To look at all is an act of compassion ...
Ah the liberties photorealists take
With the truth to get it right.
Bad photos can make great art
But only if the pallet does it justice;
Only ceramic can convey in fact
The beauty of exhausted leather gloves.
Hair captured for posterity in a stoppered sink
Becomes an unnoticed thing that, upon discovery,
Seems beautiful, like Hiroshima after its voiding
Pains painted to look like the one grainy shot
We still can't make out, or a couple's comfort
In all their fat, hairy naked love magnified
For all to turn their eyes from seeing
But, unlike the ancient faiths now, believing.
There's a prom at Union Station. What you
Don't want to see is all you can now,
Not the pagan tiaras, the flamboyant gowns,
The glitz and glam as red merkabahs dance,
But the looks no one wants to have seen,
The training to be looked at, the learning
To appear to be alluring like a siren,
Not clumsy and wondering how they appear
Inside other people's skin, like they are stuck
Inside the glass case, harsh light glaring out,
With the pink snake and rainbow notebook,
Things too small to care about.
