{after Walt Whitman's "I Sing the Body Electric"}
http://oldpoetry.com/opoem/2153-Walt-Whitman-I-Sing-The-Body-Electric
The Body of Soul in 21st Century Ameriky
{for Walt, Allen, and Robert}
A homeless soul is but a wraith,
an uncharged ion on an empty street.
Writhing in the grasp of fleshly faith,
may spirits sing, and auras meet.
Profane! Profane, the pimps of war,
who count the dead and living flesh
like lucre in some vast department store,
as waves of farmers sons are threshed.
I love them all, these sheaves of soul,
the baker, at work in the early morn,
the first woman, blackened, mining coal,
the bicep of the farmer, hoeing corn.
My friend is an organic farmer,
with five young children, little money,
but he sings inside his callused armor,
as his lips are smeared with clover honey.
I love them all, the chubby cherub, the
mother’s breast, the magic fountain,
an ebony back, once bent to the lash, a
chanting Buddhist, atop a mountain.
A man's body is a sacred thing,
with thighs to lift, and hands to build.
A woman’s voice was made to sing
of secret temples the moon has filled.
I love the electricity of the brain,
the womb, the breast, the turgid nipple,
the hips that articulate the pain,
the pleasure, quaking in rising ripples.
A sculpture holds the very soul of man
in a poem of flesh, staunch but yielding
to grand designs and simple plans
the soul of man is prone to wielding.
Silver trophy winner
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