Saints

Ephemeral Art

Art perhaps is beauty

Made from nothing,

And the artist

Goes to nothing,

While the art remains,

And the art as well

Will not remain.

Fools today who call themselves,

And glory in the word,

“Artist” - live for

Money, drugs and fame,

Will die like anybody else.

Their fame will not outlive them.

 

Saints

The deposed deprived of power

In a swift decent from glory

To the rubbish heap

Of saints and bigots.

Old saints are not forgotten.

They make speeches and appear

Next to other candidates

For sainthood in ascendance.

Blacks and gays and immigrants

With nothing to depend on

As though they have the mark of Cain,

Find shelter. Or go home.

 

The Ugly World

Babes are given goggles

To blind them to the stars.

They grow up without music,

Hear nothing but guitars,

Screaming, loud and ugly.

They exacerbate the scars

With television, violence,

And drugs instead of bars.

Keeping what is beautiful

Pickled in glass jars

On shelves in old museums

With 1920 cars.