And from the blvd., it comes by way of a fallen universe. Where cleanliness and godliness, they struggle to co-exist. I inhale, snatching bits of code. Cipher them. I wrote my name upon the water on top of a star. I stood on the blvd., the crossroads of Hollywood and Vine and I waited. Hundreds eased by in the bitter heat but nothing. No great people, no notes from heaven. I know I am not beautiful, but I deserve at least a taste, so I drift down river over the red ochre stars and I wait. I wait for the sorrow, for Johnny Cash to sing me into the darkness. I come across a poster, torn mostly to shreds under the eave of a first story construction site. An eye, part of a torn face, a phone number, slivers, fragments in time printed and then lost. And then I remembered, Pollack stole from Picasso. It was the drip from the horse’s mouth in Guernica. Created, birthed an entire career, a movement from just one drop. Picasso, rarely if ever dripped and Pollack caught it.