A high growth of high perbole sings in Walt Whitman’s Mannahatta, as struggle-time releases a pain-paean to democracy,
Numberless crowded streets, high growths of iron, slender, strong,
[…]
The countless masts, the white shore-steamers, the lighters, the ferry-boats, the black sea-steamers well-model’d,
The down-town streets, the jobbers’ houses of business, the houses of business of the ship-merchants and money-brokers,
Numberless streets, countless masts, hubbub of hodge podge, hodge podge of mob rule bobbing and weaving, mob jobbers’ ruling in houses without rules, astrologically astronomical, and far before Mercury, Apollo, Jupiter, or Sally Ride.
The moon was in the tide, and the tide was in the House of David, and it was by riding the tide, with Sally Ride, on the tidal divide, pushed by gravity, the gravity of the situation, jobbers would go to the moon. Steve Jobs? Low tide, high tide, hyperion hyperbolic tide,
A jobber was walking down a crowded Mannahattas street, seeing all kinds, hearing, as a kind of cellist mefluence, an iridescence, crested, and houses here and there. Pink ones, white ones, lots of stone…
…And ring cameras.
Spam of Human Affection 
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