Take our best friends, Walt Whitman and Oscar Wilde. Neither a boozer. Yet both wild, wild, west. Walt by birth, Oscar by choice.
I would like ALL to become aware Oscar visited Walt back when Oscar was trying to get something going in Isle of Mann Mannn Mannnn Manhattan, back in the day. Walt was still around, hanging around, in Camden, N.J. working on Leaves of Grass to the very end. The very end hadn’t arrived yet.
Oscar hadn’t yet gone to prison. He’d gone to prism, but so had Walt. Both had done rainbow. Did Walt ever do prison? He did more or less a year, but it was not hard time. It was soft time. It was fluffy cloud time, as when a pillow gets ruffled, you lay your head down, and over, thankful for “soft” feathery, cloudy comforts of sleep. A jangle in the clouds. On the order of house arrest. On the order of doing what he’d always done. In other words, daily massages, assignations and advisements, and all the rest. Clouds make excellent pillows.
Spam of Human Affection 
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