We arrive it’s Thursday the industry beckoned
to look at ripped canvases arranged amidst
old masters, to cavort amidst nudes white marble
statues Goya prints, to examine strips of color
dark + light one faint line of continuity dribbled,
to inspect bullet holes in cloth and four portraits
of disheveled mods (exiting Berlin’s Zur Wilden
Renate, or something), to admire near the Nordics
a gorgeous black textured square

In other rooms silkscreened flags hang from
the ceiling, a wire frame holds objects neatly arranged
with metal tacks, handmade paper books spin
on thin strings, prolific use is made of aerosol
and Photoshop, religious symbols photos of Dad
and a joint perched on a crowbar intrigue —
here is the soul of a young artist on display

“Those interested in a truly international art
don’t reject work within the system” ergo
available for examination are thin people in T-shirts
jackets leggings boots talking as photographers
scurry to capture the image (benevolent creatures),
past/present and contemporary/tradition smashed
together, manifestos for a melancholy-resistant
cosmopolitan art born to remain unwritten,
those who work don’t have time to pen manifestos

We race through the exhibits and it’s all nice
but let’s move, this warm glow this light
spilling out in the street crossing Av. del Libertador
running laughing quick before cars, for some reason
everything has that glow now, a sidewalk crack
electrical boxes mirrors for sale, and how
to make this part of the industry is the question.