"and you , O my soul where you stand,
surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing , venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect
them.
till the bridge you will need be form’d, till the ductile anchor hold,
till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, o my soul.”
“A noiseless Patient Spider,”
Whitman.
Then you just write more bullshit about it,
Walt,
half baked jazz riff tommy tune in stilettos
and the poster of the bridge in tommy’s room
takes on a different view
Rod Carew in bunting blue.
daunting daunting the climb therein
from rigid to wise-guy.
trying to slip sideways
onto the tongue of life, Walt.
That’s all.
You see the Nature of this new stench,
boiling, and you are winched
oiled & stained
The scar that Caligula left.
Agreed upon
the cool slap of shoe leather in the rain
pebbles to scatter if you are a mind,
not too timid or too kind
soul that put a spell on you.
Adding your comment:
