~Jan. 9, 2025~NYC
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The words of Walt Whitman (1)



~~~~
The origin of all poems!

Oh what a sweeping promise
does Whitman, proffer,
you to entice, to succor.
ease out from within yourself,
that which is therein ready,,
to organize
what be the
fermenting stack of seeded cells of
fomenting
stacked
multiple
simultaneous
observations,
poetry lurking, thine owned senses,
a catalyst cataloging constantly
and you happily despair  to
capture, retain, s u s t a i n,
the pieces of a whole that
knowing only you possess,
that only you can
perfect as the combo
expression of
your
pre~owned assembly
as a solitary protagonist, witness,
and audience!

Understand the origins of the poem,
because it is original to you,
comprehension of this principle,
means that you will never be
starved for inspiration,
record the ordinary and the peculiar,
the off drink that when mixed,
shaken and stirred
that only you
can pour and better yet ,
s h a r e!

12:53am,  January 3,2025
New York City
<>
A Traveler notates these words to my attention, but only because I make myself
a convenient target, for truthfully,
it is addressed to one and all,
to the royalty of:

We,

who speake out loud, to all those who ***** these damp woods full of wet words, that spring up overnight, ripe for the plucking, there for the taking, an exacting where & when they did not even exist
the twenty four prior

These purloined overnight creatures are

white and  black

lettered truffles, like the pages on which we inscribe, the letters raw, exquisitely tasty, shaved, measured in grams, but only when shared with others, in the privacy of our open minds, after being spooned from within us with exquisite care upon the pages that decorate our lives, sprinkled
with great care and cunning…

but when consumed, our five senses rage with aromatic pleasured pain, for these letters, so tiny, so powerful, grow only when
combinatory, individual bitty granules,
but when leavened, they enhance, provoke!,
they sauce, the

flavors  of the ordinary

of our experiences,
creating the extraordinary
when interacting upon
our five robust senses

for without the spaces of delineation,
our jumbled words are but the
random jingle jangle of the sounds
of night winds, rustling a tune
pleasant but incomprehensible

Here I take your leave,
with the liberty taken
for speaking in all our names
to a Traveler
who so succinctly captures our work,
the glue of our interactive Us,
Our,
Collective of Individuality

My demons cling to me,
not as enemies,
but as forgotten children,
whispering the secrets of my soul.
They are the aftertaste of desire,
the bittersweet echo of childhood,
when freedom was as vast
as the evening sea,
and fear was a stranger.

I float now, unmoored,
my eyes closed to the world,
my heart open to the infinite.
The universe wraps me
in its eternal embrace,
its love slow and deep,
its regret soft as a mourning dove.
I am made whole by its sorrow,
and undone by its knowing.

For I am two—always two.
One walks in light,
the other dances in shadow.
Together, they burn,
the fire of madness consuming
what grace remains.
I cannot turn from this duality,
for it is the blood in my veins,
the breath in my lungs.

And yet, you stand before me,
a man with the patience of the stars,
the wisdom of the eternal.
You see me, whole and broken,
the storm and the stillness.
Your love is not afraid of my chaos,
for you have made peace with the fire.

You hold me as the sea holds the shore—
gently, fiercely,
with a love that neither takes
nor demands,
but simply is.
In your arms, I am no longer two,
but one—
whole, infinite,
and free.

most oft, the
wherever I write,
is duly noted,
it is a due,
due you,
and hopefully,
the why I scribe,
arrives ‘pon your eyes
with Steuben glass,
of diamond tooled curettage,
a clarifying visual of
beauty,

but always
with fair detailed precision
is the
when
denoted,
for it is the timing
of the mining the specificity,
of the exact momentous,
a precious decision
taken by you,
when to turn words
of a few seconds
of a heart’s unburdening,
with
an inescapable reminder,
of the
thereabouts & the whyabouts
the very verity of a serious
causality
that parented the
casualties
we call
our poems

join me then,
in the processional
of denoting the origins,
linkage contained therein
to the work we
c r e a t e

*•for in the recording of the reckoning•
•exactitude of the longitude•
•and l’atitude is the truest revelation•
•of yourself•