The Deconstruction of a Realist

Here’s a ball made of clay
Untitled and motionless
Sculpted by a man gone mad
While he was undergoing treatment at a facility
For Paranoid Schizophrenia
The critic says wait a minute
I see it now
There must be depth to this work
This ball is not a ball at all
But a sphere of consequential value
There’s a small dent in one side
The sculpture is hinting at imperfection
The sphere is small and expressionless
Signifying our homogenous mediocrity
It’s a spherical work of genius
Says the overly delighted critic
It’s a post-modern realists’ essay on our time
Eerily simplistic
With full cultural relevance
Mocking the human desire
For perfection, beauty and greatness
Within six months of three optimistic full paged articles
The ball is auctioned off
To a collector of obscure European works
At just over thirty-five grand
It is to be followed by an untitled cube
A tiny untitled pyramid
And a giant rectangle titled “rectangle, untitled”
Each piece commanding well over twenty thousand dollars
Three of which now sit in glass cases
At the museum of modern art
In the now-deceased artists’ hometown
Of Stedelijk, Netherlands
The artist, sadly
Having never seen a sculpture sold
Died in his asylum by self-inflicted wounds
After which
His soiled bed sheets were auctioned off
At just under 2 million Euros