What the Muses Leave Behind

“Argentines have watched, horrified, as the meltdown dissolved more than their pocketbooks. Even the rich have been affected in their own way. The tragedy has struck hardest, however, among the middle class, the urban poor and the dirt farmers. Their parts of this once-proud society appear to have collapsed -- a cave-in so complete as to leave Argentines inhabiting a barely recognizable landscape.” – Washington Post , August 6, 2002 Morning climbs up the sleek skin of skyscrapers. Morning climbs up the sleek skin of skyscrapers. Our broken bourgeois dines on cracked china. Our broken bourgeois dines on cracked china. Sleek china dines on the cracked bourgeois. Broken of skyscrapers, morning climbs up our skin Proud Argentina sleeps with a growling belly. Proud Argentina sleeps with a growling belly. There is food on the freeway and it’s still alive. There is food on the freeway and it’s still alive. It’s a proud freeway still growling with food. Argentina is there alive and the b

Don’t bury your wilderness! Honor that rakish salvation from soap and Jane Austin; it’s neither silk purse nor sow's ear. Don’t bother with the chase, down stone steps all the way to Mongolia; forget tunneling with worm holes into a ninth dimension. Instead, remember how slyly your own reflection fills with cobwebs like puddles in August if you neglect the beveled lips of crystal between you and this feral kin. Bend your light as obliquely as a sky is full of quasars, giggle madly as a herd of girls in skirts scarlet and billowing. Don't bother with the chase, your savanna patiently waits. Find the nerve instead to trace the iron laced fissure, defining your own fault line. Find the nerve to huddle like Persephone beside Hades; embrace your Jerusalem. It shelters an Irish salmon, you'll roast on hot coals. Feed its best morsels to your yeti; and don’t bury it again!