Celebrity

by David-Matthew Barnes

On a Sunday morning, in a Hollywood bed,
In a conceited house, larger than any
Disappointment I had ever known,
I said to the sculpted movie star
King, whom I had just slept with,

"Please explain to me this
Unnerving desire to be desired by
Strangers, kind and cruel. Why
Is it so important to you, to be
Known and worshipped and adored
By the ignorant public who don't know
You or your insecurities or the fact that
Your father offed himself when you were
Only ten and your mother drinks to forget?
Was it something innate, born and bred
Into your lucky chromosomes that were
Destined to be splashed across the
Silver screen? Or did you make a deal
With Satan and in exchange you will succumb to
A career-wrecking scandal or die in some tragic,
Headline-grabbing death?"

And the celebrity sun
Sliced the symmetry from the picture window
Behind him, and he was illuminated, he was backlit
(Which I knew was a contractual issue with
Him, because his agent had told me so) and
He glowed and shone like a box-office
Supernova.

The reply was thrown
To me, over his right shoulder as he stood up
To leave me and slip back into someone else's skin,
And his words were cutting and I was muted by them,
For many, many naked years to come.

"Don't worry, you little
star fucker. If the press ever finds out about
You and I, you'll be famous too."

So I kept my mouth shut and I lay
Back down in the shade of genuine
Mediocrity. And I was happy. And I was
Real. And the supernova burned.

Copyright © David-Matthew Barnes 2003

Sacred

by David-Matthew Barnes

An Internal Monologue.
Dedicated to Katie Carey, who perfected it.

I have never been to New Orleans,
But I have been inside your skull.
I do not know which is darker.

Pink lights play charades on the walls.
Some drunk girl is singing Black Velvet.
I smell vomit. I smell whiskey.
I smell my own fear,
So I look for you.
It seems like you should be here.
It seems like I've been here before.

I have never broken a window with bare hands,
But I have cleared off a crystal-covered mirror.
I do not know which happens quicker.

A bird dies on the front steps of an old Victorian,
From the stagnant smell of downtown Sacramento.
I think it was murder.
There is nothing that I can do but care
Feel guilty, hold my breath.
I wish I had a cage. I wish I had the nerve
Or the time to stop and make my own self fly.

I have never played the harp, the cello or the violin,
But I have slow-danced with drunken strangers.
I do not know which can linger.

It is sad to say,
But I will admit
That the majority of those I lay down with
I felt nothing for but sometimes
Pity, boredom
But never shame.
Those that mattered I will not name.

I have never held a child that was my own,
But I have touched those that hate their mothers.
I do not know which is lonelier.

Some may laugh,
But I want the white picket fence,
The white carnations.
I want Shell Beach, the farmhouse and the sold-out show.
The hands, the sand,
The dark-haired, dimpled Italian
Just like Marco Leonardi.

I have never felt the kiss of death,
But I have been saved by Nick and time.
I do not know which is sweeter.

It happens on the freeway,
Just before midnight.
You are the passenger,
Not listening to the radio,
To the person beside you or your own voice.
You are looking out the window, to the skyline.
This is how you imagine heaven to be.

I have never been the headliner,
But I have gone down on the lead singer of the band.
I do not know which is harder to do.

Music is my comfort and I use it to drown
Out the deafening chords of my little tragedies and
Another loud mistake. So I hear them sing, not just
For money, but for me and my soul and the things
That I dare not say but feel, like black and blue
Melodies on my lips. I celebrate them, like friends,
Like parties and they are rock stars that I know.

I have never been in a war like Vietnam
But I have slept with many enemies
I do not know which was more useless.

My generation is beautiful. Exploited
In their mothers' clothes which have become cool again.
They are unhinged by their own fear of fear
And the desperation one feels while trying to be original
When it's already been done before and much, much better.
They are 'N Sync and Neutrogena.
They are bad haircuts and Britney Spears.
They are murdering mothers and manic-depressives.

I have never been a prostitute,
But I have gone hungry for days.
I do not know which aches more.

I imagine the moment as something sacred.
A celebration—just like Mardi Gras—
Streamers, confetti. I want a parade.
Arms slide around my waist.
Fireworks explode with clichéd reason.
He digs in to the plantation of my soul
And we watch the world below, from the terrace.

I have never been in love,
But I have seen the color of heartbreak.
I do not know which is more beautiful.

Copyright © David-Matthew Barnes 2003