The Rifleman

The opening’s punctuated by a penis level ejaculation of gunfire;
Sam Peckinpaugh overdubbed a staccato barrage of thirteen shots
From a rifle that could only fire eleven bullets.  Hollywood license.
“A gun is not a plaything, Mark.” says Lucas McCain
As he twirls his eighteen ninety two forty caliber Winchester
Three hundred sixty degrees to cock it.  Deft wrist action
Aided by a round ring welded to the gun to facilitate a feat
As ominous and threatening as a Samurai brandishing a sword. 

“My pa’s the best shot in the whole world,” boasts Mark McCain.
As the camera pans away from the “bad guy” with the gaping hole
In his chest, who in his death throes is vainly attempting to stuff
His intestines back into where they belong,   The camera swings
To Lucas McCain, his arm around the shoulders of his son Mark,
As they walk away, their backs to the carnage.  Lucas looks down
At his worshipful son and says, “I’m sorry you had to see that, Mark."
Another cowboy tries vainly to crawl away, his spine shattered.

 “Are you up for a piece of cherry pie, Mark?” he asks, now
Just a sod-busting rancher attempting to raise a son.  A farmer
Who just happens to be one of the fastest guns in the West.
Living a male fantasy life devoid of the encumbrance of a wife,
With a boy to mold in his own gun-toting, clenched jawed,
Two-fisted, God-fearing image; an instrument of divine justice,
The one man moral code of the frontier town of North Fork
Glowering at the camera as he reloads while striding forward.

He turns to blast the thug who’d fired a shot at Sheriff Micah,
The  broken-down rummy  he’d pulled out of the gutter, buoyed up
And made a lawman of again in a previous episode.  In the world
Of "The Rifleman" men either have to "man up" or die.  The camera
Pans away again so as not to show the widening pool of blood
Seeping into the street.  “Now, off to school, Mark.
Don’t let that fancy schoolmarm from out East fill your ears
With any more of her bleeding-heart anti-gun nonsense.”

Lucas McCain, Moses, the Duke, and the Gipper.  Roles that elevated
Men to North Fork, Mount Sinai, the Alamo  and The White House.
Last I heard of the four, before Alzheimer’s or lung cancer got them all,
They were sitting beneath the HOLLYWOOD sign, passing a bottle
While practicing their legendary marksmanship by shooting at stars.
John Wayne shot at Polaris and missed.  So did Heston and Reagan.
Shortly after Chuck Connors fired, a meteor blazed into the atmosphere.
"That’s how it's done, boys,” he said, flashing  his best television grin.

 Rich Hanson

Liz Taylor Died Today

The ad reads "Filmworks, Reel Jobs for L.A."
Below it, in MovieLand's doorway, two young men sleep,
Their coats wrapped like cocoons about them.
They've yet to be touched by Tinker Bell's wand.
The Magic Kingdom has become a Never Land
For these chrysalises of cheap labor.
They're an unsightly blight in this land of flowers,
Film, fantasy and perpetual summer
Where palm trees reach up as if stretching
Their fronds with a yawn to greet the morning sun.

In this land of youth and self-indulgence
It's hell to grow old.  Beauty's a precious asset,
Perhaps the key that can open a Tomorrowland
Of fame, fortune and a pampered life of ease,
A life laden with herbal foot treatments,
Cranberry pomegranate sugar scrubs,
Chocolate Truffle body wraps, waxed eyebrows,
Coffee scrubs, enzyme peels, outdoor cafes,
Ten dollar slices of creme brule cheesecake,
Pricey Italian footwear and fruit and cream baths.

Liz Taylor died today.  From her early teens
Looks defined her fame.  Her eyes were deep pools
Of desire.  How sad that a woman so beautiful
Couldn't find a lasting love.  Eight marriages,
But no relationship secure enough to cling to,
To allow herself to age gracefully,
Secure that she'd be loved for her person rather
Than for beauty that will always fade with time.
The legends such as Harlow and Monroe died young.
They didn't have to make that difficult transition.

The beauty of Butterfield Eight, Raintree County,
Suddenly Last Summer and of Egypt's Queen
Too soon degenerated into a bejeweled
Boozy, pain-killer addicted frump, more believable
As "Martha" in Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolff,
Cruelly parodied by a young John Belushi
Dressed in drag, choking on a chicken bone.
Toward the end befriending Michael Jackson,
Whose obsession with youth and looks turned him
Into a freak.  Perhaps you understand him, Liz.

As I watch a white Hummer hop the curb
Before settling back onto the street to park,
I reflect upon this land of excess,
This realm of make-believe, where to excel
At entertainment as a gaudy human parrot
Mouthing words and mimicing scripted characters
Is the goal of so many.  What of those who come
Here though who aren't beautiful or lucky enough
To earn an opportunity to open an account
In the Universal Studios Credit Union?

To fail to attain a dream can lead to despair.
I've learned this too well, yet I still dare to dream,
As hopefully do the two young men who sleep
Fitfully in the doorway of MovieLand.
Perhaps an even crueller fate is to find
That after you've caught hold of your dream
That it's got its hold on you, that it defines you,
And that the conditions that are imposed upon you
To sustain it, such as eternal youth and beauty,
Are chains that finally become too heavy to bear.

HOLLYWOODLAND

(A poem for Peg Entwistle)

Who's to say when enough was enough.
Was it the disappointment of the many days
Getting all dolled up for casting calls that left you
Standing against the wall, like an eager girl
At a formal dance who's never asked to;
Waiting by the phone for a studio to call
Like some girl stuck home on a Saturday night;
Watching with dismay as most of your scenes
From the one movie you landed a part in
Ended up as trash on the cutting room floor.

When Bette Davis watched you play Ibsen's Hedvig,
She credited her youthful admiration of you
In that role to her desire to become an actress.
Movies though, were where the real glamour was.
Dazzling fireworks of exploding flashbulbs,
Leading ladies in their body-hugging gowns
Emerging from limos, savoring the red carpet
Excitement of their movie premieres.
Grand epics of romance filmed on backlots
Of plywood facades, kingdoms of illusion.

Every girl dreams of becoming a princess,
Or a Star.  The ones with talent and the look
Need luck as well.  Elizabeth Short had none,
Achieving fame only in her gruesome death,
As did Virginia Rappe, Arbuckle's victim.
Their tragedies churned headlines, as did yours.
Your disillusion drove you to climb to the top
Of a landmark letter on the Tinseltown hillside,
From which you jumped, unaware of the offer
Of a lead role that had been mailed to you.

Your body lay shattered at the base of the "H,"
A lifeless blonde-haired, blue-eyed doll
Without a name, just the initials "P. E."
On the note that finally led your uncle to you.
Hollywoodland is a cruel town still, Peg.
Casting couch lizards seduce with promises,
Booze and drugs, then abandon you for fresh prey.
Innocence hardens to toughness too quickly.
Perhaps you let go of your dream too soon, Peg,
But what of we who've clung to ours for too long?

Those of us who jealously hug our dreams
Should erect a monument on your unmarked grave,
Perhaps a kneeling angel with drooping wings,
Its anguished face gazing up at the sky
As if to question God, or implore his forgiveness.
Let your gravesite become the place of pilgrimage
Where we can bring our unattainable goals,
Unaccomplished deeds and unfufilled desires,
Those wilted bouquets that flowered in our youth,
To lay them down before you as we let go of them.