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
reconcile?
Would one be awakened, too?
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