Eucatastrophe

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EUCATASTROPHE


Passers congregate to watch the artist work,

thick as famished moths encountering a porch-

light in the heart of Central Park. “What is

it?” they ask religiously, and tilt their heads

to gain perspective on the ugly, irreligious 

marks he scrawls across the canvas cloth. 


“But what's it mean?’ they beg to know,

and some resort to theories showing how

it all makes perfect sense if you will squint

accordingly or view it as a piece of modern 

art, void of intent—but then another line, 

another spot, and explanations must begin


afresh. Watchers fidget as the evening 

tightens in. “Meaningless!” some determine,

trickling home despondent at the state 

of things. It’s but a hopeful few who stay

until the bitter end, when with a flourish 

he inverts the canvas, laughs. They gasp!

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