I want the feeling that I get when I read Walt Whitman.
His words break. I imagine his beard.
I imagine Allen Ginsberg, Columbia University, New York City reading his crackling lines and licking his lips, looking around.
Touching himself. Lusting after words.
I was 13 and the words didn't make much sense but I read them. The lyric cry swept over me and I believe in barbaric yawps. I believe in bare-stript hearts.
30 years old and I still shiver sometimes.
Blind loving wrestling touch, sheath'd hooded sharp-tooth'd touch!The sensuality of the earth, the waters, the sweat, the people passing by on the streets and the grass beneath our feet is hope.
Did it make you ache so, leaving me?
I want the feeling of Whitman coursing through my veins at a moment's notice - abandoning me to syllables and sex, men and women and the courage to love one's self, one's body, one's place in this dance.
I'm writing it on my wishlist. Give me Whitman.