I am the playhouse; you are in rehearsal.
I host you all, although I have never offered
The invitations myself. You have agents,
Producers, promoters, and shills. It’s them
I want to understand better, not you. You
I understand. Those promoters and agents,
They're spooky operators. They aren’t you,
They aren’t me, they aren’t any audience
We know. But they know. They maneuver.
I hosted a play once, an archaic thing
With the archaic title, Me! Me! Me! Meme,
The same. It was a one-act, an allegory,
Medieval, simplistic, honoring the unities.
It portrayed interactions in which agents
Did not exist separately from actors. But
I am a playhouse. I house the rehearsals,
Often the negotiations as well. I’ve seen
The shadows within me and I’ve learned
You actors are not the agents, the agents
Are not the producers. Writers may or may
Not exist. I’m agnostic on that head, having
Contained too few possible examples of them.
But there’s an entire bestiary swarming,
Coming into my globe to plot and complain,
To profit and declaim, and where I front
The world you come from I can perceive
That even the colorful world I hold will never
Exhaust the varieties of your kind I’ll never
Curtain in me as an entertaining scene.
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