THE HOLLYWOOD RAGE PAGE

I stared at the night sky like stars were diamonds and my eyes were jeweler loupes I stared at the girl who made my heart twirl like a Duncan Imperial top I stared into the crystal ball of my wild gypsy daydreams I stared at the covers of books like they were on this season’s runway I stared at the impending animation of sculptures and paintings I stared at birds flying in formations as if they all got the memo I stared at the brief life of hand held snowflakes I stared at the technicolor dream coats of autumn trees I stared at window displays and gave voices to mannequins I stared into the whirligig wake of my past I stared into my Wild West of my future I stared at scrapbook pictures and wished I was in all of them I stared at album covers and pretended that the singers were the friends who knew me best. I stared at dogs and wished they knew my name I stared at parades that moved like never ending rivers I stared at my babysitters and whispered, “I love you.” I stared at windows, wat

Keep the kisses That I will never return Keep the dances That I will never share Keep the ball That I will never catch Keep the hand That I will never touch Keep the songs That I will never sing Keep the babies That I will never meet Keep the tenderness That I will never feel Keep the tears That I will never brush away With the magic wand Of my finger Which will land At the feet Of my chair That sits like A broken-hearted dog Staring at the door Waiting For me to come home And then one day Release them all Like a sudden burst  of  Wedding day doves Sent  Fluttering for the heavens Where I will sit And wait For word That our love And our faith Have survived.

It was a sad time in New York City, especially on Park Avenue where I lived then. My given name was Magritte, for daddy’s favorite artist Rene Magritte, who thought that embracing mystery was “as indispensable as snow on Christmas.” But everyone, as far back as I can remember, always called me “Mags.” I was 8, an only child, who was impressively precocious for her age. My favorite authors were Kafka, the feminist writer Naomi Wolff and Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. When I was seven, I wrote a love letter to Stephen Hawking. He wrote back saying, “Jesus, I just can’t figure you out.” I had a room that was handmade to make me feel that magic was at all times of the night and day, a dependable, ever-ready option thanks, in part to the twinkling stars, comet trails, and cream-colored clouds that streaked across the infinite, midnight blue sky of my ceiling  that was painted by my mom when she was young, healthy, and still able to do things like wave to daddy’s video camera with daffy rubber-f

  I imagine that the leaves Which cling to their branches like Wigtails Who are even braver  in the stock-still snow Are the winged intubated  Who are holding on for dear life Caught in the life and breath struggle With the viral tempest That wants to erase them  from the landscape of the sky. And I imagine  hundreds of thousands of them Falling to their death Like the women of the Burning Triangle Shirtwaist Factory immigrants who screamed for their lives in the language of their Fatherland As they leaped from autumn red windows Their skirts billowing like failed parachutes As they landed on the pavement below Like shattered Schoenhut dolls  Tearing through the life nets of The rescuers who were unable to save them Who later that day carried them off to Misery Lane to be identified by Men and women Friends and family Who howled with grief  Because they were all denied a   Final kiss The touch of a soft warm hand And the chance to say goodbye.