Look! It's Another Commercial Poem by Frank Avon

A handsome man descends
in a pillar of light,
a tube of clarity, of crystal

through world wars and water
through sheer atmosphere
down tiers of stories

into a well-lit
dungeon
with a tiled floor

into inner space,
the depths within,
incarceration,

and reaches into air
into space out there
into gravity that isn't anywhere

and finds floating
all about him
above, below, around him

artifacts,
nuts and bolts, he says,
what's engineered,

what's sleek and clean,
what's steel and plasticized,
what's nimble to the fingers,

and he is ostracized
by perfection
and oscillation

and banality
and sharp, crisp arms,
sleight of hand

but what he says is trite,
for triteness is like a blanket
of artificial light;

and POWER
is his pastime
his villainy entire

what he sells
is hell
on wheels

and cosmic deals
and liturgies
of idiosyncrasy.

He smirks,
he shirks,
he pushes the button

THE DEVIL,
he insists,
IS IN THE DETAILS

YES
THERE'S METHOD
TO MY MADNESS


Oh, yes,
there's madness
in his methods,
isn't there?