Allen Ginsberg (1926—1997), poet-herald of the 1950’s “Beat Generation,” in pious, road-weary conjunct with Jack Kerouac and William S. Burroughs, rang and stridently clanged the morning bells of midnight’s warning — against civilization and squalorous, civil intent of American industrialization. His clarid, ringed warnings were not heard; or, if heard, rottingly unheeded. Now, rotting in the fire’s outbreak of broken economy and spirit, dispirited Americans begin to heed — but what (“Oh, what!”) could have been saved and salvaged, and have our paved city-walks now wasted, within unsavory wastes of trash and over-“developed,” under-evolved apartment-rubbles, and forever brashly lost?