Anonymity’s Red Carpet (rewrite)
by Odin Roark

Plush the red,
Expansive the coverage,,
Bombastic the stage,
Every genius and loser’s dream.

The why of lights,
Camera,
Action,
Curtain,
Sound mix,
Masses,
Begs kneeling,
Before the collapse
Of the mass convergence
On any and all stages
Where fame and fortune’s delusion
Plays out.

Why the red?
Why the carpet?
Why the flash bulbs?
Why the selfies?
Why the fan spectacle?

“Johnny, you’re special.”
“Good job, Johnny.”
“Way to go, Johnny.”

Until…
Wake up call.

Are you really special?
Are you just different?
As your bubble bursts,
You’re on the carpet,
But no interviews,
No chance to show the cleavage,
No chance for his Armani Tux to be noticed.

And so…

You turn to…what?
Anything
‘cause your mommy told you
“You’re special, Johnny.”

Another award show

And you claw your way
To the crimson rug
For your sorry *ss bearing of soul?

How dense this malady of identification.
This malaise of dysfunction.
Perpetrated by us as
Biological parents.
Scholastic parents.
Business parents.
Know-it-all political parents.

Fostered by the media,
Perpetuated by the variety of leaches,
The “so-called” grownups
Of the parasitic world
Continue to flourish
Like their ancestral history
Cockroachdom.

There is a saving grace…

In the stage wings of mind.
That never invite,
Stands calm the minds understanding,
the artists bathed in reality,
Cleansed of conscious debris,
Remnant baggage disintegrating,
Knowing they are/were never special
Save the gratuitous claims of other.

Just distinct, oh, yes.

How rewarding
This silent this (non Red Carpet)walk
Toward nowhere,
And everywhere.

Gifted with sober ethics,
A modicum of intelligence
And desire to never be lured
Into the unrolling of a rug of seduction.

Many of these anonymous…

Become thinkers about their chosen art,
Anonymous to most
As identity of thought should be,
Especially as one gazes upon
Anonymity’s red carpet,
The passionate walk of today,
Tomorrow,
And…

Who knows?