So Long! By Walt Whitman

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To conclude, I announce what comes after me.

I remember I said before my leaves sprang at all,
I would raise my voice jocund and strong with reference to consummations.

When America does what was promis’d,
When through these States walk a hundred millions of super persons,
When the rest part away for superb persons and contribute to them,
When breeds of the most perfect mothers denote America,
Then to me and mine our due fruition.

I have press’d through in my own right,
I have sung the body and the soul, war and peace have I sung, and the songs of life and death,
And the songs of birth, and shown that there are many births.

I have offer’d my style to every one, I have journey’d with confident step;
While my pleasure is yet at the full I whisper So long!
And take the young woman’s hand and the young man’s hand for the last time.

I announce natural persons to arise,
I announce justice triumphant,
I announce uncompromising liberty and equality,
I announce the justification on candor and the justification of pride.
I announce that identity of these States is a single identity only,
I announce the Union more and more compact, indissoluble,
I announce splendors and majesties to make all the previous politics of the earth insignificant.

I announce adhesiveness, I say it shall be limitless, unloosen’d,
I say you shall yet find the friend you were looking for.

I announce a man or woman coming, perhaps you are the one, (So long!)
I announce the great individual, fluid as Nature, chaste, affectionate, compassionate, fully arm’d.

I announce a life that shall be copious, vehement, spiritual, bold,
I announce an end that shall lightly and joyfully meet is translation.
I announce myriads of youths, beautiful, gigantic, sweet-blooded,
I announce a race of splendid and savage old men.

O thicker and faster—(So long!)
O crowding too close upon me,
I foresee too much, it means more than I thought,
It appears to me I am dying.

Hasten throat and sound your last,
Salute me—salute the days once more. Peal the old cry once more.

Screaming electric, the atmosphere using,
At random glancing, each as I notice absorbing,
Swiftly on, but a little while alighting,
Curious envelop’d messages delivering,
Sparkles hot, seed ethereal down in the dirt dropping,
Myself unknowing, my commission obeying, to question it never daring,
To ages and ages yet the growth of the seed leaving,
To troops out of the war arising, they the tasks I have set promulging,
To women certain whispers of myself bequeathing, their affection me more clearly explaining,
To young men my problems offering—no dallier I—I the muscle of their brains trying,
So I pass, a little time vocal, visible, contrary,
Afterward a melodious echo, passionately bent for, (death making me really undying,)
The best of me then when no longer visible, for toward that I have been incessantly preparing.

What is there more, that I lag and pause and crouch extended with unshut mouth?
Is there a single final farewell?

My songs cease, I abandon them,
From behind the screen where I hid I advance personally solely to you.

Camerado, this is no book,
Who touches this touches a man,
(Is it night? Are we here together alone?)
It is I you hold and who holds you,
I spring from the pages into your arms—decease calls me forth.

O how your fingers drowse me,
Your breath falls around me like dew, your pulse lulls the tympans of my ears,
I feel emerged from head to foot,
Delicious, enough.

Dear friend whoever you are take this kiss.
I give it especially to you, do not forget me,
I feel like the one who has done work for the day to retire awhile,
I receive now and again of my many translations, from my avatars ascending, while others doubtless await me,
An unknown sphere more real than I dream’d, more direct, darts awakening rays about me, So Long!
Remember my words, I may again return,
I love you, I depart from materials,
I am as one disembodied, triumphant, dead.

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Divine Earthling. The Worst Gig?

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Beware the pedestal
to be knocked from
for what
Divine Being
has not described
human folly
human demons
human martyrs
(and fortunately)
human humor.

Are we all Gods or Nobody Is?

We all have the ability
to kill, to love
to hate, to love
to scream
like a Banshee God
when stripped
of self
of worth.

Some form of creator knew
babies born beautiful
have a higher survival rate;
somebody forgot
skin deep beauty
creates pain for they
and the beast.

Covered:
Venus de Milo
Betty Grable
Madonna
(baby at your feet)

note to grandchildren:
before you tie any type knot
live with your chosen long enough
to see both sides now;
good/ugly
good = happy
ugly = unhappy
learn to inquire
or walk away.
If humans were perfect
everyone would be perfectly happy.

If I can you can too:
catch yourself feeling angry
hold a mirror before your face
know what ugly looks like – for
even great eye candy
will turn sour.
Once you know
you can know others.

(notable end)

the more you laugh the better you feel
so eat truth at every meal

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Happily I Run Away

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so she changed her story
now one of them is a lie
he that choses
which story to believe
has an agenda

the rich man vs. the slut

run run run run away

hearing in your head
“He who receives not
justice on this plane,
receives it in the next.”

no need to run away
you little dust devil
yo’wind
will dance you up
and settle you down
exactly
where you wish to be
unconscious
or consciously
beloved Wind
also
enjoys
the dance.

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Sadly I Back Away

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how many times point out
pets don’t like to be dressed to look like humans
you can see it in their face and eyes

ya say keep saying that and others
till you go away – ok
but when dat low down feeling come
take some time out time

i’m glad my face lets my kindren know
rough roads traveled – survived

words help
thoughts of friends
finding my way back to peace
(maybe in a moment
to smile)

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Pause

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foreboding panic she pauses
(enters daughter springing posies)
all the better to see you who
between the noses and the roses
shall enter
the Kingdom of the Sea (?)
(don’t forget your aqua lungs)

so’s and if’ns some of us’ens
do the mud dance
the laughter a’plenty
(and great for the skin)

sometime foreboding only means
change the seating
maybe the view
Bear Mountain still stands
or is looking up if
the remaining horizon is lying down
yes, sometimes she lies not lays
when evening falls lightly
awaiting star shine

tread lightly little cypher
thru the fore and bodings
panic is no place
for a body set in motion
magic is
mind/body/spirit
moving
synchronizingly
home
(or anywhere
that calls to “next”)

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Your Laughter by Pablo Neruda

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Take bread away from me, if you wish,
take air away, but
do not take from me your laughter.

Do not take away the rose,
the lanceflower that you pluck,
the water that suddenly
bursts forth in your joy,
the sudden wave
of silver born in you.

My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky seeking me
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.

My love, in the darkest
hour your laughter
opens, and if suddenly
you see my blood staining
the stones of the street,
laugh, because your laughter
will be for my hands
like a fresh sword.

Next to the sea in the autumn,
your laughter must raise
its foamy cascade,
and in the spring, love,
I want your laughter like
the flower I was waiting for,
the blue flower, the rose
of my echoing country.

Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
laugh at the twisted
streets of the island,
laugh at this clumsy
boy who loves you,
but when I open
my eyes and close them,
when my steps go,
when my steps return,
deny me bread, air
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I would die.

Translated by Donald Walsh

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To Quote : To Mispoke

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“To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”
- Alfred Tennyson

between the feelies and the squealies
when there is no safety in numbers
and recognition might bring distruction
and a squealie begs your help
sit him/her down, tell him/her wait
you will fetch what is needed
slowly walk away, turn a corner,
speed like hell back to a bubble!

no, Annie, don’t get your gun
that’a da way
this sorry World has swung
since territory was an issue
of survival

“ Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
- Dylan Thomas

it was his father’s death, not his own
birthed Dylan’s pen to write
for men becoming fatherless
for women becoming motherless
the awareness moment
pre unconsidered

tell me how does it feel
1st generation to declared
“don’t trust anyone over thirty”
to now have children
over thirty?

but i struggle
thru the Dylan story
how can knot know i,
breaker of lines
a scallarwag of words
filling in the lines
filling in the lines
down to the bottom
Page Two!

ha ha little laugher
a paranoia
a holy shiver
Where to you want to go
little one?
Would you be handed the answer
from someone’s
little black book?

nah
i’m a billy buck from sugarmarou
playing with sound
(i’ll ask you again)
will you come and play?

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Dylan Says, “Do it.”

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thank you Constantine Fitzgibbon
for writing The Life of…
for every poetry lover
loving Dylan Thomas
the man who would
go mad
rarely but
pretty much justified
and a good time to remember,
“Choose your battles.”

there it comes again
tingling till I
could care less
but don’t
it’s the space
between
love and God damnit
where we learn
to remember
the size of the bolt
must not excede
the crime

and yes
giving answers
without questions
thus one does also
experience some
degree of the growing
pain per se

nerds expermient
holding hands
checking
“Nope, no tingling.”

what? “Real
California milk.”
how now crazy cow?

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Blood Limes

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blood limes
not exactly like
blood diamonds
for sure the blood

“Everybody gets something.”
- Robin Roberts

“I could have been a chicken tender.”
- Steven Colbert

way down in Old Mexico
stealing the crop
stealing the land
killing the lime farmers

preparing for the season
of gin
of tonic
of lime
do we really
need to go there
this 2014 season?

Yes, I still go mad-
only this morning I yelled
“God Damn!”
then my shoulders hunched
my head kinda ducked
even with nary a soul in the house
it was an embarrassment

does one ever
gain complete control
over testosterone-like reactions
(isn’t that where
peace lives?)

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The Need To Do

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how do you do
and how
now
find
worthwhile
life
in a stew
once held blue
skies
flowers/bird songs
the stew became we
faltering
finding
we gotta get outta here’s
mess
humanly created
thru all our eras
understanding
the need to do
what we came to do

taken
from the words
of the prophet
on the wall
“we each choose our own path,
it is our birthright”

we are of the web
spinning outward
together to form:
a more perfect universe
steward our most perfect planet

and i am dupped and dizzy
wanting you wanting me
wanting us wanting them
peace to begin
now.

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