The Death of Culture














Midnight and the Minotaur's lost in the city,
circling the same neon walls passed
in the endless orbit hours
following dinner with Pablo.
He approaches random passersby,
dispassionate cocktail crowds
who offer shrugs of apathy.
Kong had it right--
once they force
you off the island-grab
a likely virgin-hightail it
up the Empire State--
film at eleven--
a face no one forgets.

Days were different in the labyrinth,
before he entered the mental maze
that led him to trade
fame for freedom.
The Minotaur in his prime
welcoming the flower of youth--
a fan club willing to pay any price
for nothing more than
the merest glimpse of glory.

(Image: Pablo Picasso, The Minotaur and His Wife, 1937)