museum poems

i went to the museum yesterday. it was quite the anglo affair. i don't think people realize how segregated this society still is. tragically. aside from the man working the bag check at the museum, there weren't any other minoirities present. it "shouldn't" matter to me, but it does sometimes, yesterday it mattered a great deal.

my girl has an affinity for picasso. she hates looking at traditional paintings, but she can gaze at picasso as long as i'll let her. she saw nude combing hair yesterday, and i think she much preferred his cubist works, in fact she said she did.


at the art museum
the sixty-something
docent
upon a soap box
attempts to dazzle us
with his knowledge
doesn't he know
we just want to see
the art
not exercise
patience
with the geriatric
attempt at art
lecture




second poem:

stubbs and the horse
drawings all
of equine form
unimpressive
to the person
longing to see
a picasso
monet or renoir




third poem:

perfect englishman
painting
perfect thoroughbreds
in the
perfect englishside
all
perfectly boring
to
native americans



fourth poem:

aside from the chinese scrolls
buddist gods
mayan sculptures
indian tapestries
and cubist forms
the art
left me wanting.
renderings of Jesus
effeminate at best,
"i hope He looks
better than that"
i said to my seven year old
who agreed.
God is not a patsy
to be captured on canvas
in the image of man
englishman in particular
we walked away
my husband muttered
"He won't look anything like that"
i hummed Superfly
and strutted in my platforms
"He'll have a fro"
"no"
we laughed and left it
at that.