THE HOLLYWOOD RAGE PAGE

Are the frozen people In my family photo album like the one snapped by my Uncle Raymond during the war, of a freshly immolated Japanese soldier barbecued by the business-end of a flame-thrower in some south pacific island trench which appears right next to a picture of me blowing out my 4 th birthday cake candles and another of my bare-chested dad flipping burgers at the beach. Which,  perhaps subconsciously, created a theme featuring all the different fires that sooner or later had to be put out. My feelings are every single Girl and woman who I have ever loved And still do The one that I did the Mexican Hat Dance with While sporting a wind taunting paper sombrero on Cinco De Mayo The one who accepted my i.d. bracelet at The World’s Fair And flaunted it like it was an engagement ring, The one whose bra I unhooked Like I was defusing an Iraqi road bomb Until her boob finally sprung free and wiggled Like a Jello mold ...

Ever since the days of  Perfectly fitted waistcoats silk top hats And the dangled kid glove When spring made its entrance As rowdy as a saloon  It became open season For desire. Inhibitions were lifted Like a Crazy Horse skirt And for the pocket empty artist, His swivel-eyed lust Carried him by ragged foot  to The impossible distance of color spattered fields, where  armed with the seeds of paint, He tried to figure out The secret code of flowers Which had spoken to him In the confidence of God since he was a child. With the genuflection of  The Hog’s bristle And the consecration Of the palette knife The flowers were born  out of creation Becoming more and more human With each and every stroke The way Klimt’s sunflowers Formed a soul Kusama made her blossoms Quiver with the hallucinations Of childhood And Van Gough’s violet irises Wept with madness From the asylum of ...

  My mom was a  clever girl with a tortured soul which she wore like a winter coat buttoned to the neck to keep out the marrow chilled wind  even on the 4th of July. Her life was  rearranged  by tragedy when on a post bubble bath Brooklyn night in 1931 instead of following instructions  to keep a big sister eye on her forever scurrying  baby brother the tow-haired Harry,  she succumbed to the  hypnotic pull of motherhood  and tended to her doll with its go-to-sleep eyes and double- ruffled ribbon-tied  organdy bonnet, as Baby Harry in an effort to kiss the cheek of the beckoning moon secretly made his way to the launching pad of the window seat pressed his lips against the mesh of the screen and fell to his concrete death  while Wayne King and His Orchestra  played Goodnight Sweetheart on the Philco Highboy From that moment on my mom believed that  the family had secretly convened and convicted her of murder...

Before you think of what You’ve learned And sing your favorite tune Do not forget The silent sea on the tranquil side of the moon Where bodies sewn in sailcloth Float in outer space Until they turn to dust and ash And vanish With no trace. But down on earth Where they first cried Their footprints are still fresh Which children will still follow In search of their own flesh Their voices will be memorized Their scent will be exhumed And photographs will speak to us And hearts will be illumed Before you romp on beaches And announce your life brand new Remember all the sacrifice And those who coded blue And the torture of their final breaths Inside the ICU Before you hit the barrooms   And only think of you Remember everyone we lost Who’d love a kiss  or two Right now they are numbers Stats without a face But tell that to their families Who set an empty place Before you harm the earth a...

  A MUSICAL SONNERIE Bodies that we used to   spoon with on chilled marrow nights sheltered beneath the balmy gust of a downy duvet, whose cheeks we lip surfed on birthdays and on Christmas mornings when we stood ankle deep in the mad euphoria of shredded gift wrap are gone now replaced by the legacy of the yearning heart, an heirloom of fluttering memories each one  a    musical sonnerie with a solid gold dial that plays   Carillon From Bizet’s L’Arlesienne whose three-note figure conveyed the peal of funeral bells That was inscribed with the words “Our hands will always meet At midnight.”