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There will never be museums to us.
They will not write our names in bold
    black text on white, or underlined,
    a birth year and a death year, and
    an artist's statement.

We will not even get a gravestone.
Cemeteries are filling up, and these days
    more and more of us are burned, until
    a plaque that soaks up rain and warps,
    until that's gone as well, and ash
    isn't of use to anyone.

Maybe, I hope, my friends will say my name.
Maybe, I pray to Someone, it won't —

Worse, they open a museum.
I'd picket every night, throw soup
    on paintings, steal magnets from
    the gift shop, try to set the place
    on fire with cigarette butts, start
    a fight with anyone I hear say,
    "This piece is so important," bloody-
    nosed and crying, passing out
    in front of photographs you took.
    I never did enough.

Museums are a weapon, meant
    to kill us twice.