Dead Letter

The more I see
of this world,
the less I desire
to be a part of it — 

though I feel
that every time I say this
I am even more
a part of it,

participating in it
as one of the
customary
dissenters.  

Such a tired pose — 
I would be better off
without a tongue
or an urge toward art,

as the rest of you
would be as well.  
Thus, therefore,
the great experiment

of killing an artist
to seek a man in here,
for at least
a short time.

What makes anyone
think it will matter
at all a year,
two years,

fifty years from now
if I never create
another blessed
or cursed thing?

At best, I’ll be
your footnote friend
or object lesson.
At worst, I’ll be

one more
dead letter
to the future
from the past:

the most
common
thing
there is.