You want to imagine the man can’t take care of himself
because putting yourself in his place is un-faceable.
With no show of ego or anything me-me-me else,
he is bent on becoming so famous he’ll be irreplaceable.
He’s living on water and slices of one-dollar pizza
and sleeps on the floor of a friend who’s no longer a friend.
Like a tzar’s star Muscovian courtesan, or his czaritza
who won’t, though abandoned as widows, emend
their belief they’ll remain the same glamorous beacons
of royalist beauty they’d been, he thinks of his duty this way:
convey your allure and ensure that its hold never weakens.
He will not betray what he’s meant to become: every day
rolls him closer to triumph. I would roll out my heart
as a sleeping bag, keeping him there every night if I could.
But he won't revoke his decision to turn into art –
won’t stop till he’s gone, like art, beyond bad, beyond good.