Poem: Celebrity

Deconstruction is very hip, so why not deconstruct celebrity?


Celebrity seems a hungry mouth to feed,
a demanding child that wails, stamps its foot
and screams for its fifteen minutes at the top
We were promised that, expect it now,
even if Lennons and Kennedys must fall

A mirror-image would bring it all back down
A comforting deconstruction, car bombs to candlelight
The supermodel barefoot in a faded robe,
a Pulitzer Prize for guys who walk the dog
An understandable order, once more from the top

Agreement to settle for five good friends
to mourn a death or celebrate a birth
No helicopter-headlines, just drop by
A conversation sitting on my floor, don’t call,
your hug is all the celebrity I need

Without a Script
Not a public execution, I’ve no right to stand
with sword in hand, your neck at my feet
I take the right, make no excuses
Uncredentialed, it’s just the way it is
So many ghosts in life, I’m just one more

Following from day to night and back again,
there’s no need to slash at one another
My Douglas Fairbanks leaps a balcony,
meets your Errol Flynn, knife clenched in teeth,
somehow never masking that famous smile

How does he do it? How do we and they?
Without rehearsal, no cut and no retakes?
I don’t want all your life and time, just all of you
when we’re together, but ghosts get in the way,
fighting up and down the staircase of our minds

Not stumbling, as we do, but coming point-to-point,
thrust and parry, in endless choreography
Your sword nicks me, high across the chest
Blood soaks toward my heart, we come together,
face to face, conceding one another’s pain

Then spring apart, my blade slits the purple silk
above your breast, exposes, barely touches skin
I’m bleeding, you’re unmarked, catching breath
Am I above you on the stair? Can’t recall the script
Is this the scene, the time you take my life?

Not your neck that’s at my feet, but mine
How can it be, my hand holds the blade?
Lens pulls back, long shot in soft-focus
One stroke, then just another of the ghosts,
untitled, unrehearsed, without a script.
Poetry Collection: Corner of My Mind
This poem is included in
Jim Freeman's
poetry collection

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