*POINTILLISTIC PORNOPSYCHOSIS OR, CRAZY DOTS

Pointillism was revealed to me finally
When from the Broadway Tunnel
I saw the Bay Bridge with its tiny, slow cars.
Sun glinting, they looked so small
They could have been points;
Just motes, jots, pinheads of silver or dark
Crawling on the upper deck.

Then, on Columbus or Sansome
I saw a woman talking to herself
And I realized we shouldn't
Show the outer world the inner mind,
At least not all the time, that would be crazy.
No, we need to create a sufficient distance
For people to reveal themselves to strangers.

A stage is nice, a moat is better,
The end of a gallery seems to be about ideal.
See, once you get up too close to someone,
A person's just a bunch of crazy dots
(a nearsighted cartoon confusion, closer yet-
Dots dancing in hypnopornotic display).
But if you get too far away...

A person's just one crazy little dot.
Normality is primarily
A question of scale
Was that gesture, that word, too much,
Too little, not quite right?
Am I just making crazy dots appear
In your face?

By Whitman McGowan

*Pointillistic Pornopsychosis or, Crazy Dots,
By Whitman McGowan, originally appeared
in the March 93' issue of Cups. Permission
was granted by the author, for its use in
Blue Ink Press.

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