THE HOLLYWOOD RAGE PAGE

November.   The sky is the color Of freezer ice.   The woods The path You Me And an impossibly happy dog   Collars are alert Cheeks are claret red Hands are rolled in pockets Like sonogram babies   Winter boots  scrape through leaves that are scattered like propaganda On a small country of pine cones   You   Ahead of me   Heads down   Breathing like horses   We are still attached.   You and I   The tether of heartbeats Even though  We both know That it’s over   Every step forward  is a giant leap Towards  a million miles away.   There is so much to be said  when there is nothing left to say.   And so We let silence Have the last word.              

We arrive at this certain age like any moon-eyed immigrant light years away  from our homeland of  fathomless promises with nothing more  than a carpetbag full of hastily packed   dream particles  more afraid of the    dark  than when we were Dr. Denton little  and cried out  like the Bible’s lost lamb for someone to rescue us  from the perils of the night. It is here where in between  glimpses of a swirling whirligig  a romp of sea shore footprints  and a naked bed girl  curled like Marilyn aboard a thrill of satin sheets We take inventory of our disappointments We itemize forever best friends who opted out of their contracts early Mourn the vanished opportunities  Miss the children who moved to Mars and crave the lovers  whose vows were lost at sea What cossets us in this  ghost-filled  way station orphanage of ours is our one true ally: the single beam of a nightlight which represents  the only thing that can save us: the  invisible  gravitational  pull  of our mom and dad who wait

I am in this old house That’s me still a boy dreamy as a Gainsborough framed in the window beneath the curvy slope of a sad-eyed eave watching the seasons twirl by like a Feiffer ballerina celebrating the spectacular ordinary The house which was once 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 will never age I will remain a tender-hearted callant beyond the life sentence of the grave Me: The mad inventor of fancies Who can still hear The mischief of cartoons The dinner table prattles The tumble of a dryer The tentative ascent of piano scales And the insistence of vinyl static Until the needle drops and finds Frank Sinatra singing The Nearness Of You which coaxes my mom in her Cinderella apron and pink latex gloves to turn away from her soapy pot sink and nuzzle her nose into the fidelity of m

It is 7 a.m. in Nashville. The last call song-slingers have lassoed the Moon and the cafe bluebirds have all 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 crocheted heart which dangles, as carefree as Sunday, on her window She dresses quickly in between shivers.   Leggings from Kohl’s. Her birthday high tops.   A tee shirt that reads, “Do more of what makes your soul happy.” She considers switching her allegiance from pink to lavender Pretends that lip balm is lipstick  and poses like Miley in the mirror  as Ma

So, who is coming to our party? They are. Who is? They. Who is they? (HOLDING UP A PICTURE OF A WOMAN) Her. Oh.  So she is coming. No.  They are. Wait. Is that person coming to the party? Yes. So she is coming. No. But you just said she is. I didn’t say anything of the kind. Is that person coming to our party? Absolutely. But she isn’t. There you go. I have no idea what I’m talking about! Okay, what is that woman’s name? Susan. And Susan is coming. Right. When will she get here? She won’t. What? I told you she is not coming. I am losing my mind. Okay,  is Susan bringing someone? Sure. Who? Paul. Who is he? Who is who? He. He doesn’t exist. What? He doesn’t exist. He doesn’t exist. There you go. But he’s coming Both of them will be here! But she is not coming and neither is he.   See how easy this is?  Look, let me make it easy.  Both Paul and  Susan are Agender. I would hope so.  Which one? Which one what? Which gender are they? Nothing. Wait. You just said that they are both a gender.

Frank Sinatra sang for the lonely Dean flirted and scored   Sammy was a one-man show But Tony Bennett was something else. Tony was a swinging cool cat With a growl  and a purr He was a schooner  gliding at 100 knots on a cloudless day where the sun likes to jump and jive He was a rocket ship blasting towards the milky way daddio He was a street kid  stomping through puddles  on a rainy day He was a late-night  after hours jazz club When the cooking was just getting started A splayed bow tie and a sweaty brow  leaning on a baby grand ready to prowl the alley of sound with Bill Evans  He was a preacher at the pulpit of pop who snapped to the verse and flew a chorus like a kite in flight  He was the boutonniere  The Beau Brummel pinkie ring The diamond pin on a sleeping lapel He was as Italian as Calabria and as American as the songbook He was the spotlight The stage at Carnegie Hall The crooner who probably would have sung for nothing if the stars hadn't aligned. He was the thump of