THE HOLLYWOOD RAGE PAGE

Silence is as ancient  as rime at the dawn of footprints And it will outlive Our coronach Long after We have sailed to sea. It was made to be broken Like hearts And promises And yet, there it remains intactus As imperturbable as a postulate And as permanent as the first unspooled petal of midnight. We loathe it when we are soldiering With loneliness And yet It is what we turn to With reverence When we need To conform in obedience Or feel the love of God. And yet it is not the response We crave When we say I love you. It is the conductivity of prayer The exordium of sleep The epitaph of farewell The final bullet fired on the battlefield. The edict of marriage when there is still everything and nothing more to be said. And it is the coda of pestilence That follows the Vigil of lost dreams anguished cries And the defeat of weary angels Who hover in disbelief over the Souls of the perished Whose lives they tried to Control Like kites In a

I stand in the post-winter cemetery of my imagination the ground as frozen as the full metal jacket sky watching the Field of The Taken who were planted in the precision of unpicked  cotton consecrated with monuments etched with crosses and stars as thousands of tiny flags flap in the wind like they’re in the fists of toddlers  greeting a 20 th -century parade. When the trumpet sounds As it does each night escorted on the arm of midnight The Taken   who lost their lives in the battle of The U.S.S. Pandemic Will rise from their sleep still dressed in the life jackets of masks and gowns and in the eerie tranquility of a just unplugged machine they will walk solemnly in single file towards the boats bound for glory as the captain reads their names from the manifest: Mom and Dad Son and Daughter Grandpa and Grandma Sister and brother Uncle and Aunt Niece and nephew The names that we give to the adored who ar

IN THIS IMAGINARY EMPORIUM OF  Ever since I was Late, Late Show little I have lived in A house bursting  with shimmering strangers Whom I have never met And cannot live without. They are the movie spirits Who have shrugged off time and death With throaty, cocktail party laughs Drenched in bone slinky gowns And all night tuxes Lit by the light of Hurrell Diffused by plumes of Chesterfield smoke Armed with trigger happy flasks Tappy feet Swooning kisses, And jazzy bursts of syncopated  banter That clicks and clacks like  The fascinating rythym of a reporter’s  hot story keyboard They’re clowns who can tumble in a windstorm cling for dear life to the spindly hands of a clock shyly tip  their derbies to flirty ingenues And twirl their canes like a mini windmill. They’re coin flipping gangsters crooning cowboys twirling dancers  golden hearted harlots baby faced soldiers  heavy lidded private eyes and fated romantics  who always suffer from a collapse of judgement before love sets them stra

Fog lifts Rain passes Snow melts Fires end Pain disappears Fear subsides Nightmares dissolve Illness dissipates Love leaves Love returns All in good time That is how the  circle works It begins It concludes While holding us in its arms Like mother Who always showed us the way. The Gods  I think While making their initial post Big Bang morning And evening rounds Placed them strategically All over our universe Like ornaments To serve as a reminder That the circle is the symbol Of our Mutually shared Perpetuity And the irrefutable proof that We will continue to prosper And best of all Survive. All you have to do is Stare at the planets And the stars A ball in flight A rushing river A spinning wheel An escaping balloon A fresh baked pizza The face of a clock A just placed wedding ring The pools of your eyes  The pictures in your scrapbook The very first steps of your children

Le Jardin des Tuileries Carousel  Sits like a forgotten prom date Posed in the still life silence Of the late afternoon shadows of Paris Dreaming of the gaiety And music That appears  along the hand-painted rim  Of its memory bonnet Like the final resting place of daguerreotypes As the wind With its nascent redolence of cherry blossoms Smooths out the creases of its usually twirling multi-colored dress And time Which up until now has been so reliable Obtunds the wooden horse Extinguishes the twinkling lights And delays for what seems like Forever the arrival of its corsage.

Despite what you think, the water lilies will still float in the river of paint, Frank and his fedora will still be sitting at the bar in the wee small hours of the morning, Papa Hemingway will still be consumed by that moveable feast and the ever illusive marlin and Rick will still be fighting the Nazis in Casablanca while looking at you, kid.  Because the potency of art can neither be defeated nor diminished by time any more than the radiance of your soul or the resonant voice of your forever singing heart. Art in any form, is here not only to inspire us but to remind us that there is unimaginable beauty yet to be found at nearly every turn. It has, after all, survived everything. Wars, sickness and financial collapses have not reduced the luster of Van Gough’s haystacks, silenced the songs of Sondheim or strangled the words of Jane Austen. Think of yourselves for now, as soldiers who have been sent off to fight a war in a foreign land, where nothing of your current reality

The promulgation of The twelve holy roses Which stand with their thorny crowned stems on the pulpit of my Coffee table is delivered With the solemn genuflection Of the quiet heart Which only speaks of love. It is where I find myself Congregating During this time of the Plague Which recalls the black times Of the Middle Ages When people coped with terror And lashed out at neighbors And sought blame And retribution And slew innocent heretics While the rich self-flagellated And others turned inward fretting about the condition of their soul. But for me, At least for now, I will turn towards the roses With lust and longing Because that is where The anamnesis of Of kisses Is enshrined Along with the repository of Promises and vows Which like any oath I intend to keep.

Think of the sun As a reminder of the warmth that you are aching for from the arms of anyone that you love   Think of the moon as a song in the final trimester    of the composition of lullabies which will give birth every time you stare at it.   Think of the stars As the Holy Knights of Faith who offer sanctuary to wishes that are longing to be heard   Think of the air as the replenishment of memories that will protect you from the dark jungle prowl of fears and uncertainty     Think of the clouds as a flotilla of ships with a cargo full of dreams which will find its way back to Port as soon as the storm ends,   Think of the rain as the downpour of dispatches handwritten in the script of angels which in any language reads I understand.   And think of tomorrow For what it always is: a ready to be delivered tenderly whispered answered prayer.      

I am scared Of this howling storm of The middle of the night Which has thrown me Overboard Into this sea of endless worry Where there is no Just down the hall Mom and dad To reach out for And no night light Like the one which once upon a time Whispered to me In the secret language of childhood  that I wasn’t alone As long as there was  incandescence And prayer. But in these  Ides of March Despite my faith In things like the wind And seeds which are sown The light Without so much as a sailor’s warning has forsaken me Cracking my winter heart Like ice And turning the path that I have been on For as long as I can remember Into the road less taken. Which makes me feel Like those boys in the Civil War Who As their flesh Was crucified By rounds of ammunition Cried out for their Mothers And fell to the ground Into an epiphany of phosphorescence Which later At night Glowed like a night light Which would ultimately Send them to glory.