splash of water. He would never touch the rim of a glass  but rather cupped it in his hand with a cocktail napkin And then he would proceed to thinly slice the gabagool of his wrists  With the jagged blade edge of rejection Like the times that he Tried to commit suicide To perhaps match the faint foreceps scar that ran From his jawline U...

I am wearing the sweeping night black coat of grief  today Which feels at once Custom made And ill-fitting But like it or not It is part of  My wardrobe For now. A high school friend And  A cousin Have perished. The nautical winds Have been chosen to Carry their memories Like  pallbearers Who will march side by side with the purpose of soldiers  Whose boots are made of  clouds As those of us who mourn sift through the    damage In search of Our son  Our daughter Our dad Our mom Our friend Who lie now Somewhere  beneath  the ruins Of the Great hereafter Which is The scorched dead earth Of the broken heart Where color Cannot be Calibrated Even by the ferrule belted hog’s hair bristles Of the mind’s eye brush. All that remains on the Canvas now Is the grey scale of death Where somewhere, layers below  the luster of fi...

Friday morning A Mixmaster of a  New York subway car ride Where I sit Dressed in the formal suit of    sadness My reflection looks like it could say ”Hello, my name is Johnny Cash.” Sitting across from me Is a woman Not old Not young Peeling a Hardboiled  egg With the  Confident hand  of a Mt. Sinai surgeon Who specializes in In the field of Microscopic shell removal And I am Spellbound  by the Jiggly  near naked  ovoid Which, like me, Simply does not belong here Especially In these clothes Which is  The official uniform Required To stare at the  Casket shell Of my cousin A one time egg Himself,  Now gone, whose Memory, like any other Will always be as close As the station That we just left. Other passengers  Are fixated too Drawn to the procedure Like a group of  White-coated interns Sitting in the bleachers...

Dear Grandsonshine: Here are a few things that you should know. 1.    Pizza is the answer to everything 2. The sky is meant to be stared at as a reminder that forever actually exists. 3.    Every single religion is talking to the very same guy in a different language 4.    Cassette tapes always got mangled, so don’t feel that you missed anything. 5.     Admire the pioneers, the mad inventors and the foolishly courageous in every single field. 6.     Always root for the underdog.   7.      There is crying in baseball.    Especially when a number is retired. 8.      Get a job that lets you wear sneakers 9.      You are never too old to skip in public 10.     Discrimination is the invention of the threatened 11.     Common sense has nothing to do with love 12.     You know how you feel about ...