Shall I Project A World?

My Mother Is The War,' Declares Roger Mexico, Leaning Over To Open The Door.

A Screaming Comes Across The Sky.

Who Claims Truth, Truth Abandons. History Is Hir'd, Or Coerc'd, Only In Interests That Must Ever Prove Base. She Is Too Innocent, To Be Left Within The Reach Of Anyone In Power,- Who Need But Touch Her, And All Her Credit Is In The Instant Vanish'd, As If It Had Never Been. She Needs Rather To Be Tended Lovingly And Honorably By Fabulists And Counterfeiters, Ballad-mongers And Cranks Of Ev'ry Radius, Masters Of Disguise To Provide Her The Costume, Toilette, And Bearing, And Speech Nimble Enough To Keep Her Beyond The Desires, Or Even The Curiosity, Of Government.

The Anarchist Is Dressed All In Black. In The Dark You Can Only See His Eyes. It Dates From The 1930's. Porky Pig Is A Little Boy. The Children Told Me That He Has A Nephew Now, Cicero. Do You Remember, During The War, When Porky Worked In A Defense Plant? He And Bugs Bunny. That Was A Good One Too.

So The City Became The Material Expression Of A Particular Loss Of Innocence – Not Sexual Or Political Innocence But Somehow A Shared Dream Of What A City Might At Its Best Prove To Be – Its Inhabitants Became, And Have Remained, An Embittered And Amnesiac Race, Wounded But Unable To Connect Through Memory To The Moment Of Injury, Unable To Summon The Face Of Their Violator.