The Artwork: The Future is Falling
The Poem: Illusions of Certainty
The future is built
of funhouse mirrors.
Anyone who tells you otherwise
works at the circus,
selling you tickets
to a show that does not exist,
jacking up the prices
to an invisible performance
of assurance.
We buy it,
because who doesn’t want
a future
clear as a bell?
No smudges
on the glass,
a picture-perfect view
of where and how to go
next.
As if knowing
is how you assembled your path
to Now.
As if guarantees
poured out like wet cement as you
arranged each stepping stone
constructed of absolute clarity
into a faultless tree-lined boulevard
of certitude.
No.
Reality ripens
like a fruit in the wild.
It swells and sweetens and rots
sometimes feeding, often bursting and burying itself
to seed another
splendidly imprecise future.
But…
What do I know?
I’m just a fruit
falling
to the ground.