The critics have been saying—have you heard them?—
Art depicts truth making a collage of naked scenes,
And fiction tells truth, even when it lies.
Yes, fiction is true because, well, it’s real if you read it, or see it with your eyes.
What you see is true—whether made up, or not. The true
Is anything—even if it’s false—which has an impact on you.
So what is true? A spy for the CIA? LSD?
Pornographic comedy?
The truth is, truth has nothing to do with art at all.
It’s true the white guy, crushed for his poem in The Nation, was sincere,
But his poem lacked context. Even a polite, 19th century, audience
Would have asked, “What the hell is going on here?”
The more art says it is false, the more it is true;
The worst art announces the falsity of its reality to you.
So the greatest art, we must all agree, completely lies.
It is completely false, but sitting there, as true as can be, in your eyes.
Bad art is always inappropriate, even with its not-so-secret moral.
Life has morals and truth; art is merely the beautiful sadness of seeing,
Unless it have context. Only with context is art, love, life agreeing.
Life listens to morals it doesn’t want to hear.
You’ve had a difficult day. Let me read you this uncanny poem, dear.