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.