Vandalism Picture
Here’s a shot I hope says I’m a victim.
I hope one says I’m used to having my hand
in the dirt. I’m a what’s next type. Filter out
through focus. Distort at your leisure. Have me
as frame, as proxy. Have me as scope or scoping
out borders. I don’t prefer the center but sure
that too. I’m thinking empathy shots and threat
shots and a few blends. Then you choose.
In one I just want my head. In one I want
to be pointing my finger and then severe
wrinkles somewhere in the middle
of my chest. In one I want to be blurred
or partially settled. I want one to say:
I don’t want the limelight! Remember why
we’re here. Remember who we’re here for.
Remember why we keep foraging for harm.
Think child. What about me as a passerby?
Here comes the grim stranger with under-muscled
shoulders, a thin jacket on. Someone who doesn’t
understand pageantry, the chipped signage,
the scrawled and carved phallus, “Saint” taken
from “Saint Peter’s”, bricks split into small pillars,
the image of a woman. I could have a true blue
sadness and then translate that into a true
emotion. Okay, have me in the right corner
of the shot. Okay, have me frame the damage
and the scope of lines and the grim chiseled off
signage. Who are we looking for? I bet he writes
poorly in cursive. I bet he’s a locally raised boy
who is missing a sense, who sways when he stands,
a boy who’s missing God or who has missed
missing God, however that works or doesn’t.
