Sunset Blvd.

short prose poems

From the back I can see the light flicker, feel the rotation slipping through my anxious fingers, these seats used to house pornographers, cleaned up for Grauman's theater; the lacing of the spool, twenty-four-frames of every time the eye tears, blinking; I do not have enough fear or loathing, peyote or pursalane; mind-out-of-body astral photographs; chasing other girls, other theme songs; I have never been to Johannesburg, but I have walked though Paris on that bridge, the smell of the Seine at six am or croissants. Post war nuclear walks and talks, lip to lip holly-go-lightly conversations, dark and sensual, grotesque provocation; I would have stayed in Casablanca to watch you paint my virtues. The light steals into being, irrepressible and fallen.

Reviews

[Legion]

Celluloid wonderments. Wonderfully imaginative and excellent imagery.