Non-indigenous Acts

Of political dissemblance outfit her words in gold lamè.
Stars hover in space between her & faux-languages.
The lingo between a he and a she is never settled into but a powerful drug.
Money exchanged hands in one scene.
Down the rabbit hole designated her part in the script.
She disposed of every image but her own, enhancing what she said was the truth.
She’d mentioned she’d believed she’d read or heard someone repeat lines.
Was a book in a restaurant like the key to the abortion clinic downtown?
Downtown she gave blood into a beaker without advertising it.
Once her apple like an apple from the infamous bough of a fixed phenomenon.
She’d taken her friends to the cleaners.
A harp solely is an actress “in a curio shop window.”
The British mercantile system stretched reality beyond the boundless.
Living and speaking became plastic throughout the western world of Hollywood.
She repeated washing her hair IN THE SINK.
She was transformed by her new look as a blonde bombshell by mistake.
Fixed forms of government acknowledged her.
Her system collapsed. Then collapsed again. Take after cinematic take.
A party was not held in common.
A “tour de force” meant sublimely handcuffed by errant dimensionality.
The design was overall a flash in the desert.
Meta-narratives like all big ideas shrink inhumanely.
Hers was a position romanced by words, backed up by bills.
Bill was her unconsciously dreamy dream-boy.
She found her dubbed-over voice echoed again & again in the dark of his office.
Her past is briefer than 600 years.
She’d named herself a new name upon arrival.
That’s what she remembers being, an upstart from that moment forward.
From that moment to this is another trip to her silver screen.