Hell’s bells, Locklear’s gone moony.
The Lovebird bounces his wheels
across Viola Dana’s soundstage roof,
he wings her over Hollywood to drop
lipsticks, compacts, a slipstream of gilt,
a cataract of sky-swag for her fans.
Go bigger than lipsticks, I tell him.
Hell’s wedding bells, get hitched,
marry that starlet in your plane, kiss her
in the air all over town, sell yourself
smooching. Snatch headlines. Fox
might raise your take. But first,
you have to divorce Ruby Graves,
your wife back in Fort Worth, the one
who tells you stunting is dangerous.