Norma Jean

Paula Lehman
10/11/06
Norma Jean

“Hollywood is a place where they’ll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul.” M. Monroe

Life is hard when you’re
A sex symbol.
The biggest, newest craze
And people line up around
The block to get an eyeful.
My movies are blockbusters
And my mistakes become legend.
Like the rest of Hollywood,
I wasn’t born, I was made.
Bleached, buffed, pumped,
Filled out, replaced, made-up.
After adding so much
They ended up with
Less than what they
Started with.
Wife, daughter, girl.
Becomes the Blonde
Becomes the white dress.
Becomes the ultra femme.
Or maybe just the anti-man.
That no man can get enough of.
A tweezed, feminized Pandora.
After awhile, no one
Even believes you’re human
Anymore.
Like Elvis.
Like the Kennedys.
Like the Beatles.
So you drift—after awhile.
There is no fixed point,
No mortality,
No relevance,
No respect for life.
Just the empty act
Surrounding the hollow center.
And as you spire down
You try to fill it.
JFK, DiMaggio, USO.
Phenabarbitol.
In the end, its oversleep
And overwork that fills it in.
The euphoria of being
This new creation clouds it.
You forget to live.
And even your death is drama:
A creation, an epic for the masses.
Conspiracy theory.
A simple death wouldn’t fit the
Myth.
In the end, the humanity fights back.
You stuff it down and it comes out
As a tick or a disorder or a sleepless night.
It won’t be silenced
And you no longer wish to hear.
When the silence comes,
It is never what you expected.
The loneliness isn’t peacefull.
The quiet brings no release.
In the end, no one even
Remembers my real name.
I’m on posters and lunchboxes,
Hundreds of books and DVDs
And no one can tell you
About my hometown,
What drink I’d order.
Even in Heaven, the angels mock.
I’m more remembered
For singing
“Happy Birthday”
To the president
Than any film
I ever made.
Death is hard
When you’re a sex symbol.