Agent of
the sun,
I’d called
him,
because he gave
hope
to actors,
wore aviator
shades
and
borrowed suits
from Barney’s.
Tinsel town
was his
town
all the way
in La La
Land
was his
way.
The actors
he knew:
Sophia,
Claire,
dropping their
names
like rose
petals
on the
floor at Ivy.
It’s a town
where
the act is
de rigeur,
phony
because it is.
Everybody
has to.
The factory
of dreams,
coughing up
routinely
your standard ratings cliché.
You should
have seen it,
the bowing,
the scraping -
like royalty,
those stars.
I saw it
too: abruptly
the voices
silent, clatter ceasing
as they took
leave
of
theatres,
restaurants.
But then the
young ones,
saddest of Cinderellas,
bought and
sold,
chewed up, spat out.
They
trashed him too
until, rubbing his
eyes,
he woke one day,
stopped pretending,
and, following its arc,
found his true sun.
found his true sun.
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