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“These are really the thoughts of all men, in all ages and lands,
they are not original with me, If they are not yours as much as mine they are nothing, or next to nothing, If they are not the riddle and the untying of the riddle they are nothing, If they are not just as close as they are distant they are nothing.”
Song of Myself (1892 version) by WALT WHITMAN
§§§
exactly, for if not to mystify and to demystify,
why do we write, opine large, secretly confessing,
what is know to all soto voice in the chamber of secrets
that lies between the brains four chambered ventricles,
that leads to a Grand Canal through which flow riddles,
all these thoughts, yours, mine, and overlapping crazy
solitary, they merge within the river of combination,
then known to all, colloquially named Ours, then too,
answers arrive in the scrivening, when each plain to see,
once the riddle posed, the answer is freed to exposure,
like veins blue to red, when oxygenated, our mysteries,
all colors, untied, there is but one color, reddened blood
these thoughts, become yours, more than mine, for
in the taking is the additive chemical that enhances,
making the distance closed to only closed, here I pause,
fearful, I hesitate, you do not understand, sunshine can
blind any man, sickness humble any body, we are alike
in commonality, more than different, we are all riddled
and next to nothing is everything, all worth knowing,
you, write my poetry, as I write of you with breathless
ease and comfort, for the thoughts of all men in all
ages and lands, are original to where our eyes espy
each other, where our lips kiss to cross, cross to kiss,
what is the what, this simplicity, the great difference
§§§§§
Fri. May 15
Manhattan Island,
Isle of Man
10:26am
