I die a little inside when I see this

I die a little inside when I see this

The Blind Leading the Blind, by Pieter Bruegel. 1568

A farmer on the way to market
Told his beautiful muse
That we’re much too self-conscious
These days

So she said to him
Don’t I know that!
As if she were from New York
By way of Dublin

By way of a steamer
A century ago

Or was it a zeppelin?
Not that it matters

Because she flew on her own,
Regardless

Muses can do that and more
Much more

Like make us think
We’re making the art
When it’s really the muse
Always the muse

But I digress . . .

So the farmer wasn’t nearly as
Self-conscious as he thought
Because years from now
Books will be written

Saying it was Laura
Not Boris
Who wrote the poems
Which is code

For this particular
Dynamic
On this particular
Road to the market

Which is code for another
And still another
Route pathway journey
Imbroglio

Ξ

Life was so much simpler
When conquest theft domination
Were cool
Were hip

Were
 No
     Big
           Deal

 

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