Are they strictly local? I wonder what, of her inspirations, she’s seeking through the Sun
Whatever it is, It is something I walk away again. Hollywood again.
He leaps down unto the glossy sheen arms out back straight chin raised
No.
But I’ve been trying. Or, softly pirouetting Fred Astaire Tuxedo’d tails like bird’s wings hang low on the body Cuz I’ve been trying. In turn, she’s losing the Sun.
It rests like a clear bubble Large, between. Amorphous. It is, in as much as It isn’t.
Is she done yet? I saunter over.
No.
Where you from? The phone rests precariously On the metallic lawnchair, filming. I have to move my seat. LOUD is always the giveaway
What I’ve just realised is that I have never heard my neighbour laugh. Criticisms anchor, Bewildering.
I wonder does she bounce awake, up and into the early morning tap dancing?
An off-key bleat pierces before even the coffee beans can be ground down
For a long time I look out the window standing in the place of any and all distractions. Pinned to the wall.
Can you ever leave Hollywood? But, here I am again! Splat. I mean, really? Since I was 17!
No.
She’s practicing her lines to the Atmosphere. Thrashing, like so. Suggesting, rather.
She, Seated in the other, resorts to Choreography.