I honestly don't understand
Your riches or your fame
The entire frenzy seems to me
Entirely insane

Your voice sounds ancient and dismal
And drones on with bitter feelings
Truth be told it's not at all
What one might call appealing

I'm not a devoted follower
Who thinks you're simply grand
I think you'd do much better
With a different career plan

Avoid recording studios
Or noisy concert halls
Stay home and count your money
And forget about applause

I know you would tell me
In your snippy classless way
To shut the **** up
And quietly go away

To which I will repeat
My title's earnest cry:
No more "Hello" Adele
It's time to say "Goodbye"

In my darkest dream,
I'm wearing sunglasses at night
while I drive...
a phantom flying down freeways

During my journey I spot
Matthew McConaughey
in his glistening Lincoln chariot -
a smug smile vanishing
from his famous face
as I speed by
on my breathless trek

I will not be surpassed
or surprised
or stifled
by any mega rich superstar
or anyone else in motion...
my eyes unblinking
as I race with frightening intensity
on this endless stretch of highway

I sense that people in power
are impressed with my arrogance
and every dewy-eyed starlet
in Hollywood
falls apart at the sight
of me
masked dramatically
in my striking shades -
my music blasting
my foot on the accelerator
my destination a well kept secret

I have an image now to uphold
so splendid
so masterful
perfectly illuminated
by the glow
of a brilliant
desert moon
lighting my way
toward a golden promised land

Some victims end up in a ditch somewhere
bullet holes in their heads

Others are buried six-feet-deep
in neglected pastures
or end up drawing
a last breath
in a seedy motel room

They become falling stars
their brief bios featured on
crime shows
their sad tales
filling the airwaves
their names forgettable
histories unremarkable
victims whose renown emerges only
from their sudden shocking demise

They become fodder
for the crime junkies...
curious insomniacs
watching docudramas -
america's nightmares
playing out on millions
ot tv screens

You can sense the sheer terror
victims feel...
their eyes flickering in the dark
when someone's hands
silence them
their screams muffled by
dissonant music swelling -
a crescendo of shrieks and sounds
building toward
that awful
final fade

Dear Poet:

Your poetry
throbs
amuses
delights
irritates
stimulates
sometimes incites

Mystifies
startles
unnerves
and excites

Perfectly lofty
exquisitely right
dynamic
thrilling
burning bright
brilliant
heartwarming
whimsy in flight

Provocative
magical
forever true
magnificent
moving
engaging too

So now I'll close my letter
with a plea:

Keep writing.
Take care.

Sincerely,

Me

It blows, and suddenly the pavements are filled
With men and women going everywhere,
But none are going anywhere.

Women in pretty dresses are not going to dances.
Yesterday was long ago,
When tomorrow set shimmery curls in their hair
And summer slipped a diamond on their fingers.

Men in soiled denims are not going on safaris.
Yesterday was long ago,
When adventure held the scent of salt-air
And their names were on the roll-call of ambition.

The whistle is a smokescreen,
And somewhere, on the other side,
Lies the "Open Sesame" of youth.

I hope that I shall never see
An awful dreaded irksome flea,

A flea that feasts on helpless pets
And makes them scratch and moan and fret,

A flea that frolics on a lawn
Plotting mischief from dusk till dawn,

A cruel wingless menacing foe
Whose only joy is spreading woe.

I wish that one day I would see
A fleeting fleeing of the flea;

Trillions of them blissful at play
In a galaxy far far away.

Voices are telling me not to jump
My hands hold on to the ledge
The voices are loud, demanding
Some are crying out, beseeching me
Some are familiar, others not at all
"STOP!" they yell with inevitable urgency

I close my eyes to contemplate my fall
The shocked expressions of people
taken aback by the sight of someone
descending in a flash
as they happen to look out their windows

I'm afraid to let go now
The thought of striking a pavement
feet first (or any other way)
is a deciding factor
I just can't do this.  It's too messy

It takes what feels like forever
for most of these people to haul me up to
the balcony - two cops help me to a sofa

Maybe tomorrow I think

Where did all these people come from I wonder

Maybe not tomorrow.  Another day then

When no one is looking

Maybe I'll just go off to a motel room
somewhere in the suburbs.  Fortify myself
with something strong and bitter
swallow a shaky handful of pills
to blur my yellow streak

But no crowds next time

God my hands hurt like hell

No high-rise drama

No Dorothy Parker babble in my brain
telling me I might as well live

And no fuss