The Insidious Effrontery of Ontology

Norman Young wanted
To say something new.
I matter! he cried,
But none could hear him
Over the clamor,
Clatter, bustle, and
Discord of the world.
He sat and thought, but
Grew impatient when
Thinking was painful.
He resolved to yell
As loud as he could.
I matter! he screamed.
His voice unsettled
Buildings and houses,
Cracked windows, unmoored
Ships, but returned to
Norman unheeded.
I know, he thought, I’ll
Go somewhere higher:
Surely they’ll listen
When I’m above them.
He found a soapbox,
Stood upon it, and
Addressed the masses.
Brothers! he shouted,
Hear me—I matter!
And finally, finally,
He caught the notice
Of a passerby.
That is nothing new,
The man said curtly,
And he tipped his hat
And kept on walking.
Norman stood silent
Alone on his box,
Musing for hours.
Of course, he realized,
How stupid I’ve been!
How can I think I’ll
Say something different
When I don’t know what’s
Already been said?
He strained to listen,
But could not make out
A single voice in
The roar of the world.
Disappointed, he
turned to books. All things
Worth saying, he thought,
Are set down in print.
When I have read all
There is to read, then
I’ll know what’s been said.
Norman sat for days,
Weeks, months, years, decades
In the library.
His hair grew, his skin
Stretched, his face wrinkled.
He lost himself in
Homer, Persius,
Aristophanes,
Horace, Juvenal,
And witty Lucian.
Certainly, he thought,
They’ve covered a lot.
He picked up Chaucer,
More and Erasmus.
His teeth turned yellow,
His eyes strained to see.
He skimmed through Wyatt,
Nashe, Middleton next;
He was awed by both
Shakespeare and Jonson.
Dryden bored him, but
He found Rochester,
Pope, Gay and Fielding
Simply delightful.
He laughed a filthy
Laugh, and lost his teeth.
The flesh rubbed from his
Fingers and peeled from
His face; he smelled of
Mildew and decay.
Pus oozed from his pores.
Surely now, he thought,
I can stop reading.
There’s nothing more that
Can be said. But then
He came across Swift.
One more, he thought, can’t
Possibly hurt me—
But he was poisoned
By the harsh whip of
Anger, invective,
And hatred he
Found in those pages.
He stood, dead already,
And stumbled outside,
Knowing at last how
Little he mattered.
So what? What matter?
He thought, and mounted
The soapbox again.
His arm came out of
Its socket. His legs
Crumpled. His head sagged.
He fell to his knees.
I can say nothing,
He mouthed, but nothing
Came out.