Celebs at the Beach

97

I strain myself to get a better look,
a good long look at what is promised
to be the view of a life time.

I’m not a star gazer; I gave up my dreams
long ago. I’m a star fucker. All I want now
is to look up someone’s skirt or down someone’s pants.

I want to see something that’s been getting
star treatment, something powdered, coifed,
and well oiled. Not just a piece of meat left out to rot.

I’m looking up to people who are admired, not down
on them like a lousy snob. I’m into worshiping at my idols’ feet.
I want a glimpse of what really counts.

Will she offer me some of her urine? That’s what I’d like to know.
As a temple worshiper, I’m ready to be touched by the Divine.
I’m willing to stand all day in line with my tongue out.

We are becoming like India, with starving people picking lice
off each other’s bodies. Tent cities, befouled by waste and the stench
of death; people sleeping in the nude covered in their own shit.

The stars like the gods above live nearby, in glass palaces
on hilltops from which they can see. They can throw the gristle
and the carrot peels to the monkeys from their back porches.

Down below where their worshippers live, it is hotter.
Our stars, it is said, stay cool and they want to keep it that way.
They listen to Lou Rawls and snap their fingers.

One star it has been rumored descends from the highest point
in the city so she can speak to the people, those deemed
ready to hear the truth. She says in no uncertain terms: leave.

The people are not enlightened. They are lost. They are themselves
part of the pollution, adding to and not alleviating the grotesquely
poisoned air. She calls on them to be exterminated.

And now finally there is peace. The stars come out again. The ladies
remove their tops and bottoms. They levitate. The men, erect, expose
their masculine glory, freed at last to do as they please. Everyone is dead.