Upcycled, mixed media artwork by Keely Jane
Dorothy Exits Her Hollywood
Maybe I will die before I reach you and you may never know my crazy
love that wakes me out of sleep, drags me to JFK in a bright yellow taxi
with a driver who speaks no English and smokes Pall Mall cigarettes. But
I called the radio station in your town—your Mesa, Tempe, Scottsdale— and
they said it clear across 500 miles: that I was coming red-eyed on
the red eye. If I get there, will you be there also? I have never had much
faith in you. This time I'm leaving it up to the aurora borealis I'll fly over
to get to you. I'll leave it in the hands of the desert moon that currently
hangs on my right wing. The gremlins are poking my side—die you little
ghouls! I'm wearing the lucky watch you gave me in front of the
Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. The watch with the two angels,
innocent-eyed, biding time. Tonight I fly on man-made wings without any
idea of your exact cloud—what will I do when I land? Will you be
standing baby-eyed in the airport to watch me strut off? To see you I would
drop my Louie Vuitton luggage on the floor and stand there weak and
dying of some hunger that I only know as love.
