THE HOLLYWOOD RAGE PAGE

  The stranded babies of Kyiv the nameless unclaimed product of surrogates swaddled in elephants and flowers crowned by a spray of bonnets sleep in the pink, pre-dawn age of dreams in charitably arranged cribs numbered 1-19 protected by a soft brigade of nannies armed with bottles and laps in a basement decorated in war dust while in the terror of the grim out there intended targets that used to be people weep  and drag their belongings like portable oxygen tanks across a heartbroken bridge as buildings and bloodlines are vaporized and become as forgotten as the stranded babies of Kyiv whose bridge to their faraway tomorrow is heartbroken too

Rain in the city My windows Look like Those paintings by Hassam That float on the walls of the Met Like kites stilled by   The mother arms of beach wind Streetlight splatters Like Pollack paint Umbrellas twirl Like parasols in the hands of Madame Monet Men sprint As thunder rumbles Like Hannibal’s elephants And Ubers fly through puddles Like toddlers dressed like Superman. A tribe gathers Like a mini Woodstock Beneath the awning Of the age of Aquarius A Starbucks window becomes An exhibit of latte and second thoughts Pizzas are divided And conquered Neon openly weeps And a traffic signal Sends out beams of light To all those lost at sea. While at the very same moment The notes of Debussy heal someone’s heart Skin flushes from a just arrived orgasm An apology is delivered just in the nick of time While someone dances alone on a rooftop And Times Square sits like a lunar landscape Waiting to be found.