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.