GOYA WAS IN MY TRAVELOGUE
I don't know why it had to come to be : the burnished
walnut and the spinning wheels. Like a casino in a
crap-house royale. Everyone it seems won something
and the seacoast bristled with the sounds of mirth and
wine and laughter. In the parking lot, beneath lights,
people smoked. In the lobby a bizarrely-faced jukebox
was playing punk tunes - nothing no way in keeping
with theme, and nothing that should ever be in a jukebox
anyway. Seems there was no telling for the lack of taste
in a young kid's heart. And oh God all those sickly tattoos.
-
Outside the main gate, there were two huge trees; they'd
been growing there for years, you could tell just by looking.
Someone had just said that to me, and I said, 'Really?
Where else would they grow?' We laughed at my
cheekiness. I commented back, something
about chance and opportunity.
-
Anyway, even museums have staff people who need
a break, want to get away, even need love on the sly.
All those days spent looking at the same old art
on the same old walls, and all those people
just gawking.
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