THE HOLLYWOOD RAGE PAGE

I’ve been fighting the current while sinking in the past scared of the depth feeling  miscast a drift. I have waded too long. I gave way to the struggle when I could no longer juggle the memories of kisses hugs and post coital snuggles. To hush the ceaseless dread I chose instead to tread and now I am caught in  the  riptired barely able to stay afloat in this sea of bone white waves where the siren song for which I long has become as faint  as the tufts of clouds that tumble by like slow moving acrobats  while I continue to wade for way too long.

Despite appearances   Heaven may not be  the always present  consciousness that watches over us during  beach hours gray rain city days or any number of man follies like battlefields the electoral college and never being able to find a parking space at Cotsco on weekends. For me Heaven is our private inner movie studio where all that is lost or eternally feared is stored in film cans on strips of memory celluloid that we can call up whenever the wars of love  become too much to bear. Silent night pictures flutter by  on the silver screens of  daydreams and nightmares, that feature mostly tales of loss and temptation featuring a cast of  a thousand ghosts who haunt the shadow valley of our hearts until the wee small hours  when the lights come back on and the exit signs are clearly lit. In that still-life morning moment of want and limbo all that remains  is a carousel of  dissolving images  on shredded sprockets  which we ...