Perhaps Fame

for Britney

I placed Fame's murder
in a flower box twisted
by functional sexual
abuse and comedy strangled
with the gutted goose
long before New Years.

We never have power, do we?

2. Marilyn Monroe, Anna Nicole, Britney et al.

Murder inverts names and
opportunities for illusion.

We do not mention them here
without first applause and then
relief when the final word
copied in ink on parchment.
We want to codify every phrase
with fancy wrapping and never
the blasted truth dropped with
blazing swords shimmering gray.

Results have a bitter taste. That
process that created you, more
illusion than guns and fingers reists erosion.
Why is it so hard to matter?
Why is it so easy to harm others?
Why do we fake constancy?

The periodontist was not summoned
this time to prevent toothless
clatter or the haste of impatience.
We cannot pull out
our own teeth or change them.

When is Murder Fame?

Is murder the flaw or the release?
When we kill with shock and awe
can we follow the bows and arrows
of Roman Legions as they trample
into the soil of España that which
is invisible now as sifted dust when
ribs and spines speak in a crevice
of their former time when primates
marched from what would be Madrid
to the backdoor of Rome? Pope’s
are impatient with murder, and some
as sex danced did their share. Others
order soldiers to command the Holy
Sea. Of Course the ocean floods
backward from the streets of New
Orleans back into the rip currents
of New Orleans as it sits rich
accepting the odd weather, a
spring without flowers or buds
or even the inclination to know
a different season out of box of
charts and other memorable events
in the future of the world when
all great social problems will be
solved as we watch TV in 43
minutes inoculate us with blinks
and shoving all truth into a basket
we realize there is nothing we can
do about the change in seasons
except by some great moral outrage
we cannot not accept the change
We could go on without protest.

3.

I remember walking on the moon
when the Mastodons’ fell to knees
frozen with hunger and useless.

4.

When I walked on Mars its was
the end not the beginning of seasons
even with the calendar showing
the advance of dates as moral ribs
we suck in our feeding frenzy
for that which is not new but new
as peculiar oranges, tasting of
blood leak on our hands as
we are blessed to carry on
by a disturbed paranoid called
God by someone wanted a leg up.

Suddenly there is a dry death
and we, feet up, are buried
with our minds out of melody.

It will take time to rape the
world again even as our hatred
grows beyond the solar system
to New Jupiter and some unknown
planet picked up along the side
of the highway. She offers sex
for rides and meals, and when I
throw my simpleton companions
out of the car, she leaps inside
and with an idealized heart she
no longer bleeds but the sun is up
too soon, and murder, in the guise
of those handsome fools we ride
into the mud puddles frozen in
summer and waves frozen like
lakes without trees in middle
of a famous parks where she died
with bucolic rhapsodies spoken
from that outer space hall mark
to the planets of Thebes and
finally dressed in her quim with
some socialite male failing again
to march toward fame with her.
It seems he was jealous so he
never told her she had the job
and of course she lost it by
not showing up to show her ivory
mind and to pay for his bad teeth.

Shall we celebrate fame with death?
I want to mock life with Pain crawling
out of the worm wood into my drink.

Spring has no words left.
Drop it into the glue and
we will call it anything
but spring way beyond
the daily birds and fables.

This is real big time America.
Yea and winter is not summer.

How do they do it?
I crumble the earth as blood
dries on W. 74th Street. Time
has turned back to 1975 and
forward to 2007 Montana. I
walkout from my crib with
Joseph and the woman
sat slumped in a corner
and the pool of blood
in clean lines waiting for
the cops to come and
make it real. They caught
the perpetrator as he drank
some coffee with donuts.
I was in Montana I could
not have made her pregnant.
Time lies in awful ways.

She was not there he said.
What happened to spring?
It lives round the corner
with Fame and her Sister.

Sometimes murder's crosshairs’
bend a little too far back on
page without resolution
as history layers every
one of us in every blasted
rule come up with sweet
drunks to fail the trail
and break away without
identity or a cruel joke
spread beneath the cat
litter to keep acid inside.

We need to look at every
opposite rage to know one
easily pronounced now
from as we glitter in
the ashes of foul stars
feeding off the other's
marginal, limited glow.
Some we notice; others fail.

I rest on Mars; my ashes
spread beneath the Maple
tree my great grandson
ten generations past planted
to keep one eye of mine
on the flaws of the horizon.

I said we were keepers.
Now, that is fame.

He spreads my ashes
and they fall on Montana
skies as Mars, great illusion
bends at the speed of light
into not what happens
when celebrity equals fame.