THE HOLLYWOOD RAGE PAGE

It is 7 a.m. in  Nashville. The last call song slingers have lassoed the moon and the cafe bluebirds have flown home to roost   as the sun  like the south  rises again on the town of Green Hill. She is a 9-year-old girl with sleep-tangled hair wearing critter slippers   and a unicorn bathrobe that has the power to  protect her as long as she has it on. In the misty visibility of a daydream she sees  the cute boy in the lunchroom and smiles as if he’s smiling back She suddenly remembers falling asleep on the  Halloween hayride  and feeling the presence of Jesus  She reenters the ethos of her bedroom  and stares at the shadow of the crochet heart  which dangles  as carefree as Sunday on her window She dresses quickly  in between shivers.   Leggings from Kohls.  Her birthday high tops.   A tee shirt that reads, “Do more of what makes your soul happy.” She considers switching her alliance from  pink to lavender Pretends that lip balm is lipstick and poses  like Miley in the mirror  as Mama

We may not speak in poetry But we feel in poetry Almost all the time Especially when we dream Where we make guest appearances At every age that we’ve ever been. Or when we yearn for the love that we lost Or when we reach out For a fistful of pillow Or skim along a lake In an old wooden rowboat That forgot its wings Dressed in nothing more Than the infinity of cobwebs And an ancient morning jacket made of dew

It begins with the forecast of our disposition. Which we depend on Like the bedtime reading of Goodnight Moon. Then without warning the world betrays you like your friends did When they disappeared without explanation. Time reverses its course And you are suddenly hell-bent for the asylum of childhood. The Stargazer Lilies become unforgivable. Che gelida manina intolerable And your heart begins to suffocate Like Desdemona at the hands of the one who loved her most Despite your cries of anguish And the last-ditch effort of Hail Mary prayers It starts to rain bricks Like a biblical curse Which like the early stages of Jenga Seems manageable  until the Unforgiving decide to accelerate this  game of the Gods And entomb you beneath the stacks Like tomorrow When we will watch her fade away With no assurance from the moon As the snowflakes fall Like a flurry of epilogues And covers every name That is etched in stone.