In Court Files, Hollywood’s Mr. Fix-It at Work

Melting frappucinos dot a vista
Of puckered cheeks and transparent

Blue plastic visors. Hair sprouts
Here and there midst chemical concoction.

I stand at the gates to your soul and
Though palsied in agony, tread on.

When you dialed room service, did you
Expect all this artificiated splendor?

This articulated font of displeasured
Observation splashed over your sills?

Did you get behind your ears this morning?
I will say, the end-time will certainly be more fetching

For the matched separates you instinctively chose.
Their shades and smart tailoring most certainly

Complement the day, be it Ragnarok or the Rapture,
O joyous victory or something far far less.