THE HOLLYWOOD RAGE PAGE

Think of the sun as a reminder of the warmth that you are aching for from anyone that you adore Think of the moon as a song in the final trimester    of the composition of lullabies which will give birth every time you stare at it. Think of the stars as the steed mounted Holy Knights of Faith who offer sanctuary to wishes that are longing to be heard Think of the air as the replenishment of memories that will protect you from the dark jungle prowl of fears and uncertainty    Think of the clouds as a flotilla of ships with a cargo full of dreams which will find its way back to Port as soon as the storm ends  Think of the rain as the downpour of dispatches handwritten in the script of 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 twirl 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 scrapbook rose And haunted by ghosts Which are all the regrets that simply refuse to die 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 Until the dial suddenly found 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 together They began to da

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 cat-filled 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 cry.