H-E didn’t have to audition. All she had to do was walk down any one of the Mannahattas boulevards, streets of dreams, streets of currents, streets of sideways, of Seinfeld, of good clean honest taxi rides in Mannahattas, to be on cue, hitting her marks, posing, vogue new age, appealing, posture just right, in a Mannahattas night,

Traffic stopped. H-E was the fifty foot woman, the crater in Ronald Reagan’s face, his nose, poking her toes, her desirability, her statue of livability. Her holding of a torch, above her head, her love of the freak, the putdown, the shimmy-shake, until it blossom red, or blue… Roses are red, violets are blue…

Violets are violet.

Roses are red, unless painted another color, and violets are blue, unless painted another color.

H-E is here and stopping traffic. She is diving off the empire state building and crumpling a rooftop car, and rushing crushing it. She is a babe. A babelicious, and if you throw a penny from her parapice, of empire, of scraping the sky, not curretaage, it will embed in the concrete sidewalk below. If you need a penny, and so many immigrants to NYC need a penny, incoming as penniless, you could go to below the empire state building, and using a plyers, dig out some of these pennies.