Mr. Hollywood

Poetry

Lorely Hassman

The Memphes called him Whitey

For his snow-powdered locks and star-speckled face

He lived with them after his mama

Fled to California with some English man

Leaving five kids in a wasteland home, granddaddy still out at sea

The Memphes twirled Whitey’s frost and gifted him the taste of Motown—

Four years old and preaching in a basement-turned Baptist church,

Groovin’ to the Drifters: There she goes (do-do-do-do-do)

These stories escape his mouth and mind

My favorite—his stay at Fox Hill Prison, ‘87

Shackled in a crop top (Party Naked!)

And backwards cap (Life’s a Beach in the Bahamas)

Earning a gut-punch and boot-heavy chuckle

Schwarzenegger physique secured the title

Mr. Hollywood and a crew—thick and thieves

They shoved dirt-crusted fingers against Hollywood’s sweaty upper arm

Where ‘Light ‘em up’ captioned a joint crucifix

Homemade. Long Beach.‘82. Indian ink.

The sacrilegious stain was covered by a distorted

Panther before I was conceived

And when I drag my nails across the blurred image

I remember smooth flesh

Wrapped around a baseball of muscle—

Not this wrinkled film of mortality