Oh, Low Art
Icarus climbs to spite the sun;
marveling now at his own reaches
daring leer for daunting heights he
spat in the face of God
On a cave wall and in the cathedrals
pigment proof that myth is miracle--
masters of their time;
each a soulful servant
Such shame if they glimpsed today
spattered modern, careless splashes
might Caravaggio curse the lot
and poor old Rembrandt faint
Oh, low art and the analogue vein
stumbling brushstrokes stenciled in
who are you, creator
but were you not created
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