An obsessed star-struck fan — that be Howie — to promote his
film production company and to bare worship, designed this poster
Within the art is Howie’s schmaltz eulogy to Marilyn Monroe.
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
M.Monroe and schmaltzy Howie
(1) The Beginning
I met you for the first time when I was a young,
open to suggestion, walking down the aisle, dropping
popcorn, looking for center seat.
I learned early in life that center-aisle center-seat was best.
Jumbo-soft, jumbo-lovely, jumbo-lumbo sexy female
blending into a mumbo-jumbo imago, into mom and the girl
next door, into black and white flutters, sounds, shades and
shapes entering my eyes and ears and mouth never to leave again.
I fell in love with you there, me sitting in center-aisle center-seat,
loving your long-shot, loving even more your medium-shot and forever
stricken, frozen permanently into motion and search the very moment
I saw your well-attended to close up.
It was then I began my daily vigil, pledging myself to a
constant alert, my life-long search, seeking you, the perfect being,
my celluloid queen and later, when always finding instead a heartbeat, and
a cough, and a blemish, I fled to my cinematic cineramic trough, rerunning
you through my head at one-hundred-and-sixty frames per second until
I eliminated the terror of discovering the unfamiliar touch of a real person.
I am a mad-sad child called mad-sad man, majestically standing on
my prefab cloud playing God, transforming every living flower in view
into Kodachrome-II, resurrecting you my celluloid queen out of every breast
I happen to fall beneath, out of every ass my hand drifts across,
out of every warm glance donated too my emptiness.
If the lady doesn’t fit the resurrection, if she isn’t the ultimate in form
and style, if she isn’t the perfect celluloid you my celluloid queen, I will kill her returning her to her life.
And she continues to encourage me.
And I continue to encourage her to encourage me.
And what we eventually encourage is separate parts,
her and I, both anxious not ever to hold hands again,
free once more to continue on to our next disappointment.
(2) The middle or somewhere thereabout.
The moneymakers waiting for their cue, they too resurrected you.
Onto their newsprint and paper stock, and you became additional speculation moving farther from your core.
I became jealous of them, for it was I, I sitting in center-aisle center-seat, popping popcorn that saw you first.
I then became smug, for it was I, one of the original disciples who resurrected you while you were still alive.
Finally I became wise, learning of the technology that led me led me on my eternal schlepping and muscle flexing.
Never again will I stand on my tiptoes trying to reach behind
your silver screen.
If you would have hung-on hung-in a little longer, you and I might have
met, could have hugged — possibly somewhere on a hillside
adjoining the ocean where whales spit and cormorants drip-dry, where
choruses of people begin to cry and laugh again in a well-scented
place called Esalen.
If you would have hung-on hung-in a little longer, enduring yourself you would have had at your disposal, instead of couch and Nembutal, an intensive Gestalt weekend encounter emphasizing Alexander and his techniques.
Emphasizing dance, movement, art, guided and unguided fantasy.
Emphasizing electric bio-energetic deep-knee bends and primal screams.
Also, on page 46, emphasized but not included in the price, additional payment required, is rolfing, psychosynthesis, spiritual practice with an evening of acupuncture, mythological mediations, meditations and jogging.
Yes my celluloid queen, you might have lived to have had your first face-lift.
(3) The end or near end or dead end.
You, who I met in the air, speeding towards that big city New York City.
Marilyn Monroe meet Susan R.
Once again I am standing on my tippy-toes trying to reach behind your blue spectacles doing a peak, a word, a song, dance, a clump and a clop, copping a feel off your soul I wept. Or at least I thought I did.
Three-miler cosmetic speed queen jogging away at the YMHA.
Jewish doctors love you.
Listen Susan, you’re just another cosmetic speed queen and I’m just another nervous mustache, thumbing through your eight-by-ten glossies.
What can I do for you?
What can you do for me?
I could give you thirteen weeks of residuals, if not, maybe the silver screen
I’ll do your fantasy if you’ll do mine.
(4 or 1) The meta-end, the beginning beginning again.
I have to believe because I’m tired.
I have a hunch-wish that you are an amazing soul of earthly grace and I am some similar description and if we spent a weekend together it wouldn’t be a weekend.