Nemesis Fame with his son Luck
dressed as Sacred and Profane Love,
costumed themselves one electric
night so provocatively in
neon-bright, skin-tight mysteries—
as often is the case, being
the custom of omens—using
illusion as clothing just to
fuck with us, showing men how true
immortality ignites one,
a mockery of affection
gavotting sultrily into
my chaste poverty as if to
pay almage, stalking the room like
painted-up shadows following
a debt, cheapening what my soul
wanted, offering gold dust I
accepted with no regret as
I lied and begged them again for
more time to repay them, pleading
that my celebrity had not
yet greeted its zenith, and my
life’s stylist was yet preparing
for the live streaming of my art’s
martyrdom, gearing up for its
nadir, the coming down what makes
genius so Faustian, giving
into us our exemption from
modesty, that is until we
crash before cashing in and our
only hope of resurrection
is through negotiating some
syndication, but weathering
enough bad seasons—and reaching
a hundred stale episodes worth
re-airing—is like reaching for
heaven while still living, flying
too high like poor Napoléon
plotting ruling the world from Saint
Helena—holding onto this
impossible, unless we dress
up and not let our masks trouble
us, just let our tribes find us and
we will know love then, even when
its what-ifs leave us with a mess
to deal with, dealing in heartbreak
what distinguishes an artist
from his audience and critics,
making out of loss existence,
of beatings-per-minute music.
