THE HOLLYWOOD RAGE PAGE

Think of the sun as the warmth you are aching for when everything feels like  the ruins of the rain Think of the moon as the maestro  of the  tides conducting the rise and fall  of your shipwrecked heart Think of the stars as the Knights Templar of infinite possibilities  ready to ride into battle to defeat your doubts and uncertainty  Think of the air as the replenishment of memories Think of the passing clouds as a cargo full of dreams Think of the winter storms as a flurry of dispatches  handwritten in the script of snow angels which in any language reads I understand. And think of tomorrow For what it always is: A ready to be delivered  tenderly whispered answered prayer.    

  I am in this old house That’s me  framed in the window Still a boy Dreamy as a Gainsborough Watching the seasons swirl by Like Isadora on the wind Standing beneath the sloping weight of a sad-eyed eave The house  which was once rather imperious Especially when it cackled at squalls Or dismissed the night Like it was a silly schoolgirl is bony and hollow-cheeked now  fragile as a final breath haunted by ghosts insulated by regrets  But I haven’t aged I never will. I will always be right there In the window To the very end Me: The mad inventor of memories to come Who can still hear  The mischief of cartoons The exhale of an exhausted shampoo bottle And the insistence of radio static which disappeared the moment that the dial discovered Frank Sinatra   Clear as a bell singing  The Nearness Of You Which coaxed my mom to turn away from the sink and nuzzle her nose into the fidelity of my dad’s soft shoulder And ...

Summer left as it always does Without leaving a note It simply snuck out of the house one night Being careful not to let the screen door slam Disappearing like a lover who knew That this could not last forever. And just like that gone is The tiptoeing sea The sunbaked shoulders The breeze swaying hammock The flung-open windows The moony kiss The night-lit carousel The giggles of dusk That travel like fireflies until everyone is safe and accounted for. And now  I am staring at this October afternoon The sky Is Joni Mitchell Blue The clouds escalator by Losing strands of cotton white hair A concession to age Later, the sky will turn as black as an ancient 78 playing the ghost chords  Of a long-vanished pianist a Schubert impromptu, perhaps Whose every note Like the snowflakes to come is an opportunity to quietly fly