Wide brightened spaces
Of crystalline intentions
Once open to keen eyes
Sullied and besmirched
By the erection of ambiguity,
Dark labyrinthic paths clogged
With human bodies blind
Able to observe the work
Of masters solely through
Telephonic lenses held up high,
Arms stretched over carpets
Of heads hands in the air,
The taller you are the greater
The chances of snapping a shot,
Good enough to post on networks
To flaunt the unlived moment
Lifeless experience to strangers
Ignoring the glory of Moma’s past.
Mall-like escalators dictating
Directions followed by unconscious
Herds, four floors devoted
To questionable puzzling art,
Photographed nakedness not nudity
In vogue, viewers photographing
Photos exposed, while the man
In the picture is photographing me
I wonder how many flashes kill,
How many finishing touches
Taint and blemish reality under
The pretext of interpretation
Justifying beautify contrast sharpen
Saturation highlights filters
Upgrading dollars for more and up
To the fifth floor, the permanent
Collection unable to linger
Where I lost my chasteness
Corbusier’s chaise longue could tell
My favourite pieces
Designer objects I dreamt of
I searched I made my own,
Burried in cellars and vaults
To be stored, away from the sightless
The visionless, the callous.
I only came to pay my respect,
Moma my condolences.
[Featured photo: Chaise Longue by Le Corbusier at Moma, 2008]