Who should be a superstar?

I tried not to walk in with criteria in my arms
and writhe like a nearing
and whatever that means, I tried to mean it and not mean it at the same pace. I tried to be the physics of nonchalance.  

Total theater. Bible folded into a fan and the canopy it made/made our silhouette more romantic, more of a trove, more of that do-it-yourself shamanism. More intimate and alien. Hold me. Closer. Who should read the lines, right from the teleprompter, make it look natural, sell the rights to the look for capital, trap the looose color beneath one cloak on a broken map? I had no criteria in my arms. I tried for a habit and found a glitch is better, like when Bill Cosby bought the Playboy Jazz Festival after firing Lisa Bonet for posing nude on the cover of Playboy. Where have all the great hypocrits gone? 

Are all gods martyrs? 
Are all martyrs faking it?
All all marks masks?
Is your art a sex act? 
Is your truth free at last?
I could get used to this.
Not in a trendy way.
But I love the questions that answer themselves. In a tender way.
And the men. I love the men who should be superstars but hide the good card in my hand.
Ace of spades today. L'ace to trefle qui pique mon coeur. Bent like a tunnel on his tongue of silence.

The first Hip Hop concert I ever went to was in Lyon, France. MC Solar in the open air shuffling and slurring about cards and hearts. That'll be more relevant later. About the way it feels to be sixteen translated onto stages, painted black, turned into music, another ghetto superstar you should be with and abandon.