He speaks beneath the concrete
and roots intertwine his voice.
He is fire on the sidewalk
nobody sees him erupt,
silence takes him
to the room of truth
litters him with the lead
You can't face.
He will take off Liberty's blindfold
hold her naked against the mirror,
make her touch the icy ribs of December Skyscrapers,
force her to admit the truth.
She will try to censor him,
his fire will expand and crash
Revolution will blaze the haunted maze of butterfly wings and curious eyes will rise when they decide to lift from electric Delphiniums.
He spits out rivers into office buildings, floods the lie with panic,
nobody is safe from drowning.
His sunrise peaks the unholy alliance of Governments,
exposes the superstructure as the fat rich camel denied at needles eye.
He takes off the mask of the executioner, puts him on trial for hypocrisy.
He lands in the middle of conscience, let's it run loose
while everybody hides, petrified behind their denial.
He is smooth jade rising from the bottom of a hidden city dancing in the corner of your peripheral,
his gem holds the secret to your soul.
Wear it and become a Sorcerer
in the Meadowland-
speak his name
will answer you.
My name is Henry Miller.
When I look down into this ******-out **** of a ***** I feel the whole world beneath me, a world tottering and crumbling, a world used up and polished like a *****'s skull. If there were a man who dared to say all that he thought of this world there would not be left him a square foot of ground to stand on. When a man appears the world bears down on him and breaks his back. There are always too many rotten pillars left standing, too much festering humanity for man to bloom. The superstructure is a lie and the foundation is a huge quaking fear. If at intervals of centuries there does appear a man with a desperate, hungry look in his eye, a man that would turn the world upside down in order to create a new race, the love that he brings to the world is turned to bile and he becomes a scourge. If now and then we encounter pages that explode, pages that wound and sear, that wring groans and tears and curses, know that they come from a man with his back up, a man whose only defenses left are his words and his words are always stronger than the lying, crushing weight of the world, stronger than all the racks and wheels which the cowardly invent to crush out the miracle of personality. If any man ever dared to translate all that is in his heart, to put down what is really his experience, what is truly his truth, I think then the world would go to smash, that it would be blown to smithereens and no god, no accident, no will could ever again assemble the pieces, the atoms, the indestructible elements that have gone to make up the world.
Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer