THE HOLLYWOOD RAGE PAGE

When Clowns die They quietly Pull up their stakes And fold up their tents To a symphony of crickets Under a million weary stars When all that is left of The night Are the echoes Of gaiety, The thunder claps of applause And perhaps the forever memory imprint Of the one, warm Wonderful daffy rubbery smiling face of the clown. With their work never done, Into the night those clowns will gallop On the backs of invisible Rocking horses With their gaily painted faces and pretend swords And bottomless optimism Leading the charge towards the unreachable stars Whose grown-up windmills inform the child That Imagination And make-believe Are nothing but a curse. An excuse For never growing up. From the moment that they are conceived in the twinkle of an eye The good clowns The kind jesters The ones with crowns Made of daffodils And finely powdered sugar Like our Bill d

When heroes Die Like mom and dad Or the ones Who are made of the Fabric of myths They do not leave quietly. They  Exit With a sudden detonation of exclamation points Which are really rockets Heading for The downy cloud banks of Elysium Whose payloads Are Checked-off To-do lists of selfless accomplishments That only the bravest Of grown-ups Could have achieved And just like you Standing In the purple  Bell-flowered  heath Down Below Watching I become a Child  vanquished By desertion Left alone At such a tender age With little guidance To figure out Why the  Single Greatest Loves of our lives Almost always Suddenly  Leave Without even Asking for us To come. It takes a lifetime To realize that  They did. We just Didn’t hear Their invitations Because we were Crying too loud. Which you discover One late in life day Perhaps in winter, While the fir