No one
Really knows
What the fuck
They’re even
Doing

Despite
What lies persistent
Convince
These efforts
Wrong

As works
Concealing doubt
With their meanings
True
Or special

Beyond
Such lives dependent
On those skills
Of needy
Men

Like a public
Fallen weak
To that answer
In their
Illness

Or savior
Swearing respite
By relief
Through mortal
Hands

Bringing
Instant death
Where genius
Bears
Its triumph

And hubris
Offers vengeance
Through learned
And expert
Crafts –

Nonsense
If you ask
Our God
Who isn’t
Begging

But telling
All our artists
Their truth
Should only
Last,

Not doctors
Or that task
To employ
For sake
Of reason

And money
Hanging desperate
Over heads
Whose neck
Is bent

Selling
Easy grace
When they peddle
Fame
And knowledge

While brains
Are always telling
Of a hope
That’s always
Best

Among
Our quiet faith
That’s muddled
As we
Wrestle

With jobs
Which only happen
From roles
We never
Plan.

– J. Pigno