LITMIR.BIZ

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. . . . myself waiting my time to be one of the supremes,

      The day getting ready for me when I shall do as much good as the best, and be as prodigious,

       Guessing when I am it will not tickle me much to receive puffs out of pulpit or print;

       By my life-lumps! becoming already a creator!

       Putting myself here and now to the ambushed womb of the shadows!

      . . . . A call in the midst of the crowd,

       My own voice, orotund sweeping and final.

      Come my children,

       Come my boys and girls, and my women and household and intimates,

       Now the performer launches his nerve . . . . he has passed his prelude on the reeds within.

      Easily written loosefingered chords! I feel the thrum of their climax and close.

      My head evolves on my neck,

       Music rolls, but not from the organ . . . . folks are around me, but they are no household of mine.

      Ever the hard and unsunk ground,

       Ever the eaters and drinkers . . . . ever the upward and downward sun . . . . ever the air and the ceaseless tides,

       Ever myself and my neighbors, refreshing and wicked and real,

       Ever the old inexplicable query . . . . ever that thorned thumb -- that breath of itches and thirsts,

       Ever the vexer’s hoot! hoot! till we find where the sly one hides and bring him forth;

       Ever love . . . . ever the sobbing liquid of life,

       Ever the bandage under the chin . . . . ever the tressels of death.

      Here and there with dimes on the eyes walking,

       To feed the greed of the belly the brains liberally spooning,

      Tickets buying or taking or selling, but in to the feast never once going;

       Many sweating and ploughing and thrashing, and then the chaff for payment receiving,

       A few idly owning, and they the wheat continually claiming.

      This is the city . . . . and I am one of the citizens;

       Whatever interests the rest interests me . . . . politics, churches, newspapers, schools,

       Benevolent societies, improvements, banks, tariffs, steamships, factories, markets,

       Stocks and stores and real estate and personal estate.

      They who piddle and patter here in collars and tailed coats . . . . I am aware who they are . . . . and that they are not worms or fleas,

       I acknowledge the duplicates of myself under all the scrape-lipped and pipe-legged concealments.

      The weakest and shallowest is deathless with me,

       What I do and say the same waits for them,

       Every thought that flounders in me the same flounders in them.

      I know perfectly well my own egotism,

       And know my omniverous words, and cannot say any less,

       And would fetch you whoever you are flush with myself.

      My words are words of a questioning, and to indicate reality;

       This printed and bound book . . . . but the printer and the printing-office boy?

       The marriage estate and settlement . . . . but the body and mind of the bridegroom? also those of the bride?

       The panorama of the sea . . . . but the sea itself?

       The well-taken photographs . . . . but your wife or friend close and solid in your arms?

       The fleet of ships of the line and all the modern improvements . . . . but the craft and pluck of the admiral?

      The dishes and fare and furniture . . . . but the host and hostess, and the look out of their eyes?

       The sky up there . . . . yet here or next door or across the way?

       The saints and sages in history . . . . but you yourself?

       Sermons and creeds and theology . . . . but the human brain, and what is called reason, and what is called love, and what is called life?

      I do not despise you priests;

       My faith is the greatest of faiths and the least of faiths,

       Enclosing all worship ancient and modern, and all between ancient and modern,

       Believing I shall come again upon the earth after five thousand years,

       Waiting responses from oracles . . . . honoring the gods . . . . saluting the sun,

       Making a fetish of the first rock or stump . . . . powowing with sticks in the circle of obis,

       Helping the lama or brahmin as he trims the lamps of the idols,

       Dancing yet through the streets in a phallic procession . . . . rapt and austere in the woods, a gymnosophist,

       Drinking mead from the skull-cup . . . . to shasta and vedas admirant . . . . minding the koran,

       Walking the teokallis, spotted with gore from the stone and knife -- beating the serpent-skin drum;

       Accepting the gospels, accepting him that was crucified, knowing assuredly that he is divine,

       To the mass kneeling -- to the puritan’s prayer rising -- sitting patiently in a pew,

       Ranting and frothing in my insane crisis -- waiting dead-like till my spirit arouses me;

       Looking forth on pavement and land, and outside of pavement and land,

       Belonging to the winders of the circuit of circuits.

      One of that centripetal and centrifugal gang,

       I turn and talk like a man leaving charges before a journey.

      Down-hearted doubters, dull and excluded,

       Frivolous sullen moping angry affected disheartened atheistical,

       I know every one of you, and know the unspoken interrogatories,

       By experience I know them.

      How the flukes splash!

       How they contort rapid as lightning, with spasms and spouts of blood!

      Be at peace bloody flukes of doubters and sullen mopers,

       I take my place among you as much as among any;

       The past is the push of you and me and all precisely the same,

       And the night is for you and me and all,

       And what is yet untried and afterward is for you and me and all.

      I do not know what is untried and afterward,

       But I know it is sure and alive, and sufficient.

      Each who passes is considered, and each who stops is considered, and not a single one can it fail.

      It cannot fail the young man who died and was buried,

       Nor the young woman who died and was put by his side,

       Nor the little child that peeped in at the door and then drew back and was never seen again,

       Nor the old man who has lived without purpose, and feels it with bitterness worse than gall,

       Nor him in the poorhouse tubercled by rum and the bad disorder,

       Nor the numberless slaughtered and wrecked . . . . nor the brutish koboo, called the ordure of humanity,

       Nor the sacs merely floating with open mouths for food to slip in,

       Nor any thing in the earth, or down in the oldest graves of the earth,

       Nor any thing in the myriads of spheres, nor one of the myriads of myriads that inhabit them,

       Nor the present, nor the

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