Spontaneoous Me

Spontaneous me, Nature,
The loving day, the mounting sun, the friend I am happy with,
The arm of my friend hanging idly over my shoulder,
The hill-side whiten’d with blossoms of the mountain ash,
The same, late in autumn—the hues of red, yellow, drab, purple, and light and dark green,
The rich coverlid of the grass—animals and birds—the private untrimm’d bank—
the primitive apples—the pebble-stones,
Beautiful dripping fragments—the negligent list of one after another, as I happen to call
them to me, or think of them,
The real poems, (what we call poems being merely pictures,)
The poems of the privacy of the night, and of men like me,
This poem, drooping shy and unseen, that I always carry, and that all men carry,
(Know, once for all, avow’d on purpose, wherever are men like me, are our lusty, lurking,
masculine poems;)
Love-thoughts, love-juice, love-odor, love-yielding, love-climbers, and the climbing sap,
Arms and hands of love—lips of love—phallic thumb of love—breasts of
love—bellies press’d and glued together with love,
Earth of chaste love—life that is only life after love,
The body of my love—the body of the woman I love—the body of the man—the body of
the earth,
Soft forenoon airs that blow from the south-west,
The hairy wild-bee that murmurs and hankers up and down—that gripes the full-grown
lady-flower, curves upon her with amorous firm legs, takes his will of her, and holds himself
tremulous and tight till he is satisfied,
The wet of woods through the early hours,
Two sleepers at night lying close together as they sleep, one with an arm slanting down across
and below the waist of the other,
The smell of apples, aromas from crush’d sage-plant, mint, birch-bark,
The boy’s longings, the glow and pressure as he confides to me what he was dreaming,
The dead leaf whirling its spiral whirl, and falling still and content to the ground,
The no-form’d stings that sights, people, objects, sting me with,
The hubb’d sting of myself, stinging me as much as it ever can any one,
The sensitive, orbic, underlapp’d brothers, that only privileged feelers may be intimate where
they are,
The curious roamer, the hand, roaming all over the body—the bashful withdrawing of flesh
where the fingers soothingly pause and edge themselves,
The limpid liquid within the young man,
The vexed corrosion, so pensive and so painful,
The torment—the irritable tide that will not be at rest,
The like of the same I feel—the like of the same in others,
The young man that flushes and flushes, and the young woman that flushes and flushes,
The young man that wakes, deep at night, the hot hand seeking to repress what would master
him; The mystic amorous night—the strange half-welcome pangs, visions, sweats,
The pulse pounding through palms and trembling encircling fingers—the young man all color’d,
red, ashamed, angry;
The souse upon me of my lover the sea, as I lie willing and naked,
The merriment of the twin-babes that crawl over the grass in the sun, the mother never turning
her vigilant eyes from them,
The walnut-trunk, the walnut-husks, and the ripening or ripen’d long-round walnuts;
The continence of vegetables, birds, animals,
The consequent meanness of me should I skulk or find myself indecent, while birds and animals
never once skulk or find themselves indecent;
The great chastity of paternity, to match the great chastity of maternity,
The oath of procreation I have sworn—my Adamic and fresh daughters,
The greed that eats me day and night with hungry gnaw, till I saturate what shall produce boys to
fill my place when I am through,
The wholesome relief, repose, content;
And this bunch, pluck’d at random from myself;
It has done its work—I tossed it carelessly to fall where it may.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

History is encouraging. That taco goes out to my fasting wrestling friend Eric. Since he can't eat he draws tacos all over his paper, so I drew him a SUPER TACO.

The next one, well, that explains just about everything with Kenyans. Piss off a giraffe, run or die.

What has happened, of late

This really needs no explanation. Right there is the fine art of techno, doing its work.

sleep

running with a streetlight streamer pulled down from the rafters of a city asleep with a neon cowboy sitting on the bar with Jackie eating lemons and tequila and sticky syrup from a navel abandoned long ago upon the polished wood slipping across with slopping foam of an amber brew thrown over to Steve who sits waiting patiently in leather eating peanuts from a crystal ash tray that slipped from a hand ages ago and busted Steve in the head, he wears the scar proudly just like the one from the war hiddin behind his bandanna under the helmet as he crosses the bar and walks out grounding his hog into the gravely knocked apart asphault of the outer city, raring down into the desert leaving and blowing the streamers about that i picked up from a party somewhere with birthday hats and cake in the midtown park before the raccoons came to gorge upon the candles and crawl upon the tables in snarling bushy masses their bandit masks hiding their true rabid identities under their oreo fur striped on the hat of Johnny with his high water overalls pulled across his bare chest with one strapped hooked as he swings his legs in the Kentucky back country off the dock that his grandpa built, Grandpa Dave with the hooker tattooed on his forearm and his chubby fat cigars he grew so fond of when he was warring with his boys, flying bombers off a southern sea and dropping those packages that exploded in a million tiny embers hours later when the flames ebbed sending tree confetti across a crispy forest with crispy houses and crispy cities, sleeping cities where the whole city sleeps and the other nations send love for the cities, send parties and clowns in white coats with their instruments plugged in their ears, humming with the beat of the faint heart and dancing in the moonlight, dancing around the horizontal bodies in the tents with the people wrapped up in their mummie stuff like the kings of old buried in the sand for six months then pulled out and embalmed and encased in gold like a christmas choclate months old in the discount basket at the grocery store in the squeeky tiled floors and cold produce section buying milk and bread before the storm comes in and kills the power in the sleeping city when the emergency lights come on and the streetlight streamers are hard to catch like fireflies on the summer nights when I was a kid, jumping for the flourescence of a summer night streaming in the cities that sleep

late night

the soft stars fall
in light speed
against the glass of her rubber wheeled space vehicle
the space in the high beams is a sucking black
misty with swirling, unique stars
the space ahead turns red
as the spaceship cruises under dozens of
streetlight suns
blanket cloud nebulas hazy in the city
the stars collect upon the outer edges of the main bay window
wiped away to fall behind
and whip into a gravitational wind
the intercom sings out,
"Tell me, will you stand by your man"
60 miles in hyperspeed
traveling to galaxies unknown
down a yellow lined road

Fishy

So swimming led me to think of, more swimming
and the word of the day


Which is!
Ichthyoid

Go ahead, say it.
Feel the tfheeeee
then make the oi
OI!
then end, let down on the sad little D
unless you said it loudly
and you spit a little
which is perfectly acceptable
and preferable
revel in the ickiness of the word

Because, sure enough, it means fishy.
If you don't love the science of fishes and little fishes and sharkses
you might not know this
so, if you're ichthyoid
you've got the terrible characteristics of a fish
which may be good in describing you're favorite swamp monster, he may approve and not swallow you whole
I may have saved your life

also use it to describe...
goldfish
platypuses-yeah, they take all the shit
your scaley friends
anglers
Aquaman
women....in context
Sardines!
People playing Sardines
People that look like dead fish.
small fry

"Just keep swimming, just keep swimming"

Disney freaks.

Simpering

this is incredibly disturbing
and I don't lie
when horses and other animals die
they melt them
at the hospital
and give their fat to
soap companies
so, think of Fight Club
when you're showering down

To be clean, true, in the purest form, what must you go through to find that?

Must it be a following of morals set?
By people long ago, or religious factions that wrote it for you, to be followed out.
Not strictly, but just guide lines, and they will always forgive you, even if you purposefully break the rules.

Or is it, giving up everything you have a stake in, throwing it off, and finding what you believe is right, and writing that down so that other people do not have to find what is theirs, but can follow you.

Or is it taking a shower, being baptized, going through trials.

Is it all these?
There aren't answers, and I refuse to find them.

I didn't write this, this is my stolen poem to men

A Woman waits for me--she contains all, nothing is lacking,
Yet all were lacking, if sex were lacking, or if the moisture of the
right man were lacking.

Sex contains all,
Bodies, Souls, meanings, proofs, purities, delicacies, results,
promulgations,
Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal mystery, the seminal
milk;
All hopes, benefactions, bestowals,
All the passions, loves, beauties, delights of the earth,
All the governments, judges, gods, follow'd persons of the earth,
These are contain'd in sex, as parts of itself, and justifications of
itself.

Without shame the man I like knows and avows the deliciousness of his
sex,
Without shame the woman I like knows and avows hers.

Now I will dismiss myself from impassive women,
I will go stay with her who waits for me, and with those women that
are warm-blooded and sufficient for me;
I see that they understand me, and do not deny me;
I see that they are worthy of me--I will be the robust husband of
those women.

They are not one jot less than I am,
They are tann'd in the face by shining suns and blowing winds,
Their flesh has the old divine suppleness and strength,
They know how to swim, row, ride, wrestle, shoot, run, strike,
retreat, advance, resist, defend themselves,
They are ultimate in their own right--they are calm, clear, well-
possess'd of themselves.

I draw you close to me, you women!
I cannot let you go, I would do you good,
I am for you, and you are for me, not only for our own sake, but for
others' sakes;
Envelop'd in you sleep greater heroes and bards,
They refuse to awake at the touch of any man but me.

It is I, you women--I make my way,
I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable--but I love you,
I do not hurt you any more than is necessary for you,
I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters fit for These States--I
press with slow rude muscle,
I brace myself effectually--I listen to no entreaties,
I dare not withdraw till I deposit what has so long accumulated
within me.

Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself,
In you I wrap a thousand onward years,
On you I graft the grafts of the best-beloved of me and America,
The drops I distil upon you shall grow fierce and athletic girls, new
artists, musicians, and singers,
The babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in their turn,
I shall demand perfect men and women out of my love-spendings,
I shall expect them to interpenetrate with others, as I and you
interpenetrate now,
I shall count on the fruits of the gushing showers of them, as I
count on the fruits of the gushing showers I give now,
I shall look for loving crops from the birth, life, death,
immortality, I plant so lovingly now.
-Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman is so full of himself
I tried to cut out a part of this poem I liked
I liked it all
Walt Whitman is always in teen spirit
and I'm pretty sure he would have wear flannel
and chucks
if he was alive
he understands
every age of man

so here's to you
men ....and Walt

Dock of the Lake

The dock was warm
and below
the murky iris color
of his eyes, the water
was cut in darker and clearer portions
by the evenly proportioned wood
nailed together
on which we lay
I wondered what lay beyond
and his thoughts
that I wish I could read
what lay beyond
in the strawberry ice cream
of his brain
I did care
whatever he may say about the sky being my lover
I may be entranced by what lay beyond
the blue
but more, really, by just what he saw
with his mind
the neurons firing on and off
to make him breathe
I wanted to know
what he thought


But, at the same time
I was so far apart
so seperated by unusual ramparts
that I built
only by my own confusion
in a salt-lick castle
built on sand
so impersonal
as if I was the sun
I worshipped
I tried to give him insights
if maybe, too, he was wondering
as to where the citrus center
of my pink grapefruit brain
was wandering around
or maybe it was just sitting
blank faced
as many vegetables do
on a park bench somewhere

The wood of the dock was cutting into my back so I pulled myself up, the water that was soaking into it from my hair leaving a shodow of where I was originally. His eyes were shut as I walked to my bag where the rest of the dock was set in, immovable, with posts, but I knew as I traveled farther away he could see me, squinting down past the rest of horizontal body and against the incessant glare of the sun. Grabbing two towels seated on the top of the bag I stuffed one under arm, flipping out the other one and wrapping it lopsided over my hair, taking the step down to the tethered, unmounted dock we were both laying on, my weight depressing it only slightly. I walked back over, the lake breeze cooling my body and I wrapped the towel around my shoulders and stretching out to tap him on the shoulder and lift his head up so that I could lay the towel under his head. Instead he sat up, ungracefully, propping himself first on one elbow, then on the other, then pushing off with the arm farthest from me, so that he had rolled his body toward me, his eyes still not open completely. I knew at the moment that all he could see was white dots as the sun had left its imprints on his eyes. He took the towel from me and sat completely up, drawing his legs in and involuntarily shivering, the heat sometimes chilling you and warming you simultaneously. I sat back, pulling the towel completely across my back and around to the front of my knees with thumb and forefinger holding the edges, looking past him to the rest of the lake and looking back as he settled, sitting indian style closer to me. I rested my chin atop my knees and he smiled, hazily, honestly, and scooted closer so that his shins were at my toes. We both sat there serenly, a million things to say, but no better way to say them. Wrapping the towel around his own shoulders he patted down his hair, then set his hand on my foot. I smiled at him then.

I should tell you.

I don't have school tomorrow, the realization is sweet. I may stay up and try to become the genius I'd love to be. Or I could stay up and....watch television, read Walden, do core work-outs, create cookies, and memorize Johnny Cash songs. All of which are better if you have a person to share it with, a cup of coffee and you could find that one viral video of Allen Ginsberg dancing in his documentary.

"Doth grow the greater still, the further downe;
Till that abounding both in power and fame,
She long doth give the sea her name."
-Thoreau

I've done some late thinking on the past year since we are officially seventeen days in, eighteen in an hour. I probably should have done the thinking over the Summer or possibly while the events of last year were occuring, but my thought process has always been to sit back and watch how things play out, and that putting a hand in only caused the events to occur more erratically. It also happened with this last year that I just didn't understand enough to care.
Getting feedback on what I've been doing, just how it affects...everything, should probably lead me onto further self reflection, even though that doesn't sound remotely interesting.
I'm promising myself now, on well, electronic paper, that this semester will be different than my mediocre performance in the last one. I could bring myself to say a million excuses for my performance, for the grades I've pulled out, but I can't do that. I've done that too long....for everything that has happened in the last half of last year, too.
But, the whole slate is wiped clean with this oncoming week. With this burgeoning year, a new semester, with the calm that comes from having someone that will always be on my side. Thank you for that.

I've realized a great deal

A. I do not understand pre-cal, and I probably should. I should also learn more than what I have learned...up 'til now. It's barely getting me by.

B. That I like writing, but I don't like sharing what's closest to me, and I'm sorry if you expect that.

C.That constantly talking to people leads to less self reflection, leads to less creativity and less revelations, even though I don't have much need for them. Let's face it, if I haven't wrapped my mind around the subjects now, I'm not going to. Not unless I become bedmates with my textbook and cut myself completely off. Both of which sound very cold and unhappy places to be, especially comapared to lately.

D. I should probably get my priorities straight about exactly what I want. With everything. Everything. Even if this IS an unobtainable goal.

E. That besides everything else, January has been a very lucky month.