THE HOLLYWOOD RAGE PAGE

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.