Everyone's a Critic

What did he say?

The man who lived in the cave
That faced the Great Temple at Petra.

What did he say?
When they were building it.
Carving it.  Coaxing it out of the vertical sandstone.
Orange red
in the blazing heat.

Men died.  You know they did.
And he would have sat there
Staring at the unfolding drama, the splendor of the thing
from his little digs on the side of the hill.
Poking at his tiny fire.
Eating his hummus
Watching them create —
whether driven by whip or by the dreams of Ozymandias.

And what did he say?
This little man
With little dreams.

"Can't believe they made that choice with the elephants."
He might have mumbled.
"What were they thinking with that third set of columns?"
He probably yelled to the wife –
busy scrubbing his loincloth against a boulder and wondering where the last 20 years went.

"Cowboy architect!!"
He would have proclaimed.
Bedding down for the night in his darkened dwelling.
10x12x4 – all a man needs.

I'd rather live in the cave
On the cliff facing the Temple
At Petra.

I'd rather face the art
Than be the art -

Create the art -
Have the art baked over the coals.
Like the hummus.

What good is walking out of the majesty each morning
To feel the sun for a moment?
To run one's hands over the gritty-smooth undulations
Of creation.
Word made flesh.
Only to face that little man
Up on the hill.
Throwing his little sticks.

I'd rather face the temple I think.
A better view.
And I'm no good at transcendence.