Wednesday, February 22, 2006


Sitting pretty for the cameras -
glib audience of your peers,
sufficiently bruised,
competitively thin -
greed fairly dripping
as the elegant fringe
on high-priced Vera Wang
tickling the ankles
emaciated checkbooks…
but it was worth it.

Strewn spangles of kitsch
beaming capped teeth clenched
ascending off the red carpet
into echelons of artistic Valhalla.

the refracted glint of honeycomb gold
paralyzes the senses.
Oscar winner.
Debutante nobody – no more.
“I deserve this…
It’s mine…”
biting into the faux underbelly of victory…
“I’ve paid for the privilege…
It’s my turn!”

The envelope please…
…and the little bald golden child
to that esteemed so-and-such
for distinguished something-or-other
in a story no one’s likely to remember
by this time next year.

“To hell with it.
I didn’t want one anyway.”
Now, I’ll gorge at the Governor’s Ball,
till I’m Louie B. Mayer rotund,
and try to pretend
that I don’t hate her quite so much.
“Oh, darling…
It couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.”
Yes it could have…
Wouldn’t she be piteous
if that Bordeaux tipped suddenly?
…and she glittered no more.


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