James Moore Poet Narrative

Notes About The Poem

The Day The Muses Died

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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