Picasso's crooked eye, David's damned obscurities, Sartre the industrious communist bee, Bug-eyed with his private hoard of existential agonistes, Riviera's raucous mural, florid With steel trains and a lemon Lenin as glossy as a saint, The same a rigid Rockerfeller Ripped down and paid for. . . . Each artist riffed rich in angst and happiness, Loving their foamy social dream Where each man's crowned a kinky king And none are ugly laborers for greed Or any vice but the "people's need." If in their Hilterianly lonely, limpid dream All others would but see as they had come to see, each in his private dignity Grinding his eyes to the one measure, Then all the world's woes might be frozen fragrantly In one sole mosaic triumphantly. But none submitted their prim, their vetted Vision to the communal tribunal, None tum to the others' ta-ta Despite the goal's profound, golden nobility, Despite the day-laborer ferrying gigantic acres of canvas, His kid sick in the back of the hurried truck, Despite the crazy fees for "inspiration" That denied the doorman his cataract surgery, Despite the weak, the infirm, the shirtless and shoeless Who would never enter this centrally air-conditioned Palace of art to peruse this exact masterpiece of "solidarity." Never would the mooing millions, unwooed wards Of "the true light that puts Italy's afternoons to shame," See this feted aesthete's tribute to their "viral virility," Despite, despite, despite, Despite the pie-eyed ache for Paradise that moved the pointillist-precise camel-hair brush over the worker's sable-shiny eyebrow in the union pantheon.