Walt Whitman picked up on Aboriginal Airwaves

For methodological reasons, I love Walt Whitman. He is my anchor, my rock of ages, (as a good American, the beginning of time is 1776), my GPS coordination, when I, on a stepping stone, ring in the changes.

Walt, perhaps not heeding, and, in his forties “at the outbreak of hostilities” not bleeding, but writing with wind, heard an aborigine blend in,

“Mannahattas, Mannahattas, Mannahattas,”

Heard, in his middle ear, a proto-feminist, or Gloria Gaynor, or Emily “Taking the Dick” Dickenson,

“WoooomaWoooomaHattas, WoooomaWoooomaHattas, Womb wear a madddahattas, Mad Hatter”

Walt perching, appreciating those tides in East River, hat cocked, hat vaginated, pipe lit into a screaming, Apache horsemanship, Madison Square Garden, down by the river side, Broadway happening, cantor, big beautiful horse, prance, dance, walk, trot, — cantor– gallop– be a big temple, ride like the wind, be the big man to your bottle of gin.

Pages: 1 2