She wanted to be famous now
Since she was very pretty
Her hair was long and curly
She was the best singer in the talent show
And she did her make up well
And made it straight through hell

But when she became well known
Hollywood's true colours were shown
And soon she became thinner
As she was seen as a sinner
Soon she found hanging from a bit of rope
And left on her bed was a note...

'Note to self.
1: don't be famous
2: you're ugly'

My neck hurts from the curves that come when I exert,
enough energy to network with these nerds and increase my net worth,
she’s an alcoholic hanging out at the bar I’m a workaholic raising the bar,
so take a guess at who’s efforts are worth more,

anyways here we are,
or rather there we were,
since I’m with another girl now,
and no longer with her,

I’m with a girl I met on Venice Beach,
who wears tattoos on both arms like sleeves,
which is ironic since that’s also where she wears her heart,
at any rate I’m with a girl I met on Venice Beach,

we had dinner then had ***,
a typical set of activities on any given night in this city,
and after she finished she said I’d crossed a line,
and she proceeded to tell me a story,

of how she’d been gang ***** a few years ago,
and how she still carries what had been done to her around,
about how she’d been drugged up then **** fckt,
then left alone bruise faced ****** assed on the ground,

no reason to sugar coat it,
men can be fcking disgusting,
that’s why if I was a woman I’d be a lesbian,
and I don’t mean that in any way that’s funny,

we spoke in our awkward line crossed post *** sweat,
laying there exhausted on my bed,
we talked about how men are such conflicted creatures,
how they can be so nice on the surface but so mean with ***,

how most of them are just looking for a place to stick it in,
and how sickening that fact is especially since I’m one of those *******,
and she left my house soon after but I didn’t expect her to stay,
especially since everything we’d begun to make had already turned into a disaster,

and as she disappeared into the night,
on a bike as black as the sky,
I thought about how she reminded me,
of the Girl With The Dragon Tattoo and why…

∆ LaLux ∆

Everyone’s looking for an escape,
a virtual reality with alternative facts,
virtual because it’s almost reality,
except it’s reality without all the commitment,

and within,
a virtual reality we can augment,
what it used to be like back in base reality,
and we can ponder on where the time went,

& when  I say time,
I’m referring to the time in reality spent,
because after all reality is the only thing real,
and the experiences within them are the only thing you can’t invent,

see the truth is the only thing that exists in actually existence,

yeah sometimes truth is stranger than fiction,
ask Buckaroo Bonzai,
ask Stephen Hawkings ask Steve Jobs and,
ask yourself why you’re alive,

why you put up with the pain,
why you put yourself through,
why you still hesitate to act on instinct,
when you know there’s nothing to it but to do it,

everyone too scared to speak up,
but everyone wants to be a hero,
there’s not much purity to speak of,
and evil seems to wear a halo,

hey bro,
or sis,
or whatever label,
you label yourself with,

there’s not much untainted land left,
there’s not much clean water,
the days are getting shorter,
and the nights are getting longer,

the hearts are getting colder,
but the earth is getting hotter,
plus these days reality is such a pain,
it often doesn’t seem worth the bother,

maybe the rebellion can’t begin,
because maybe it’s already done,
but then again maybe it’s only getting started,
and maybe the games have only just begun,

and if this is the case,
then you know it’s already on,
but just one question before we begin,
are you Ready Player One?

∆ Aaron LaLux ∆

Have you ever had a fantasy boyfriend?
The kind that thinks that you’re
A couple
Despite the fact that
You don’t have their cell number
Nor their name,
often
You never had *** or traded spit
They don’t know where you live
They, in fact, know nothing about you

A little laughter shared
Perhaps
A momentary giggle waiting
for the bathroom door to open
And bam! Like Zeus.
Without your ever knowing, you are a team.
A team that never engages
but together none the less. Solid.
Ride or Die.
Then one day
You have an ugly break up.
You never saw it coming
What did you do, you wonder?
He won’t speak to me!
He’s mad. Filled with resentment.
His eyes are on fire. I am hated.
He will show up the next time we see one another
with a woman
And that’s when you finally know for certain
You just had a Fantasy Boyfriend
How did you rupture?
It’s an eerie realization.
Like understanding in an instant
that neither are you the ventriloquist
nor the dummy
But somehow
you
go back into the box.

Better still, have you ever encountered the sub-species
Fantasy Bad Boyfriend?
Or Fantasy Abusive Bad Boyfriend?
They are perhaps the worst of the lot, naturally.
They don’t call.
They date other women.
They sit in their living rooms assured that you’re waiting at their front door.
In the rain.
With flowers.
Over and over the bell, ring though it might
It pleads on your behalf.
And yet they will not answer
And I was not standing there.
I was at the beach
watching the rain fall upon on the water.

You never called
so when they
disappear
For
Days
And return unannounced
You’re just now finding out that
there are serious cracks in your relationship.
They used you
They played with your heart
They apologize for the treatment of which you are so very undeserving
They never wanted you.

Yet you never spoke.
Never popped over with
Flowers
Nor cookies!
Never sat in your car waiting
You were out town the entire
Time.
You two did see a movie once.
That is true.

But now you’re over.
And he’s moved on.
And suggests with his absence?
that you do the same.
You can tell.

Some days your paths cross.
He stands still as Jesus
At the Hollywood Farmer’s Market.
With his wife and new baby
Or
Dog.
She looks at you with suspect eyes while you think about the tomatoes.
Someone wags their tail and hopefully they will quickly move along
en famille.
You hold your tomato plants and shudder.
You walk over to the double blossom peppermint tulips.
Tight little babies ready to unfurl.
The ones you never gave him.

A movie star died a day or two ago
She was 97.
She would to say hello to my mother
At evening musicals full of teenaged boys
that I lusted after years ago
She would wave and smile with sparkling eyes
I’d look at mother
“Why?”
Amused, she would say softly
“I don’t know!”
We would giggle together
A rare event

Mother was no chorine
nor wardrobe mistress
She did not peak in the 50s
She did not dance with her husband
under the moon at the Bel Air Bay Club
Her daughter did not write a pop song that oddly charted
She did not struggle to remain in the public’s imagination
They had nothing in common but perhaps a lovely face and a skill at survival
Mom could make her husband move her closer to Johnny on the dance floor.
Whichever direction, Dad obliged.

They locked down that school today
Warned by a rifle in a photo
Of an unstable football pro

These women are dead now
so none’s the wiser
“When you’re a victim of bullying, an option is revenge." said the alumna.
“Just a precaution,” replied the school.

Mother would have been 97 this year as well.
Maybe they’ve met again,
two streaks of illuminated emptiness
Engaging with reservations
Over fitting in and going insane
Over the low self-regard in a champion
or
Being lost at sea.

I’m an Anti-Social Socialite,
rocking new New Balances,
most of these Kids aren’t rockin’ right,
they’ve got too much ego & too few talents with,
attitudes that need adjusting,
in other words they’re not talented,
when I appear Haters disappear,
call that a Lover’s Magic Trick,

written 10 books,
and still don’t know what an adjective is,
it’s like we’re Illiterate Literary Luminaries,
walking paradoxes in a par of Croc kicks,

kinda like an Anti-Social Socialite,
or a wise man that’s lost it,
even though we both know we’re never lost,
because we’re always here and always on topic,

and you’re never late either,
because the time is always now,
and I do all these things,
even though I don’t know how,

wow,

I’m an Anti-Social Socialite,
rocking new New Balances,
most of these Kids aren’t rockin’ right,
they’ve got too much ego & too few talents with,
attitudes that need adjusting,
in other words they’re not talented,
when I appear Haters disappear,
call that a Lover’s Magic Trick…

∆ Aaron La Lux ∆

new book available worldwide: 8/8/18

My favorite part of every movie was the ending kiss. It was the loudest form of love I've ever seen, fireworks exploding in the air or deep within their veins. I've fallen in love before, but it wasn't like that. It wasn't a tidal wave of lust and need. It was at its best a whisper. A tickle in my stomach and heart. Even as I become more infatuated with them, it is still but a hunch. Whoever said that your quiet love is useless, only gained their experiences through a screen.

Her life was magazines
And reality tv.
Selling a far fetched dream.
Her carbs and calories,
She watches so serene
To make the silver screen.

The price tag so obscene,
Weighs heavy on her mind.
And it dug out all of her insides
Til she was a ghost in a shell.

Since she was just fourteen.
She had nothing but dreams
To reach the hollywood scene.
From fame and limousines,
A man boasting a ring,
And everything in between.

The future can't be seen
Weighs heavy on her mind
And it dug out all of her insides
Created her hell.

We hear her crying late at night
Because nothing is going right.

She still hopes and she prays
For the life of a celebrity.
Under the smog of L.A.
The story always replays
Of finding her fantasy.
It slowly drifts away.

There's nothing left to say
It weighed her down
And it dug out everything she was
Now she is just a hollow shell.

A perfect tragedy.

Our Left Coast sighs in a stupor of red
from evergreen coasts to the casting bed.
Hollywood’s big leagues deal their fatal blow;
vapid perspectives from stars in the know.
Glamour holds court: socialite solutions
when celebrities talk revolutions.
But red alone would bring our nation harm
cut loose from white and blue—and should alarm
the audience, who pay to see their plays
while questioning their wanton West-coast ways:
Designer-reds, a stain upon our land
where red with white and blue ought take a stand.
Such fluff from the stage set who roll in dough
is Hollyweird yeast—rising now to show
beautiful and swelling irrelevance
unaware of its insignificance:
Hypocrite pretenders all paid to act
in films where decent values are attacked.

Let us turn then from Thespis‘ leering smile
to lace up cleats and run the gridiron mile
where other plays get tossed in endless zones
as commentators rave in heightened tones
while fools raise fists—then take the well-payed knee,
their pigskin antics sold to you and me.
****** a fat mike before their muscled face.
Note well the dull reaction, low as base.
These tattooed thugs make vain attempt, through speech
multitudes of more thuggish fans to reach.
The sad attempt to use their words in vain
lacks clear interpretation. Yall nome sain ?
The musclebound elect, who toss a ball
(as if their silly game was all in all)
should stick to sports; decline to state their views
lest fans their spectacle no longer choose.
Thus stars of field and screen steal every show,
and cause our dying culture worlds of woe.