and listen, half-aware, to learn
that the world of Picasso, Da Vinci, Thoreau
It seems the creators were destroyed
by some meteor or an ice age in the airwaves.
You can see what they left behind, the artifacts-
their fossilized bones hang, under a light blanket of
dust, in any museum [some carelessly loiter
on shelves with yellowed pages falling out].
Where have all the artists gone?
They must’ve sold their hearts
for a less complicated reality.
Or became the soldiers in a war against- what was it again?- something they can’t quite recall.
Charcoal faces with lines blurring
into the creases,, stating boldly,
“I Want YOU to Give Up Now.”
And there are those who claim,
with sneering arrogance,
that they never really existed at all.
In such a static age, who do you believe?
And now there is a new breed, the common
Who lingers around coffee shops and quiet cafes sullenly,
with the life completely drawn out of their faces,
asking for a fresh cup, “something strong and black as my soul…
if I had one.”
On the cracking pale porcelain, they leave their fossils,
two red bent ellipses of cheap lipstick and words just as cheap,
just waiting to be washed away.