Why Artists Don't Care if They're Wrong

As random as commercials they change,
the faces on the monitor
flashing on the building guard's black suit
—a litany of scofflaws, framed for wanting.
What are the crimes, I ask, inside their books?
They almost seem near-normal,
they seem, at times, to smile,
I wonder what deprivation
drove them to the brink this time?

A million tales in the naked city,
we all, not worshiped, push to some line—
and fall back as the will goes deaf and blind.

I watch visages turn,
until I see the one
that makes me stop in horror
- a terrifying face -
a suit, a tie, a killer smile,
a twinkle in the eye.
I recognize that tragic mask,
the one that I call mine.