Friday, June 26, 2015

A different night, a different morrow

   I noticed this portrait, a while
   ago, for illustrating a contrary
   proposition, of which I doubt we
   shall see the like again: a youth
   gathering consciousness at dawn,
   contemplating what the day will
   do to punish his dreams. For his
   entirety of growing up, he was
   cast among a lot who could never
   even share this speculation with
   each other.

   I take myself to sleep this even-
   ing, thinking of Whitman, the po-
   et of our cruelest war, our most
   redemptive vision. To think, that
   we now can see the day so clearly,
   as if it were as imminent as it
   seems, when no one would probe his
   sentimental sexuality for dismiss-
   ing his art, is preposterous but
   uncannily, reasonable. He may or
   may not have liked guys: so is he
   not fine? 

   What does he destroy?

   We anticipate a gigantic adjust-
   ment inherent, in awakening unre-
   luctantly. Now we need to be gen-
   erous in exhibiting what we've
   concealed, to those who inherit
   us reluctantly, as fellow men.
   They feel only loss, in extremes
   with which we're too familiar, to
   forget the isolation, humiliation,
   amnesia and dismemberment. They
   plan a Crusade against us, long
   enough to sustain mob cohesion
   at the polls. But have we lost
   touch with our own genius, to

   Would one be awakened, too?



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