THE HOLLYWOOD RAGE PAGE

She woke up wife warm Bony and blonde In the marital clinch hold of her husband After dreaming of painting a Pysanky in her childhood kitchen Or maybe she saw herself  Twirling at a small village wedding In an embroidered folk dress with ribbons in her hair Compelled to dance by The music of Vidoplyasova  Or perhaps she saw scenes from Battleship Potemkin Or a Muratova film on the silver screens of her closed eyelids. But it was the nascent pink light of that Santa Fe morning That informed her that it was time to levitate off the mattress And become warm mommy Who in just a matter of minutes would bribe her child With the promise of a slice of Medovyk If he was a good boy today Which was followed by  A kiss lightly stamped on his forehead Like a royal seal Which in just a few hours He would remember As the way that she said goodbye. In the shower  Which pelted her like a summer rainstorm She suddenly felt like Lyudmila at the end of The Stolen Princess Which made her sing her wedding s

The flowers Which we cradled in a pale,   life-chipped ceramic vase, Like a vibrant, rosy-cheeked baby from  The fields of Arles Can only love us For so long  Before they begin to curtsy and bend Like an exhausted ballerina On withered stems Who will then float away at the speed of  suddenly lost love. And yet it was only a few days ago When we carried them home in our arms Trimmed and arranged them Like soft-hearted teachers placing children in size order And carried them on the reverence of tip-toes to their place of honor, On the notched pine bed of a  coffee table Where we stared at them every morning And every night like Hypnotized parents  And did everything we could to keep them happy and alive. And yet While we were otherwise engaged Watching The Crown Or playing Sudoku There was  A sudden decline An unannounced droop A Garbo collapse  as The cells surrendered  and the bouquet passed away quietly Amidst a tangle of final baby breath This is why   I suppose   that artists memori

We all knew a Gabby She was the toddler in a passing stroller Whose smile   Made you feel loved On an unnavigatable day. She was the girl in daycare That every fingerpainting boy Wanted to sit next to. She was the girl in kindergarten Whose instinict was to hug A suddenly homesick neighbor When it all became too much She was the girl who was scared of thunder And sobbed when anyone was lost in a cartoon. She was the one that the dog always waited for Like a statue In the driveway  She was Mary in the Christmas play Elsa on Halloween A dancing sunflower in the Easter pageant A birthday princess delighted by her Dora the Explorer cake The girl with the pretty face Who sang the solo when the class sang Imagine. She was the crush of an endless tide Of lovestruck boys and girls. The girl whose hair seemed to be weaved out Of gold The girl who seemed to glide while others Stumbled She was everyone’s cheerleader in high school The one who seemed destined to become the Queen Of the prom. The o

She cradled a toddler Whose rubbery Legs dangled Onto her lap of combat fatigues Like a pair of drowsy willow branches Along a gravel road in Georgia And smiled like Mona Lisa  The way she did in her high school yearbook Which beneath her picture read: “Most likely to succeed.” Beneath her most recent Instagram post she wrote, “I love my job.” It was her instinct almost from birth To protect things. An orphaned dandelion A fallen nestling  An abandoned heart Her own shadow  Which clung to the hemisphere of her civilian skirt Like the someday child at Abbey Gate. It was Sgt. Gee’s job That morning To escort evacuees  Onto the bird Whose wings would fly them To a future that she would Never cook barefoot in Never swirl to a country song Never rest her head on the shoulder of  her Marine husband Who will instead escort her to the Field of folded flags and silent white crosses Where soldiers sleep In a nursery of soil And wait to be remembered Like her fellow Sargeant who wrote on Facebook

 Even though I predicted that both Kevin Costner and the players would emerge like baseball ghosts from within the cornfield, it only took seconds before I began to sob. I mean it moved me to the core of my heart. The reason?  It was exactly what James Earl Jones said in the film: “This field, this game; it's a part of our past, Ray.  It reminds us of all that once was good, and that could be again. Oh…people will come, Ray. People will most definitely come.” I think I cried because I’m no longer convinced that they will. All I felt was what we have lost over the last four years.   The election wasn’t stolen.  Our souls were.  All that that  destructive/self-destructive animal Trump did was topple and stomp on our country….our world, with the callous glee of a murderous thug, fascist dictator. He didn’t just fomate hate. He extracted it; he set it free with all its satanic wrath from the hitherto private rage rooms of the illiterate, stupid, selfish, gun abusing people who up until

Seconds before the thunderclap came In every  Single Unit The summit of the day had been reached  And with it came The assurance of immortality Which arrives  When danger is as far away  as the faraway moon Which at that very moment was watching over each and every one of them  In every Single Unit Like the nightlight Of the nursery Where mom and dad Once upon a time  held vigil in the shadows  counted baby breaths for inventory and exported dreams  To ensure everlasting love and most of All a very, very long life. Outside was the  after-hours  Clocked-out ocean Which was something to boast about And take every angle pictures of From your balcony When it was awake To send to friends and relatives Who would envy you And everything about your life For at least one more minute. There were no lifeboats for The beloved of  every Single unit at Surfside, Florida. fragile grandparents Tender-hearted parents shiny children dependable God-sent nannies twentysomething lovers on the grown-up isla

It's over The end was unexpected Shocking even  Even though I knew it was coming There was nothing left to say.  In the beginning You were everything that my Friends said you were  You sparkled like Hepburn in the spotlight You were crafty and complicated Challenging at times  As you weaved your mystery Like a form fitting cardigan And I was hooked No. I was madly in love with you. And now  I can't get you out of my mind. I think about you all the time  And worry that I will walk into  A nearby shop Like the one where we first met And see you being held by someone else Who thinks that they can read you just as well as I did  Which will make me want to scream  I owned you.  You were mine. But I am just a man  And you are a book  One that I adored  And will never Ever  Forget Even if I have to share you.

My heart is a newborn baby  cradled in the secret nursery Of my chest Swinging on a breakable bough Often frightened of the dark Until it’s comforted by memories Like the ghost image snapshots Of my mom and dad Who adore me to this day Through the code of Their long ago scrapbook eyes. My heart is a teenage boy Still drunk on the  Absinthe of perfume Or the sight of long teenage girl hair Swaying in the hammock Of her naked lower back Whose every dangling gesture can be interpreted By the words I want you too. My heart is a bridegroom Walking the last mile Condemned by commitment  Who is suddenly pardoned by the entrance of My barefoot Titania in Queen Anne’s lace Attended by her bridesmaids, Cobweb and Moth Who has come to make tender folly of my fears And whisper the fairy songs of love Which sound like the lullaby tide of a never-ending beach. My heart is a father Whose knees still quiver whenever It hears the word, “Dad” And now it’s a grandpa moved to its core  by the pony prance

In a month I will be the same age That my dad was When he died. It’s a number that has  Tortured me  Ever since he flew away Like a cherished balloon And now Here it is Waiting for me Like satan with a butterfly net That collects souls For his permanent collection. My dad had not been truthful about his age  because he was 15 years older than my mom And thought that the difference between them  would be upsetting to My sister and I So he shaved off ten years With the precision of his silver safety razor Which sat  Splayed like a crucifix On his bathroom sink. When he died Leaving in his wake A  tuna sandwich Perched like a headstone With garnish On the observation deck of our refrigerator It was shocking to discover the truth. After death secrets  Seem far more profound Than the ones that are stashed away Like dresser drawer love letters During the breathing years Because The only way to solve The mystery of them Is with the microscope of your Imagination Which at best can only Magnify

I miss the refuge of my local café where my writer fingers tap like cotton club hoofers stomping to the savoy As natives zombie in, toddlers claim their God-given right to a fresh-baked croissant,  and I get to disappear  Ralph Ellison style. I miss  The gymnastic landing Of a passionate kiss The binding clause of attraction A body gone limp as a cat defeated by pleasure floating in a puddle of the afternoon sun I miss The close proximity of Renoir The baton induced entrance of an overture The invocations of the sermons at the Vanguard I miss the casual wander behind the ghost trail of fruit-scented vapes The rapture of traffic That cabs that wail like  Calloway Fueled by the octane power of the hi de ho. I miss The buskers The card sharks The lunatics The West Side Story rumble of the subway The cashmere scarfs And pictures of John Lennon On sale along aboard the hustling real estate of  Manhattan bridge tables And I miss   The million and one times that I have fallen in love  with a

On Monday Which was like Any other Monday Seven children Woke up Beneath one roof In seven different beds Which just minutes before Were a flotilla of unmoored boats Cast out to the Sea of Dreams Which is why When they woke up They still felt like they were floating. With half-mast eyes They plodded barefoot  to  Chilly tiled bathrooms And performed their rituals With holy water and Toothpaste  Empowered by the invulnerability of childhood As they conjured up images  Of Spider-Man and dreaded tests The new Justin Bieber song And even that cute boy Or a cute girl Who just might love them as much As they secretly loved them. Then they buttoned And zipped themselves into outfits And tied laces Like veteran Boy Scouts As bacon sizzled like a late night summer shower  And eggs hummed like a warming up chorus As mommy coffee bubbled with promise And cereal boxes stood like Patriotic sentries On the table where Just the night before Everyone laughed And sang While they rooted for their favori

Despite their official status ghosts do not retire or sign up for Medicare they are alive and well. The bigger than life ones  live with vivacity  in the cemeteries of novels and the tombs of movie palaces where at this very moment  Jean Harlow is slinking like a panther in a dangerous negligee and Jimmy Stewart is stammering his way  into the heart of a woman who has pulverized his bashful vocabulary. The city ones still ride trolley cars drive horse-drawn lunch wagons dunk sinkers in a cup of Automat joe sell the Herald Tribune for a nickel on  street corners sip in speakeasies  And row barefoot in Central Park  twirling parasols  while soliloquies  are being offered by The Barrymores beneath the watchful eye of chandeliers.  The ones who are closest to me, my once-upon-a-time  conga line of relatives who used to sashay from cars on a Saturday night swinging pink cake boxes from Ebinger’s  like church incense who were picked off one by one by unfiltered cigarettes and the strangulati

 DESPITE THE PROMISE OF THE GLOAMING Written By David Steve Simon I don’t fear the apocalypse I fear that my daydreams  Will never burst open Like the newborn mouths of sun nursing violets On the very first day of spring. I don’t fear darkness  I fear I will never again have A drowsy pair of feet Search for mine In the feathery valley of  The fallen night time duvet. I don’t fear storms I fear being battered by loneliness I don’t fear the truth I fear the person who will expose me to it I don’t fear aging I fear its consequences. Which will turn me From a hard pelting rain Into a fine mist Which will be forgotten Despite the promise of the gloaming Far, far away from  The never ending fields of violets.

Quarantine is nothing new To those of us who draw tiny hearts On the edges of newspapers Or on the steam vapor canvas Of bone chilled windows As we’re   insulated by memories like the way that her head  would slowly land onto the lunar landscape  Of my shoulder  the moment that we were slain by an aria, Dancing to  God Only Knows naked to our feet Draped by a top  sheet  Or the million times that I would turn to her Simply because she was there.

Just like today, tomorrow already feels like Zelda Fitzgerald passed out in a backless Rib Stitch 5 bathing suit from an overdose of Absinthe splayed like defeat beneath a striped umbrella that looks like a just sprouted Daisy planted like a moon flag in the lunar beach surface of the Riviera. But in normal times Which is so not now I board with total abandon any number of waiting steampunk rocket ships The kind that Jules Verne once imagined Which sit on launchpads At the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences That are perpetually aimed at the vastness of stars Which between you and I, are secret way stations Where everyone Who we still desperately want to hold Wait for us Like our moms and dads Who once upon a time stared at a night winter window In the grief-stricken hours past midnight Until they heard The symphonic jangle of our childhood keys Which gave them permission to Finally, breathe a sigh of relief Because they loved us that much.

Until I’m inert And gift-wrapped  in dirt I have little choice  but to deal with the hurt; The cruelty I blurt, And the friends I desert, While I act Extrovertedly And sometimes  introvertedly Which leaves me subvertedly Alone  So with a pronouncement most over And a passion to convert I turn to  the flirt; the silent ballet  Of the piouretting skirt.