Walt Whitman laying at the bottom of a box. Face down trapped by electronics. Electronics, no longer of use. Out dated. Deemed obsolete by an ever changing technology. This book words the poems twice. Left half English. Right Italian. A friends gesture... A gift to hasten further communication. One language I use. Limited and overwhelmed. The other sings beautifully without knowledge of meaning. Bits and pieces. Dabble. Beverages and facilities. Walt hand on hip. Looking like a poet cowboy. Seeing through to the plains, speaking from the seas with an understanding of wickedness and joy. The place of poetry. Saw those that follow to after. After, to now... To… This. Walt says it is we who identify the essential qualities or meaning of him. Us future poets and musicians... Artists... Covers his eyes as we pass by leaving his face for us to define. What an honor. Gift. Trust.
I sing the body electric…
Walt Whitman laying at the bottom of a box. Face down. The poet cowboy surpassing the hold of technology.
