Fame Junkies


Suckling the tit of power’s engorged conceit,
fame-junkies stay hooked on their insecurity,
like a populous of last-days-patients processing oxygen,
the need to keep their bubble of make-believe pumping

to always have a mirrored image superb.

Ambition often longs for more frequent feeding times,
those memorable moments of panic,
when the applause meter, the cradled effect
of being held close to the nipple of sustenance,
looks as if it’s waning.

From craving’s captive infancy,
through childhood and the perpetual adolescence of identity,
staying in lock step for mealtime ticket punchers
in order to reach life’s grown-up food remains elusive,

forever teasing us toward a different kind of gratification,
unaware the teat of mammilla imprisonment

is the single place no one escapes,
once one has a guilt-sentenced self.

How alluring the entrapment,
even as it touts a way to escape,
convincing the shackled ones
that an improved formula exists,
extending beyond the pouch of mommy dependence,
bottled synthetic substitutes,
and even fame, fortune and power itself.

Unfortunately…

Too few experience the epiphany,
revealing the seductive nature of motherism as ageless,
offering its always short-lived comfort zone of wisdom without prejudice,
available in many sizes, shapes, agendas, and, oh yes…
we must not forget the rewards.

Yet…

Quite often at some point,
the notoriety we thought was ours,
the wealth we felt entitled to,
and the power we felt was earned,
is taken back, lifted from the attachment of our lips,
leaving us wailing from within,
recognizing for the first time
the other kind of isolation:
meeting the real vulnerable self for the first time.

Such is the challenge of a fame junky’s

personal black hole.