THE HOLLYWOOD RAGE PAGE

If Heaven isn’t there And God is nothing more than a well-funded daydream Then where have you gone? I think I know. Because I can feel you You are The choreographer of  The Tides The sculptor  of silence The secret breath  of the wind The infinite kindness  of the sun The late-night custodian  of the moon The inventor   of storms Even though I can no longer see you perform a series of soubresauts along a serpentine stage of sand  the kind that weeps down  the slender neck of an  hourglass  until time runs out, or hear your voice that was made to sing with mine or entwine my fingers with yours to escort you safely home Life goes on with you. Everywhere.

Ever since my heartbeats matched the tick-tock pulse of  “The Syncopated Clock” theme of the Late Show I have lived in a house bursting  with shimmering strangers whom I have never met And cannot live without. They are the movie spirits who have shrugged off time and death with their throaty, cocktail-party laughs bone slinky gowns and all-night tuxes shadow lit by Hurrell  diffused by plumes of Lucky Strike  smoke armed with trigger-happy flasks happy feet swooning kisses, and jazzy bursts of banter that click and clack like  the fascinating rythym of a reporter’s  hot story keyboard Others are clowns who can tumble in a windstorm cling for dear life to the spindly hands of a clock shyly tip their derbies to flirty ingenues and twirl their canes like a mini windmill. There’s also coin-flipping gangsters crooning cowboys twirling dancers  gold hearted harlots baby faced soldiers  heavy-lidded private eyes and fated romantics  who always suffer from a collapse of judgment until love set

Children are the caretakers Of stars who can't remember  how or when they fell. It may have been a Tuesday It all happened so fast. One minute they Were defying gravity Like the Flying Wallendas And then.. They tumbled  And flailed landing like the twisted  rag doll bodies of Normandy until  The Caretakers arrived to collect them  like sea shells  scooping them up  into their low-swaying buckets and carrying them  off to the supple shade of a single striped umbrella planted  like an astronaut’s flag on the sea of tranquility of the soon to be forgotten  moon. Then The Caretakers began their sedulous work on the resurrection of  The Fallen. Points were readjusted Spines were realligned And compasses were rejiggered so that the stars will never wander off by themselves  ever again. The work ended at evenfall with a good night kiss that triggered a thermonuclear reaction in even the coldest of stars which lit the way for The Caretakers to wade into the water in their soon to die footp