by Dana Carlson

The people in the art galleries can stand before
A Rothko for hours and deduct
no meaning
From the liberal paint swathes of red and blue
Just as I can deduct
no meaning
From you and blame it all on God
But what is this fate we speak of when there is
no meaning
To life that the constellations or the Bible can give to me:
It’s an outdated transcript that explained before science but today has
no meaning
Just like a page of poetry to the average fraud
Soliciting sex in library aisles with knowledge of iambic pentameter having
no meaning
To him other than the promise of romps as disappointing as what’s in his pants
But he is hungry to whisper cunning phrases with
no meaning
Into the ears of naive girls, pubescent girls, hopeful girls that still pray, still have faith
That their middle class lives will be more someday but really there’s
no meaning
To love because it is a fallacy, an artificial confection no more natural
Than the engineered preservatives that keep our groceries fresh and give us cancer.

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