THE HOLLYWOOD RAGE PAGE

The men at Club Q were slaughtered like fresh meat because they were doing the very same thing that toddlers do. They were playing dress up.   In their own private playground.   They were all young people with futures as colorful as their beloved flag. The word they used to define themselves was gay which used to mean lighthearted and carefree. Now it means targets for brutal murder. Do not forget for a second that all of them were someone's babies whose through-the-years highlight photos are arranged on walls, lined up strategically on top of pianos, and stuck to refrigerator doors with colorful magnets which, at the speed of madness, have all become standing memorials to men who preferred mascara to massacres. Last night in a Virginia Walmart Supercenter a shooter assassinated six people in a break room and wounded four others. Gone this time are mommies and daddies, aunts and uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews, brothers and sisters whose empty chairs at the Thanksgiving table a

She woke up   garroted by darkness   In the antiseptic bright   white light hell of a   hospital room crucified on a feather bed of sorrow which was once upon a time a fairy pink crib with billowing sails That skimmed along the surface of The wind-blown sea of a nursery Bound for all the birthright adventures to come Which are now as lost As parachuted dreams. The distant traffic Conducted by palm trees Is a requiem. Everyone else is going somewhere But not her. Not her. She is old now But young when her eyes are closed. Which makes her want to go back and lie limp as Raggedy Annie beneath the curved rear window of the Hudson Hornet And watch infinity swirl by As daddy drove Puffing on his cigar like a peace pipe Her brother slept   The ponton body rocking him like a cradle And mommy   misted with Arpege   Sang Catch A Falling Star and Put it in Your Pocket With Perry Como As the tires thumped like heartbeats And invisible wings Flew them home