A Lackluster Performer in all Aspects by Michael Allen Rose


 

Dull, inescapably dull.

Boring. Dusty. Mundane.

Not an instant where we found ourselves pulled in.

Not a heartbeat of captured time.

No, this was nothing worth writing home about.

Nothing worth phoning, telegraphing, nothing at all.

And yet…

No, it was a sad spectacle in every way.

Cliched. Hackneyed. Overdone.

Not one moment in which to suspend our disbelief.

Not a twinkle in the eyes of the watching children.

No, hardly worth mentioning.

Not worth remembering, hardly even there.

And yet…

There was…

No, the price of admission was too high at any price.

Garish. Horrid.

A clownish smear of color across the eyes.

Sickly hues scribbled over their features.

We were aghast, we covered our eyes in horror.

They looked like demons, finger-painted in the air.

And yet…

There was…

Something…

No. Nothing. The music was noise and chaos.

Gasping. Screeching. Violent.

The broken strings lamented against a wall of rumbles.

The musicians were out of tune.

The conductor had stabbed himself through the eye with his baton.

These were the sounds of agony, of factories and pollution.

And yet…

There was…

Something…

What was it?

Dull, inescapably dull.

Boring. Dusty. Mundane.

Not an instant where we found ourselves pulled in.

Not a heartbeat of captured time.

No, this was nothing worth writing home about.

Nothing worth phoning, telegraphing, nothing at all.

And yet…

No, it was a sad spectacle in every way.

Cliched. Hackneyed. Overdone.

Not one moment in which to suspend our disbelief.

Not a twinkle in the eyes of the watching children.

No, hardly worth mentioning.

Not worth remembering, hardly even there.

And yet…

There was…

No, the price of admission was too high at any price.

Garish. Horrid.

A clownish smear of color across the eyes.

Sickly hues scribbled over their features.

We were aghast, we covered our eyes in horror.

They looked like demons, finger-painted in the air.

And yet…

There was…

Something…

No. Nothing. The music was noise and chaos.

Gasping. Screeching. Violent.

The broken strings lamented against a wall of rumbles.

The musicians were out of tune.

The conductor had stabbed himself through the eye with his baton.

These were the sounds of agony, of factories and pollution.

And yet…

There was…

Something…

What was it?

______________________________________________

Michael Allen Rose is a writer, performance artist, producer and musician living in Chicago, IL with a cat named Dandelion. Originally from the frozen wastes of North Dakota, Michael’s plays have been produced in New York, Chicago, Portland, Denver and several other major cities. He is founder and artistic director of RoShamBo Theatre, and releases industrial and experimental music under the pseudonym Flood Damage. His shorter pieces have been published in Kizuna: Fiction for Japan and seen on stage at Chicago’s famed Second City where he spent a year studying at the conservatory.

His first book, Party Wolves in My Skull, is available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble and via your favorite indie bookshop.

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