THE HOLLYWOOD RAGE PAGE

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 Sargea...

 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, g...