Hello Guy. Well, I am going to be a bit of a defector and see if I could ask Ms. Ciccone’s to read a new poem of mine, because I like to converse about artistic sensibilities. I just completed a poem about the notion of ‘celebrity’ and the ‘media’ that follow them around. I admit that I don’t know about being followed by paparazzo or paparazzi, or getting knocked off of a horse, however, I do know about pandering and patronization. I would appreciate it if you passed this message on to her (I would like to know what she thinks of it.) :) Grazie! Shooting stars never travel alone. They have the speed of rapiers. They have the boot up, get up and go: * The car to the airport. * Airport to plane. * The plane takes off, * In tandem with planes of people with * Gadgets and gizmos with flashing bulbs. * Memorandums, * Schedules, * Deadlines, All parallel to her own, But trivial in comparison. She is a real person entrapped Within the body of celestial celebrity. All of the business she has Is the business of pages yet to be written, And new stories for refreshed "news" pages. Gain is gain either way and gain is gain is gain; The pommel horse pummeled and rider prodded with reality fur and Snapshot – not a mannequin heir to the seat of such horse Fallen, and not risen but fainted. Gain ill gotten by way of following, seeking, weakening, And an even punch to the face makes the front page as well. So they gain no matter what… All of the business she has is their business, And yet they don't know her schedule. They follow and beg for scraps, As is the daily routine. As is the dairy routine. People being milked… Benny Hill lunacy ensues… The docile photographer is fine – one must have to choose Which path to take, to make or break: There are those of us who would moreover be snakes To break their own bread. The ghosts test the outskirts of intrusive, And soon something meaningless is published, Only for their journey to continue, For it is never done— Done like a steak you can bite into. An ass is the visage of those who pander for a penny. If you asked if certain people could see the horizon ahead of them, The answer would be- No. No they cannot, but say a perfect prayer for posterity anyway. Jesters flock toward royalty like birds with no wings, So They get on plane after plane after plane after plane After plane after Plane after Plane… For one pushes one off with flash and bulb and Fell one off and they bruise a nub! How can one get back on the horse that has yet to be gotten on, Can one see the horizon ahead? Oh how several outweigh the few; the ones who think Would have to be so restricted, wouldn’t they? In a rational, irrational world this takes place, And yet we make the best of it. Maybe we pierce like a rail-gun the smallest alcoves, And get mocked by meandering people, And yet, we start a chain reaction upon the spinal colonnades Which we knock down like dominoes, Crashing over one another. Change is instigated… No one should be a legatee to such things as these.