THE HOLLYWOOD RAGE PAGE

At first,  grief is the blinding that greets me when I reach toward the total eclipse of a late-August sun for the one I’ve lost. The years drift by— muzzy— half-empty bed abandoned chair, and left-behind shoes still waiting for one more invitation to whirl beneath the fairy lights and moonwash of the dance floor of eternal bandstands,  hopes, and dreams. Until grief— like my soul, and my refusal to forgive— softens into the long, low keening of a mother whale, her notes of longing bobbing along the salted complexion of the living sea— scatter-lit bottles of mercy and messages, each carrying the same heartfelt refrain: I miss you more.

My mom is mist now like the spray of Chanel that lingered in the atmosphere of her wrists and ankles from morning till night My mom is a distant moon now as luminous as the pearls that she wore on special nights when being pretty was her only fate. My mom is music now She’s Gertrude Lawrence still guiding young lovers wherever they are bone-skinny Frank in the wee small hours  Fred and Eleanor as they begin the Beguine My mom is in the clink of a china cup In the messages scrawled in the secret code of cake crumbs In the mumble of a soap opera In the plaintive whistle of a tea kettle  My mom is rage now As uncontrollable as she was When the shadows swallowed her whole. And my mom is sorrow now Like the moment her mom died when she stood crying  at the window that shut out the world and said in a voice much younger than mine, I’m an orphan now.   

 A Sunday Walk on  Fifth Avenue Written by David Steven Simon I’m on a 22-block winter walk moving with childhood velocity along Fifth Avenue. The sky is Tiffany blue which makes everyone feel as prosperous as a happy ending. My heart is that red balloon escaping like a convict above the Strand Books Kiosk moving to the madcap rhythm of the Red Maple Leaf rag I’m swallowed by the fanny pack of tourist wolves the sneaker hoofed stampede the merry prankster dogs and the unicorn girl in her multicolored finery City pilgrims pray to their phones led by a sacred calling as I am caught in the swirling tide of Puffers and Pashminas.  A homeless man soiled as a chimney sweep sleeps on church steps dreaming of his full belly past. A cardboard of hand-scrawled commandments lay at his charcoal feet offering hand scrawled instructions  on how to lead a more purposeful life I dodge The hand-holding strollers and The hands-pushing strollers with their acrobatic babies the Nicotine...

  The Curvey November Ramble Written by David Steven Simon  The curvy November ramble With its fallen infantry of leaves Lit by the epitaph of the sun Does not lead me forward. Every step, Orchestrated by the final gasp of A snapping twig, Escorts me back... To my mom, Waltzing with her  carpet sweeper partner As Sinatra Sang You Make Me Feel So Young From the cathedral radio of her  Bobby Soxer heart While sadness  coursed through her veins Like a prairie wildfire. To my dad, Slapped silly by Skin Bracer And the slow death hours of a Salesman Sneaking Chuckles Behind the citadel of an  Early evening newspaper As he sank into the mother arms of his chair As the cushion  Cradled his head  Which returned him To the sanctuary of quiet shadows when his heart felt precious  Befriended  And adored. The visitations that come to me As I wade through this dignified  ghost filled battlefield  Of old New York With its  Painter's pall...