I’m famous. Not for anything I’ve done
but for my jaw and hunter eyes. I’m seen
all over city streets. Aside neon,
the tourists gaze at me: a God in Jeans.
I’ve become art on the aristocrat’s
uncovered walls– the cold guarantee
of immortality– cold like the flat
I can't afford. Hollow like desperate pleas
to faceless hookups, making love to their
idea of me. An empty bed prayer
ignored. A model’s dream achieved, a glare
that will not fade. A nameless superstar.
On grimy roads, the mecca’s glimmer dims
enough so that a god can walk as human.