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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required My muse is still alive, she’s also my wife, And the best thing about her Or at least how she relates to me Is how she finds me amusing. Interesting, get that, a-musing Since I am literally not her muse. And yet muses aren’t by definition serious Although their impact is Like the way a new born infant’s is. So the day they, although not mine, died Was the day we all began to take everything We thought and said so seriously Like who offended who, and why As if who we really are and how we got that way Is even a knowable, let alone an observable. We fuss and fight about the trivial and mistaken Such as “cultural appropriation”, as if That isn’t the very means by which cultures grow. I mean, do I have to be Californian or Jewish To be entitled to enjoy and wear Levi jeans? If the world wasn’t meant to embrace appropriating Then most of the world wouldn’t be using electricity, Or driving vehicles, flushing toilets, eating pizza. The world would be a lesser and lonelier place. And just the fact we doubt it, Doubt we are good enough, And don’t deserve to share, and learn and grow Makes us susceptible to the promise of AI The next level of intelligence, Because ours is clearly lacking. And if the artificial replaces the natural In culture, art, music, sports, politics, Science, agriculture and fashion Then what’s the point of the natural anymore? And without the natural, the spontaneous, The unexpected and unexplained, Then where are we, and what need is there For a muse? So, enough with the old history lessons, If you need something, if you’re lacking In knowledge or inspiration or advice Just ask The Machine It’ll know and tell you all you want to hear. (6/28/26)
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