dear Buk

dear Buk,

to be famous is to die a terrible death. a trip to the store for eggs and beer may turn tumultuous;

the paparazzi with kaleidoscope lenses—souls with turniquettes tied to their tiny sacs—will hogtie your outing

without a doubt.

you made a living talking shit on the elite, then made friends with Sean Penn?

drove a BMW?

either way, old Buk,

I know life isn’t easy, so I forgive you. but fame makes death a lovely place, old Buk, a soliloquy I hope I never endure.

you were wrong you old crusty poet:

FAME is a “dog from hell”; and LOVE is a flower without bees

birds without any wings.  

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