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.

On Prayer

Too often I've seen friends in pain;
Heard the prayers they mouthed in vain.
He who sees the sparrow fall
Doesn't seem to care at all.

Pagan's Soliloquy

1. Revulsion

I'd turned my back on that day's crucifixions.
The Gods know I've seen enough suffering
Since the Romans commenced their bloody rule.
That day, as the three wooden masts of pain
Anoited the Hillside of the Skull
With their gaunt, black shadows of suffering,
I made my way instead to the sea.

Angry winds had stirred the sea into a tempest.
Waves raced toward the shore like vicious dogs
Baring their whitecapped teeth in fury as they
Leapt up to try to rip into the jagged breakwater.
Retreating, snarling, battered to a bloody brown
With their cargo of loosened red clay,
It seemed as if the sea had become a chalice
That had caught the blood that had been shed
For man, by that strange, insane Jew
Dying in the company of thieves.

I wished for a moment to shatter as a wave,
To dash my doubts against a sea wall of certainty,
Splattering into spindrift the fatty complacency
Of a diet of intellectual sweetmeats.
Leaving them to taint the turbulent water
Rather than having them festering inside me,
Infecting my spirit with cynicism.

2. The Vision

My meandering musings were slain by a shout.
The waves were leaping skyward, dancing
In a wild tempestuous ecstasy.
Tiaras of foam were burnishing their crests.
The dazzling display of light that blinded me
Was as overpowering as the fragrance of roses
That seemed to waft from the sea to my senses.

Rising from an ocean that had suddenly come calm
Was an iridescent scallop shell
Bathed in crimson light.
Burning, passionate red crimson!

Standing on the shell that rose from the water
Was a voluptuous vision of womanly perfection.
Looking glass liquid droplets still clung to her,
Shimmering like tiny lights of illumination.
It was Aphrodite!

She smiled a wan, sad smile.
It was an expression of bitter knowledge;
Of remembrance, of love, of Ares, of Adonis.
It was the knowledge of her impending death;
Telling me that Gods as well as men are mortal.
She slowly slid beneath the waves.
Before I could utter a protest, she was gone;
Disappearing behind a blinding cascade of spray.

3. Revelation

You want despair?  I'll now give you despair.
There was a time when all the trees had names;
Baucis and Philomon were linden and oak.
One could watch Naiads leaping from the rapids
As their river tumbled joyfully over the rocks
On its plunging journey toward the sea.
Dryads floated through the forest's dewy mists.
Even crags and rocks were imbued with spirits.
No more can I hear the faint trills of Pan's flute,
Nature seems bereft of its beauty; soulless, dead.
Little did I know that day that the death
Of that odd man-God would mean the end of mine.
That the gentle deities who shared my world with me
Would be banished by this dark creed of cruelty,
This strange religion of suffering, denial and death.

Final Disposition

Generations of beings have returned to dust
Leaving no deeds worthy of note
Nothing written that we remember
No songs that are still sung

Count me among their number.
Give me no hulking stone
No grieving angel
No pithy epitaph

I've done nothing to deserve
Such immortality

Just dump my ashes
Into the St. Louis River.
Let me drift into Lake Superior
To mingle with her
To become part of her
Immutable beauty

That will be enough

In Pursuit of our Painted Dreams

Nursing the last few dregs of his athletic prowess,
The aging high school phenom sullenly degenerates
Into tavern softball leagues and bar stool reminiscences.
A couple's marraige becomes a charnel house of bliss.
Like ghouls they devour each other in their prison.

On the satin sheets of their minds' voluptuous desires,
They'll embrace that lovely wanton slut of self-delusion,
Looking for reality in mirrors stolen from a fun-house.
There's none of us left with the innocence to tell them
That the Emperor's been sold another suit of new clothes.

If the incensed fists of the vice squad of reality
Could bash their way into our secret whorehouse of desire,
And shine their soul-searing beam of sudden illumination
Upon the stark naked premises of our existance,
We'd push away the painted dreams that we'd embraced.

We'd flee, bereft of our false pride, dignity's garments,
Out into the mocking laughter of a cold, disdainful world.
Our shame would become a matter of public record.
The derisive cackle of that seductive wanton, illusion,
Would echo through the night as she rifles our clothing.

Look at Teddy Roosevelt, that "big stick" wielding jingo.
He collapsed in grief when war's reality touched his soul
With the telegram that informed him of son Quentin's death,
Or Woodrow Wilson, who spent his frail health lusting
After his scantily-clad League of Nations gossamer vision.

They died physically when their illusions were wrest from them.
Most men live on, but they labor under the soul-killing burden
Of acknowledged failure.  What of we who slink away though
To hide and lick our wounds?  Does our bitter defeat quell
The lusts that send us out like dogs to sniff after dreams?

The allure of illusion is a stubborn, pervasive vice.
In the morning we'll rummage again through our mind's closet
And pull out another threadbare cloak of rationalization.
Tomorrow night we'll set out in search of another strumpet
Of self-delusion.  She'll massage our egos, pump up our pride,

And tell us the lies so necessary to our existance.

Pygmalion Revisited

Mikos last saw him embracing Galatea,
A statue brought to life, Aphrodite's answer
To prayers that begged for the stone maiden's love.
Mikos visited them again though, last winter.
Galatea's gotten fat.  She's now a slattern with jowls.
Her breasts are sagging like a thatched roof
In need of repair.  She's got a termagent's tongue
And a temper volatile as an enraged Achilles.
Their six children have the manners and shrill voices
Of a flock of gulls quarrelling over a dead fish.

Cowed, Pygmalion flees to his workshop refuge
And bars the door.  His desperation is tying
His deliverance to yet another creation.
With a fervency he felt only once before,
He beseeches a miracle from Phyxios, the God
Of miraculous escapes as he labors
To shape a lifelike image of winged Pegasus.
With haste he chisels at the sullen, stubborn stone.
Sweat runs down his tired, ruddy face, and his hair,
Thin and hoary, is mottled with flecks of marble.

Mrs. Draper's Christmas Letter

"I might as well get it over with," she sighed.
She was as devoid of inspiration though,
As the brittle trees and snow shrouded landscape
Were of beauty and budding green life.
She bit her lip as she began to write.

"It''s time for the Draper's Christmas Letter.
We've done a lot this year, so guess I'd better
Get started filling you in on the news
While Bill is on the couch, taking a snooze."

Yeah, old Macho-Man growled, "Don't bother me
With any of your Christmas poem bullshit."
I suppose it demeans the dignity
Of his doctorate to wish  "Happy Holidays,"
Or to ascend to the spirit of the season.

"Bill's still with the college, I'm at the bank,
And for our good health we've the Lord to thank.
And as for our youngsters,Janie and Mel,
They're both in high school and both doing well."

I can just hear Bill reading this, a trace
Of sneer in his voice.  Like a well-trained soldier
I'm not supposed to think for myself,
Just follow his lead.  I'm only the wife.
He's the hallowed intellect of the family.

"Janie's a writer, her efforts show it.
She won an award, Bill got to bestow it.
Mel has given us such gridiron thrills;
No one's heart swells any prouder than Bill's."

"Yeah, Bill's got a lot to be proud of," she mused.
Mel is as arrogant as his old man.
I should write about the lovely young girl
Whom Bill bullied into having an abortion
With all his talk of Mel's brilliant future.

"Mel's bound for college and a law career
And of high school Janie's got one more year.
The kids stayed home while we took our vacation
Bill and I made New England our destination."

Sounds like fun on paper, but what a disaster!
At Longfellow's Wayside Inn I watched Bill
Act the jerk, belittling Longfellow's work.
Like he's ever written anything of lasting value.
He's great though, at disparaging other's efforts

"We saw Longfellow's study and Walden Pond
And Concord Bridge where revolution dawned
In America, and then on to Bunker Hill,
Where many redcoats the minutemen did kill."

Yeah, and motel rooms that smelled of Lysol
And leather attache cases.  Those lonely nights
When Bill and I would retire to our room
After supper were filled with heartbreaking silence
As each of us mulled the other's shortcomings.

"From Harvard Common to Cooperstown
We travelled through rustc villages and down
To the ocean.  As we drove up hill, through dell,
We both got to know each other so well."

There were times during out trip when the road map
Would snarl into yarnlike strands of gibberish
And we'd end up lost.  My life's at that point now.
I've come to realize that I'm somewhere else
Than where I'd rather be at this time of my life.

"We'd like to wish friends and family the best
And hope that your homes are the snuggest of nests,
And to those of you that we can't be near,
We wish you much joy this coming New Year."

Yeah, Bill is right.  This stuff is pretty trite,
But in my last stanza I'll set it all right.
Hey, that rhymes too.  I'm thinking in bad verse,
Banal, like most dialogues of marraige.
I've burst from the fetters of parenthood, alone.

"We wish you Merry Christmas, but this is goodbye.
I suppose you're all out there wondering "Why?"
This is the last letter you'll get from the Drapers
Cuz today I'm serving the son of a bitch papers."