h o m e........
p a s t   i s s u e s....
s u b m i s s i o n s....
l i n k s






                                       When Garbo walked out of the studio,
                                       glamour went with her, and so did I."
                                                         --Adrian Adolph Greenberg


Unbeknownst to my father, my mother
stored her wigs on large mayonnaise jars
in the console below her bathroom sink.
(Some hundred and seventy years earlier
peroxide was isolated by a French chemist.)
Word on the street once had it that they were
preferred by gentlemen. In 1932, on screen,
“Helen Faraday”––Marlene Dietrich-–
waves a dark, sparkling fan around. Later,
shuffling to tom-toms and following
a gaggle of Afro-attired chorus dancers,
she files onto a nightclub stage. Faraday,
inside a gorilla suit, is led in chains.
She sheds the getup and emerges,
a radiant chanteuse, ready to entertain
“Nick Townsend”—newbie Cary Grant.
Two sparkling arrows pierce the pearl-
like wig she dons. The movie’s
in black and white. As she sways,
she croons, “Hot voodoo! . . . 
I’m beginning to feel
like an African Queen . . . . ”


in marble,
in furs,
in blue jeans,
Brazilian waxed;

Venus, blonde,
for the red carpet;

deep fried,
a la carte


Gwyn Stefani, Gwyneth Paltro, Miss Piggy,
Dominique Sanda, Debbie Harry,
Catherine Deneuve, Marilyn Monroe,
Jayne Mansfield, Doris Day, “Hitchcock
heroines,” Baby Doll Baker, Brigitte Bardot,
1954 Ethel Merman in black feathers,
Jean Harlow, Marlene Dietrich, Mae West,
a field of silver daisies, Dulcinea,
Lady Godiva, St. Genevieve, Teutonic Eve



I rather like men in white pants
(their muscular haunches
as beautiful as the rumps of horses).
I saw one yesterday sitting
astraddle the top of a pylon.

O, I also like the subject FREEDOM
and the gentility of LEGACY;

the settlement of farthingales,
and the apparatuses that support them;

I like paintings of beautiful women,
their faces enhanced by makeup,

wigs, combs, arresting
jewelry, and hand-fans. Love
the slightly more restrained
notion of a folding
hand-fan for a man.

I am fond of wheels, arches,
and, before that, of the astounding
invention of the human sentence:
nomination and predication.
Love the notion of refrigeration,
central heating and cooling;

Of gazpacho, balsamic vinegar,
and grilled fruit – of a dot
of rum and cinnamon. Cupcakes.
Lemon pie.

I am fascinated by polka-dots
and shoes; and Clouds.

     I appreciate
how photogenic Philip P. Cummings,
Richard Chamberlain, Mark Morrisroe,
and Monsignor Georg Gänswein,

all (in different moments of technology
and in a various degrees of costume
and un-dress)

managed to commandeer
their physical beauty
into varying degrees
of influence and success.





Bio: Scott Hightower, a native of Texas, is the author of five books of poetry, including “Hontanares,”
an English/Spanish bi-lingual collection. In 2008,Hightower's translations garnered him a prestigious
Barnstone Translation Prize. He lives and works in New York, and sojourns in Spain.

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