Isis or Oasis? This ship of fools we’re on has no permanent mooring.
We glide through the city in an integument of advertising, subsumed by consumerism.
The grey winter skies are a burden everyone must bear, but at least they are blank of message.
One remains receptive to that blankness at one’s own risk.
Only in museums do we celebrate what doesn’t fit,
though street art offers a more direct challenge to the lies of the carnival barkers.
Let us acknowledge at least the idea of escape—that there can be some oasis,
that the bourgeois dream of a walled garden dissolves after dark into the dominion of wild foxes.