“if I could I’d burn all of Western literature to set it free …”

Here’s the thing, the problem I struggle with,
the whole kit and kaboodle, here’s how I’ll

go down: one day I’ll get bored, my neolith
art will no longer please. Every exile

knows that immortality is absurd.
It’s that last act: burning books, deleting

computer files, making sure that no word
remains — that is art. Would you keep writing

if you knew no one would read it? Zen tells
us to hit “erase” after each poem.

Enlightenment claims nothing shall remain
behind. Fuck zen. Give me chaos and hell’s

short-term memory. I want to become
nothing, let blank pages be my domain.