CLOAK/5.4

The daydreams come down like a wolf on the fold, avid and gleaming the fantasy famous seeking approval and aid.
In my daydreams I am regularly thunderstruck by their beauty, my wit.
To be in a position to choose, to use the famous as well-chosen footholds, the hours that can pass in planning this ascent, the nights, the seasons—
meeting the famous, being asked to their suites for a meeting, they need a screenplay, they have dinner sent up from the hotel kitchen—
the elaborate fancies that consume the time to cook, and the recourse to take-out.
Where is the environmental movement against celebrity pollution, pledged to pulling plugs upon imperial displays of face? Who advocates for safe disposal of the stale fetishes endlessly atomized by the wage slaves of fashion working overtime at the chemical vats, working those oversized pumps in the high-alcohol content atmosphere, far from the quiet hives of the animal testers—that job interview, We have to ask this, but you're not, are you, the sort of person this bothers—
And where is the call for the ban upon film criticism's open-mouthed prostration before Hollywood's exploding mushroom cloud of dick, a tragedy of social hygiene—
the bad overpraised films that stick in the memory like tapeworm, the sense of having seen enough by now to have been damaged if not changed at a genetic level, this regret, this mourning for my lost evolution.
Had I only found the means to be more topical.
The left-behind pile starts decomposing and bad fingers stretch towards the water table.
Daydreams of fame, shameful longings, where do they go, into behavior, recoiling there, poisonous—
look at the tantruming famous—
and we who are waiting, inexplicably diffident, fundamentally silly, look at us,
way too attentive.