Gaudí His cathedral like a novel In which everything is So minutely described Not even an hour will pass In seven hundred pages. His cathedral a young woman On acid trying to explain how, how… Children especially love it. It has to do with colors familiar From cartoons and the fact that It is unfinished like everything In the imagination is. Guadí himself was almost unknown. No one could remember Who gave him permission to build it. He walked to work amongst men Paid to sweep the streets clean With long brooms and old women On their way to morning mass. The women frowned at his monstrosity, Crossing themselves as They crossed the street, As if to so much as glance at It might doom them To excess, when the wine They’d always drunk Was rough stuff but good enough. One day, crossing the other way, Distracted by a problem with the spires, He was struck down by a streetcar. No one recognized him. He died in the poverty ward. They kept working on his cathedral. They still are. I heard an American college girl Tell her friends that She wanted to go to the Sangria Familia. She said it seriously. It wasn’t a pun. So what if she said it wrong? Of all the places to go, She wanted to go there. And so what if, standing inside it, Her bare American shoulders Bathed in Nickelodeon light, She still didn’t believe in God? She must have believed Someone must have.
Gaudí
Gaudí
Gaudí
Gaudí His cathedral like a novel In which everything is So minutely described Not even an hour will pass In seven hundred pages. His cathedral a young woman On acid trying to explain how, how… Children especially love it. It has to do with colors familiar From cartoons and the fact that It is unfinished like everything In the imagination is. Guadí himself was almost unknown. No one could remember Who gave him permission to build it. He walked to work amongst men Paid to sweep the streets clean With long brooms and old women On their way to morning mass. The women frowned at his monstrosity, Crossing themselves as They crossed the street, As if to so much as glance at It might doom them To excess, when the wine They’d always drunk Was rough stuff but good enough. One day, crossing the other way, Distracted by a problem with the spires, He was struck down by a streetcar. No one recognized him. He died in the poverty ward. They kept working on his cathedral. They still are. I heard an American college girl Tell her friends that She wanted to go to the Sangria Familia. She said it seriously. It wasn’t a pun. So what if she said it wrong? Of all the places to go, She wanted to go there. And so what if, standing inside it, Her bare American shoulders Bathed in Nickelodeon light, She still didn’t believe in God? She must have believed Someone must have.