Sep 142011
 
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.


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