He accepts an invitation to a
concert in an art studio
with spackling still on the walls
electrical wires hanging from the ceiling
purposefully unfinished
and always meant to appear that way;
audience and musicians sitting so close
they can smell each other’s breath.
Everyone is illuminated by utility lamps
through pink and orange gel filters
held in place by clothespins.
Someone makes screeching noises
with multiple saxophones while
someone else abuses a cello
in unspeakable ways.

There are four in the band
two others operating the show
and ten in the audience.
He feels very exposed
in such a small crowd
because he’s not sure
when to applaud.

Someone will surely notice
he doesn’t "get it" -
walkie-talkies used as drumsticks
to pound on what appears to be a
shrunken human head -
it’s fascinating, but as he listens
he’s trying in his own head
to construct the words
he will need afterwards
when someone will inevitably ask
what he thought of the performance.
He tries desperately to get "it"
as if "it" were an object
waiting to be picked up
and put on display.

He looks to the others for clues
but they’re no help
because they’re all bobbing their heads
to an invisible beat buried within
arrhythmic dissonance
reinforcing his anxiety that everyone else
is in on something inaccessible to him
and he gets upset with all of them:
Why do I need to "get it,"
I’m entertained, okay?
I mean, after all,
it’s a goddamned shrunken head.

He listens to the keyboard player
recite poetry echoing from
exhausted beat generations
so he snaps his fingers
instead of clapping his hands
but no one thinks its funny.
A young couple next to him
comments
on how this music isn’t original
it was done 30 years ago
why don’t they just perform in
retirement homes
as living human folk treasures
rather than trying to
pass themselves off as experimental?

The comment distracts him
from his cultural poverty
as he recalls it’s been 30 years
since he last heard this type of music
not that he understood it any better then
but the arrogant perspective of age
permits him the knowledge that
nothing is truly original:
As soon as we think we’ve
created something new
we quickly discover the Greeks
already did it or
so-called "primitive" cultures
have been doing it for 1000 years
everything cycles back in
a huge eternal loop
a Mobius strip of unknown radius
folded around us such that
we are unaware of inside or outside
let alone above or below
like a bunch of paper-thin
Flatland critters
being tormented by
higher dimensional life forms
popping in and out of our
flat loopy world
in ways that don’t allow us
to see their various manifestations
are just parts of one big thing
connected outside the
immediately apparent
3D Cartesian volume.

He decides this must be the "it"
he doesn’t get:
these musicians are really just
the writhing extremities
of a single creature
projected down from
eleven dimensions
whose appendages happen to intersect
this humble continuum
behind a drum, a keyboard,
a saxophone and a cello.
He imagines he can
step outside his 3D container
where everything becomes clear:
"it" can be seen in it’s entirety
and he can tell all these people
very smugly
how he gets "it"
and they don’t
because they’re just a bunch
of Flatlanders anyway
never mind his whole
being-from-South-Dakota thing
its just a ruse to
mask all of his higher planes
allowing him to get "it"
in ways he can’t explain to them
because they’re stuck in the circle
and he’s not.

Afterwards the beatnik-poetry woman
asked him what he thought of the
performance.

"Fine," he says.