Back Lot, Paramount Studios - Poem by Hans Ostrom
Like a prostitute’s face, the facades
are blank and professional, ready
to be reeled into routine fantasy.
Objects and people here exist
in quotation marks: Two “police”
cars sit outside a “bank.” A “criminal”
gets made up. The virtual hush is
holy. Then someone drops a portable
light in the “barber shop.”
Ghosts of dead stars are paid scale.
Spirits of dead executives scrub
pots in the commissary.
Sunlight has an agent.
Shadows have hired a publicist.
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