She Is All Beautiful

so, in the dream I’m walking along the upscale but funky movie and restaurant district in the lower hills of Los Angeles and I seem to be about to wake up when something across the street catches my eye:

on an otherwise empty sidewalk, a live commercial is going on: there’s a golden blonde young woman trailing her long luscious hair around a shiny hoop large as herself. her hair and the hoop make a slow -ly spinning aureole

and a voice is coming from nowhere: “~.. beautiful. .. she is all beautiful...”

she looks right past me as she wheels. the reel of her radiance glows and grows and as my eyes pan her from head to toe, she is all beautiful— in the so real, she

is all beautiful—

but there are no cameras, no flock of Hollywood go-fers: no one is shooting— it’s live—there’s just Venus, flying her hair like a flag in a golden-rimmed aureole, Venus, out of Botticelli’s painting of her birth in the foam of breaking waves and standing in the giant half-shell, Venus, glowing out of all her skins, Venus, the divine-fleshed, in Los Angeles.

ah, yes—against all prejudice, even mine— there in the flesh: Venus in Los Angeles— her glow pries my open eyes I seize the radiance my eyes believe— ah, yes! ah, yes!— radiant in her flesh: Venus in Los Angeles