Motel Art

Rather than kitsch, which it isn’t,

Since no one chose to collect it

Lovingly, to keep home with them,

Even if it fits the standard

Definition, as in, poor taste,

But sometimes appreciated

In an ironic, knowing way,

(Jesus, the lyric flourishes

Of clever lexicographers)

Or commodity, which it is,

But which doesn’t distinguish it,

Let’s call it the imitation

Of a life that holds art personal,

As the room’s an imitation

Of someone’s personal bedroom,

Recognizably a bedroom,

For no one in particular,

For travelers in general.

Don’t you love the way it echoes

Its own imitative gestalt?

In an actual motel room,

Art’s even more impersonal

Than in virtual silicon,

Or in Hollywood motel rooms,

Where it’s chosen to say something

About the story the chooser

Is trying to tell or enact.

In an actual motel room,

The framed images were chosen

To be like the framed images

Someone might have chosen, but not.

Like, but not. Like, but not. Life, art.