Poor Bruce, starved for love, can’t hear the boos for the
rage in his head,
Finally finding religion that lets him rant and rave, a true
believer who has ceased to believe in anything other than his own myth.
What goes on inside that rattled head of his, a man
possessed, a life reassessed, a woke joke abandoning the folk he used to sing
for, singing for a different crowd, overly loud, a shout in the dark that compensates
for all his mistakes, the Beverly Hills delusion he revisits now, when he tells
himself he’s on a mission for a god he doesn’t believe in, no entity possibly
more powerful than he thinks about himself, preaching to people who pay $1,000
(sometimes $3,000) to hear his music, not his mouth, he pocketing his wealth,
helping nobody but himself. Why can’t he use it to help the immigrants he
preaches about, or the homeless or the hungry he never sees, his bulging
pockets the only Bible he really believes in.
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