Mythical. How dare you fumble about such tender texts with your long sword of ignorance! Mythical. Apart from being an alliterative alignment of alpha-bits, it meant little to María Elena, simply María Elena. "Get your own pantheon!" one needs to yell at him as he constantly stumbles over it... "like my pants at age six, embarrassed," interrupts Ginsberg.        Shh.        Let those soft words be, in peace, themselves and leave your funhouse mirror etymology out of such inconsolable silence.       Shh.       64-year friendships are hard to come by. 49-year friendships too.

Uncle Floro! Uncle Floro! That was his name! That epistle-packing ranger was real, Daisy!       Shh.        Yes, he existed and for some first person he always will; they frequently reunite at Neruda's place for poetry readings, the host having been his companion in Colonia Francia, half a country's length from those large coastal stadiums for horses and for bulls. We'll have time (oh no!) to reference his fascination with conversing passionately on country roads within the sun's nap-time hours or his ramblings in Parque Rodó below the moon's February brilliance.

Borges held: "El arte es un pequeño milagro." And Whistler's symphonies remind us of that. But today our first person followed that phrase about like a large mouse running on its wheel. And his thinking set not a word atremble. "How is that?" he asked. My answer: It's that you hear Whitman's multitudes within and you listen, kindly, not only to the loud ones, but to all of them.