Thursday, January 19, 2017

IDEAL READER

Sorry to disappoint,
but I'm afraid 
that Art

is usually
those plain ugly
everyday things

whose defeated angles 
and gray, depressed hues

keep them uncoveted 
and morally invisible

as they accrue unintentionally
against life's somber, 
neutral background;

and it's typically—
The Everyday
which is

made up by
those strange,
ruddy things 

tending to nag
at our 
interest along the way, 

those flared, fluted objects
we're often made
to stare at intensely 

as if 
there were magic
frames all around them.

Just consider 
the mindnumbing utility 
of overabundance:

first, picture gallons 
of loose tuna salad 

sequestered in the alley 
behind a profligate 
kitchen somewhere,

swamped 
by hordes 
of fat, ingrate rats.

Then, try to imagine
the beauty that's there—

that sheer 
blind knack,

the unencouraged ingenuity 
and practically-
enviable aggression

of those bacteria 
currently 
colonizing their systems.

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