If you do the calculations,
The most successful movie ever claims but one percent of a nation’s day,
Then less, as time gradually intercedes.
If there is a living fame,
It has nothing to do with the living, or their needs.
Fame is a song fame presses, but doesn’t know how to play.
Mutable mother, when naming me, you didn’t think much about my name.
You thought about my hunger.
I haul my name through the living day,
Trying to be good, for the good of fame.
Unnoticed, finding no rest,
Composing what will be famous tomorrow, is best.
The music of the famous is always playing—or not—in someone’s ears,
Until the odd delivery happens, and the music disappears.
The sweetest light is light filtered through the trees.
Attempting to find love in what only a few liked,
Her intellectual torture grew from a simple need to tease.
There is nothing to fame, really.
We merely want pleasure, and to please.