It all feels like false interest
to give a reason to something
I feel simply and purposefully just exists, only…

“Were you influenced by the collusion of the
worlds of (eclectic artist) and (eclectic artist)?”

“No.  Not really.”

“What about subconsciously.  I am sure you were influenced without even knowing.”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Everyone is quiet
The ones who listen to npr rack their minds
for another name to drop, or a quote from
this american life
The rest of us wait, patiently, hoping none
of them remember one
Finally, someone breaks this funeral silence with a
“Well, thanks, really, for showing us this”
and everyone piles back into the first room to listen to us writers

Why we are not set up in the same room
as the featured artist’s work is puzzling
and the host’s husband is suffering from a depression induced
nervous breakdown, so no one questions her decisions

I try to listen
I really do
paying attention to each noun-adjective-noun-adjective-verb
in their monotone seriousness hoping to subconsciously portray the depth of their artistic sorcery

All so serious
all the circumstances, all the decisions
all the positive and negative
all so serious
and no matter from which perspective
I look at it or
I question it
life has no meaning or purpose
it all only just exists
right now

how beautiful
how poetic
how romantic

 

 

af

(written with pen on paper after a poetry reading)