poor Mr. PoMo's vision's blurred
by the blinding light of TV screens—
human sight is more powerful than HD
but no one told him that;
and poor Mr. PoMo can't find his name
among a sea of cities and Schools
that made him a number over a face
in the basement of St. Mark's.
poor Mr. PoMo: he has no fight!
he lost it all when he stopped beating himself up
and instead tried to take down Shakespeare and Bach
whose diminuendos were too much for him to handle.
poor Mr. PoMo is bound to a flag
that hands him up on a pole
where he can see each and every dancer
in Europe's little broken chorus.
poor Mr. PoMo: he can't seem to think
about any one—he has four hundred pictures
thwing themselves, and he cannot make them
into a face he can adore.
poor Mr. PoMo—he's lost himself!
he's floating along, trying to grasp another
and another and another until they have enough parts
to make one broken man.