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On the beach at night alone,
As the old mother sways her to and fro, singing her husky song,
As I watch the bright stars shining—I think a thought of the clef of the universes, and of the future.

A vast similitude interlocks all,
All spheres, grown, ungrown, small, large, suns, moons, planets, comets, asteroids,
All the substances of the same, and all that is spiritual upon the same,
All distances of place, however wide,
All distances of time—all inanimate forms,
All Souls—all living bodies, though they be ever so different, or in different worlds,
All gaseous, watery, vegetable, mineral processes—the fishes, the brutes,
All men and women—me also;
All nations, colors, barbarisms, civilizations, languages;
All identities that have existed, or may exist, on this globe, or any globe;
All lives and deaths—all of the past, present, future;
This vast similitude spans them, and always has spann’d, and shall forever span them, and compactly hold them, and enclose them.
Whoever you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams,
I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet and hands;
Even now, your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners, troubles, follies,
costume, crimes, dissipate away from you,
Your true Soul and Body appear before me,
They stand forth out of affairs—out of commerce, shops, law, science,
work, forms, clothes, the house, medicine, print, buying, selling, eating,
drinking, suffering, dying.

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem;
I whisper with my lips close to your ear,
I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.

O I have been dilatory and dumb;
I should have made my way straight to you long ago;
I should have blabb’d nothing but you, I should have chanted nothing but you.

I will leave all, and come and make the hymns of you;
None have understood you, but I understand you;
None have done justice to you—you have not done justice to yourself;
None but have found you imperfect—I only find no imperfection in you;
None but would subordinate you—I only am he who will never consent
to subordinate you;
I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God, beyond
what waits intrinsically in yourself.

Painters have painted their swarming groups, and the centre figure of all;
From the head of the centre figure spreading a nimbus of gold-color’d light;
But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its nimbus of
gold-color’d light;
From my hand, from the brain of every man and woman it streams,
effulgently flowing forever.

O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you!
You have not known what you are—you have slumber’d upon yourself
all your life;
Your eye-lids have been the same as closed most of the time;
What you have done returns already in mockeries;
(Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in mockeries,
what is their return?)

The mockeries are not you;
Underneath them, and within them, I see you lurk;
I pursue you where none else has pursued you;
Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the accustom’d routine,
if these conceal you from others, or from yourself, they do not conceal you
from me;
The shaved face, the unsteady eye, the impure complexion, if these balk others,
they do not balk me,
The pert apparel, the deform’d attitude, drunkenness, greed, premature death,
all these I part aside.

There is no endowment in man or woman that is not tallied in you;
There is no virtue, no beauty, in man or woman, but as good is in you;
No pluck, no endurance in others, but as good is in you;
No pleasure waiting for others, but an equal pleasure waits for you.

As for me, I give nothing to any one, except I give the like carefully to you;
I sing the songs of the glory of none, not God, sooner than I sing the songs
of the glory of you.

Whoever you are! claim your own at any hazard!
These shows of the east and west are tame, compared to you;
These immense meadows—these interminable rivers—you are immense
and interminable as they;
These furies, elements, storms, motions of Nature, throes of apparent dissolution—
you are he or she who is master or mistress over them,
Master or mistress in your own right over Nature, elements, pain, passion, dissolution.

The hopples fall from your ankles—you find an unfailing sufficiency;
Old or young, male or female, rude, low, rejected by the rest, whatever you are
promulges itself;
Through birth, life, death, burial, the means are provided, nothing is scanted;
Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, what you are picks its way.
You'll be amazed what she will accomplish

           now that she had been through it all.
 Oct 2016 Lindsey Grace
wren cole
like a ghost in the night



the suburbs
will eat you

exit stage right
I could be doing something worth my time, but instead I choose to drown my thoughts in ****** mary.
I am ****** mary.
I am a fake **** with problems that can’t even hold a candle to the depths of suffering.
But if I can’t hold a candle,
Then my fake **** friends don’t have a clue.
I have no clue.
They have no clue.
We have no clue.
It’s pointless.
I think it’s cruel for whatever creature who created us to give us conscientiousness.
You give us self revelation.
We question.
With no answer.
Nothing but torture.
What comes next? Eternal hell?
I’m living it.
But I'm such a half and half coffee with deadly French vanilla sweetener.
As much as I hate your guts, I'm a sucker to see a blanket of clouds.
And maybe that makes me ignorant, to question my atheism at the sight of a scientific beauty, or maybe I’m an idiot to question my faith with the lack of answer.
Or maybe I'm just an idiot in general.
******* joke.
I talk so much, and still say nothing.
My words mean nothing.
My life means nothing.
Even a legacy means nothing.
Only the greatest evil and the greatest good makes it’s mark.
And I’m neither.
And what good is even a stain in history.
Time has an agenda of it’s own.
You're are nothing but a ticking pawn of time.
That ******* *****, teasing me with full moons that I believe I fall in love with, but are nothing more than markers for my demise.  
Whether my life is good or bad, it has nothing to do with the past or the future.
And the present is the only thing that exists, but what good does my present do.
Why be good?
Why be bad?
Why have a compass?
What are my passions for?
Why do I want anything?
Where does my want stem from?
Why does my hurt matter?
What is it to feel?
It means nothing.
It all means nothing.
None of it matters.
There is no heaven and there is no hell.
There only is.
And We want to believe there’s reason for our madness, but it’s merely the tragedy of our evolutionary consciousness.
But I don’t believe that.
It all feels too painfully beautiful to be pointless.
Why does a mother hugging her child make me cry?
Why can’t I stop staring at the stars?
Why is the question of an afterlife so painful?
If it’s all evolution…. Why do I feel so deeply?
What is love of people that no longer exist?
That serves us no purpose… purpose... purpose… I’m not smart.
And I'm not profound…. I’m an idiot searching for answers I’ll never have.
I found this almost a year later, drunkenly hidden on my computer. So, I thought I'd share.
your scent is draped around my room
like fairy lights, my love;
they shine as bright as stars at night (how
darkness makes faint lights shine bright)
as bright as sun above.
remember how my skin would glow
in early morning haze?
reflecting off your sunlight heat
(your skin like cigarette smoke, sweet)
upon me you would gaze
and, like a gazania daisy,
i opened up to you (oh all
the things i told you
i think i must have told you
and now without your sunlight i
close up like daisies do.
my lips still taste your lips, though,
my hands still hold your hands;
my fingers close around themselves-
(i’m closing in upon myself
oh god, why aren’t you here to hold me?
i’m falling through like sand
into the bottom of
an hourglass)
i walk through these strange lands
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