Some soft-muscled kid,
sand kicked in his face,
grows up to write movies
where the tough guys lose.

Late night, soft-white GE light
shines down on his battle-page,
him cast as the victor,
shattering the myth
that girls only like the jocks.

Red blood ink spills from the pen,
his sword
as he lops off the head
of some bar-belled body built,
clean-cut Adonis.

His night is productive,
as he wins another round,
another scene,
and the morning finds him
slumped over his work,
the green gleam on his phone machine
calling him to arms again.