Posthistory

It is finished!
The capstone is set
with the delicate handiwork of a Polish-Russian
displaying his mastery over color and technique.
Philistines accuse him of depicting
black people loading coal at night,
ignoring the craft in his brushstrokes,
blind before the bare icon
of the end of history

Up-and-coming artists
sigh under this dictatorial supremacy,
the absolute apex and total terminus
of all high-minded philosophies.
Wounded, they go back
to their comfort foods and drinks,
reusing the simple
and not hoping to speak enlightened messages

How will they restart
after destruction,
find a replacement
for the rest of art,
when one act declares all others obsolete?
But they must restart--
rest art--
for the sake of the times we find ourselves in,
and for everything else
[Insert MasterCard joke here]