Category: Classic Rock

Cut It (Out) (Live) - Dreadlock Pussy (2) - Leaves Of Grass (CD) download full album zip cd mp3 vinyl flac

Published 06.12.2019


Download Cut It (Out) (Live) - Dreadlock Pussy (2) - Leaves Of Grass (CD)
2001
Label: Seamiew Records - SMR41033 • Format: CD Single • Country: Netherlands • Genre: Rock • Style: Nu Metal

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Image Orientation. Color Composition Any Color Monochrome. From Contributor separated by comma. Keywords separated by comma. I also say it is good to fall—battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won. I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest music to them. And to all generals that lost engagements! And the numberless unknown heroes, equal to the greatest heroes known. It is for the wicked just the same as the righteous—I make appointments with all.

The heavy-lipped slave is invited—the venerealee is invited. There shall be no difference between them and the rest. This is the touch of my lips to yours—this is the murmur of yearning. This is the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face.

This is the thoughtful merge of myself, and the outlet again. Well, I have—for the Fourth Month showers have, and the mica on the side of a rock has. Does the daylight astonish?

Does the early redstart, twittering through the woods? What am I? What are you? That months are vacuums, and the ground but wallow and filth.

That life is a suck and a sell, and nothing remains at the end but threadbare crape, and tears. Why should I venerate and be ceremonious? To me the converging objects of the universe per- petually flow. All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means.

I know I shall not pass like a child's carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night. I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood. I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after all. And whether I come to my own to-day, or in ten thousand or ten million years.

I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerful- ness I can wait. The first I graft and increase upon myself—the latter I translate into a new tongue. And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man. And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men. Are you the President? It is a trifle—they will more than arrive there every one, and still pass on.

Press close, mag- netic, nourishing Night! Earth of departed sunset! Earth of the mountains, misty-topt! Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon, just tinged with blue! Earth of shine and dark, mottling the tide of the river! Earth of the limpid gray of clouds, brighter and clearer for my sake! Far-swooping elbowed Earth! Rich, apple-blossomed Earth! Therefore I to you give love! We hurt each other as the bridegroom and the bride hurt each other. I resign myself to you also—I guess what you mean.

We must have a turn together—I undress—hurry me out of sight of the land. Sea of the brine of life! Sea of unshovelled and always-ready Cut It (Out) (Live) - Dreadlock Pussy (2) - Leaves Of Grass (CD) Howler and scooper of storms!

Capricious and dainty Sea! I am integral with you—I too am of one phase, and of all phases. Extoller of amies, and those that sleep in each others' arms. Shall I make my list of things in the house, and skip the house that supports them? And am not the poet of goodness only—I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness also.

Evil propels me, and reform of evil propels me—I stand indifferent. Did you guess the celestial laws are yet to be worked over and rectified? Witnesses of us—one side a balance, and the antip- odal side a balance. Thoughts and deeds of the present, our rouse and early start. The wonder is, always and always, how can there be a mean man or an infidel. One time as good as another time—here or hence- forward, it is all the same to me. Fetch stonecrop, mixt with cedar and branches of lilac.

This is the lexicographer—this the chemist—this made a grammar of the old cartouches. These mariners put the ship through dangerous un- known seas. This is the geologist—this works with the scalpel— and this is a mathematician. I receive you, and attach and clasp hands with you. The facts are useful and real—they are not my dwelling—I enter by them to an area of the dwelling.

And go on the square for my own sake and for others' sakes. And make short account of neuters and geldings, and favor men and women fully equipped. And beat the gong of revolt, and stop with fugitives, and them that plot and conspire. No sentimentalist—no stander above men and wo- men, or apart from them.

By God! I will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the same terms. Voices of the diseased and despairing, and of thieves and dwarfs. And of the threads that connect the stars—and of wombs, and of the fatherstuff. Voices of sexes and lusts—voices veiled, and I remove the veil. I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart.

Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds. You my rich blood!

Your milky stream, pale strip- pings of my life. Timorous pond-snipe! Nest of guarded duplicate eggs! Mixed tussled hay of head, beard, brawn, it shall be you! Trickling sap of maple! Fibre of manly wheat! Vapors lighting and shading my face, it shall be you! Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me, it shall be you! Broad, muscular fields! Branches of live oak! Lov- ing lounger in my winding paths!

Hands I have taken—face I have kissed—mortal I have ever touched! Each moment, and whatever happens, thrills me with joy. I cannot tell how my ankles bend, nor whence the cause of my faintest wish. Nor the cause of the friendship I emit, nor the cause of the friendship I take again. That I eat and drink is spectacle enough for the great authors and schools.

A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books. The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows. The heaved challenge from the east that moment over my head. The mocking taunt, See then whether you shall be master! If I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me. We found our own, O my Soul, in the calm and cool of the day-break. With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds, and volumes of worlds.

It says sarcastically, Walt, you understand enough — why don't you let it out then? My knowledge my live parts—it keeping tally with the meaning of things. Happiness—which, whoever hears me, let him or her set out in search of this day. I crowd your sleekest talk by simply looking toward you.

I carry the plenum of proof, and everything else, in my face. With the hush of my lips I confound the topmost skeptic. To accrue what I hear into myself—to let sounds contribute toward me. I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following. Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city— sounds of the day and night. Talkative young ones to those that like them—the recitative of fish-pedlers and fruit-pedlers—the loud laugh of work-people at their meals. The angry base of disjointed friendship—the faint tones of the sick.

The judge with hands tight to the desk, his shaky lips pronouncing a death-sentence. The heave'e'yo of stevedores unlading ships by the wharves—the refrain of the anchor-lifters. The ring of alarm-bells—the cry of fire—the whirr of swift-streaking engines and hose-carts, with premonitory tinkles, and colored lights. The steam-whistle—the solid roll of the train of approaching cars. The slow-march played at night at the head of the association, marching two and two. They go to guard some corpse—the flag-tops are draped with black muslin.

I hear the keyed cornet—it glides quickly in through my ears. It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast. The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full.

The orchestra wrenches such ardors from me, I did not know I possessed them. It sails me—I dab with bare feet—they are licked by the indolent waves. Steeped amid honeyed morphine, my windpipe throt- tled in fakes of death.

Round and round we go, all of us, and ever come back thither. If nothing lay more developed, the quahaug in its callous shell were enough. I have instant conductors all over me, whether I pass or stop.

They seize every object, and lead it harmlessly through me. To touch my person to some one else's is about as much as I can stand. Treacherous tip of me reaching and crowding to help them.

My flesh and blood playing out lightning to strike what is hardly different from myself. Straining the udder of my heart for its withheld drip. Unbuttoning my clothes, holding me by the bare waist. Deluding my confusion with the calm of the sun-light and pasture-fields. They bribed to swap off with touch, and go and graze at the edges of me. No consideration, no regard for my draining strength or my anger.

Fetching the rest of the herd around to enjoy them a while. Then all uniting to stand on a headland and worry me. They all come to the headland, to witness and assist against me.

I talk wildly—I have lost my wits—I and nobody else am the greatest traitor. I went myself first to the headland—my own hands carried me there.

My breath is tight in Cut It (Out) (Live) - Dreadlock Pussy (2) - Leaves Of Grass (CD) throat. Rich showering rain, and recompense richer after- ward. Landscapes, projected, masculine, full-sized, and golden. They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon. I believe the soggy clods shall become lovers and lamps. And a compend of compends is the meat of a man or woman. And a summit and flower there is the feeling they have for each other. And they are to branch boundlessly out of that lesson until it becomes omnific.

And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren. And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven. And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery. And the cow crunching with depressed head surpasses any statue. And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels. And I could come every afternoon of my life to look at the farmer's girl boiling her iron tea-kettle and baking short-cake.

And have distanced what is behind me for good reasons. In vain the plutonic rocks send their old heat against my approach. In vain the mastodon retreats beneath its own pow- dered bones.

In vain objects stand leagues off, and assume manifold shapes. In vain the ocean settling in hollows, and the great monsters lying low. In vain the snake slides through the creepers and logs. In vain the elk takes to the inner passes of the woods. In vain the razor-billed auk sails far north to Labrador. I follow quickly, I ascend to the nest in the fissure of the cliff. I stand and look at them sometimes an hour at a stretch.

They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins. They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God. No one is dissatisfied—not one is demented with the mania of owning things. Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago. Not one is respectable or industrious over the whole earth. They bring me tokens of myself—they evince them plainly in their possession.

I may have passed that way untold times ago, and negligently dropt them. Gathering and showing more always and with velocity. Infinite and omnigenous, and the like of these among them.

Not too exclusive toward the reachers of my remem- brancers. Picking out here one that I love, to go with on brotherly terms. Eyes well apart, full of sparkling wickedness—ears finely cut, flexibly moving. His well-built limbs tremble with pleasure, as we speed around and return. Why do I need your paces, when I myself out-gallop them? And again as I walked the beach under the paling stars of the morning.

Along the ruts of the turnpike—along the dry gulch and rivulet bed. Weeding my onion-patch, or hoeing rows of carrots and parsnips—crossing savannas—trailing in forests. Prospecting—gold-digging—girdling the trees of a new purchase. Scorched ankle-deep by the hot sand—hauling my boat down the shallow river. Where the panther walks to and fro on a limb over- head—Where the buck turns furiously at the hunter.

Where the rattlesnake suns his flabby length on a rock—Where the otter is feeding on fish. Where the alligator in his tough pimples sleeps by the bayou. Where the black bear is searching for roots or honey —Where the beaver pats the mud with his paddle-tail.

Over the growing sugar—over the cotton plant— over the rice in its low moist field. Over the sharp-peaked farm house, with its scalloped scum and slender shoots from the gutters. Over the western persimmon—over the long-leaved corn—over the delicate blue-flowered flax.

Over the white and brown buckwheat, a hummer and buzzer there with the rest. Over the dusky green of the rye as it ripples and shades in the breeze. Scaling mountains, pulling myself cautiously up, holding on by low scragged limbs. Walking the path worn in the grass and beat through the leaves of the brush. Where the quail is whistling betwixt the woods and the wheat-lot. Where the great gold-bug drops through the dark. Where the brook puts out of the roots of the old tree and flows to the meadow.

Where cattle stand and shake away flies with the tremulous shuddering of their hides. Where the cheese-cloth hangs in the kitchen—Where andirons straddle the hearth-slab—Where cob- webs fall in festoons from the rafters. Where trip-hammers crash—Where the press is whirling its cylinders. Wherever the human heart beats with terrible throes out of its ribs. Where the pear-shaped balloon is floating aloft, float- ing in it myself and looking composedly down. Where the life-car is drawn on the slip-noose—Where the heat hatches pale-green eggs in the dented sand.

Where the she-whale swims with her calf, and never forsakes it. Where the steam-ship trails hind-ways its long pen- nant of smoke. Where the fin of the shark cuts like a black chip out of the water. Where the half-burned brig is riding on unknown currents. Where shells grow to her slimy deck—Where the dead are corrupting below.

Where the striped and starred flag is borne at the head of the regiments. Approaching Manhattan, up by the long-stretching island. Under Niagara, the cataract falling like a veil over my countenance. Upon a door-step—upon the horse-block of hard wood outside.

Upon the race-course, or enjoying picnics or jigs, or a good game of base-ball. At he-festivals, with blackguard gibes, ironical license, bull-dances, drinking, laughter. At the cider-mill, tasting the sweet of the brown sqush, sucking the juice through a straw.

At apple-peelings, wanting kisses for all the red fruit I find. At musters, beach-parties, friendly bees, huskings, house-raisings. Where the mocking-bird sounds his delicious gur- gles, cackles, screams, weeps. Where the hay-rick stands in the barn-yard—Where the dry-stalks are scattered—Where the brood cow waits in the hovel.

Where the bull advances to do his masculine work— Where the stud to the mare—Where the cock is treading the hen. Where heifers browse—Where geese nip their food with short jerks.

Where sun-down shadows lengthen over the limitless and lonesome prairie. Where herds of buffalo make a crawling spread of the square miles far and near. Where the humming-bird shimmers—Where the neck of the long-lived swan is curving and winding.

Where the laughing-gull scoots by the shore, where she laughs her near-human laugh. Where bee-hives range on a gray bench in the garden, half hid by the high weeds.

Where band-necked partridges roost in a ring on the ground with their heads out. Where burial coaches enter the arched gates of a cemetery. Where winter wolves bark amid wastes of snow and icicled trees. Where the yellow-crowned heron comes to the edge of the marsh at night and feeds upon small crabs. Where the splash of swimmers and divers cools the warm noon. Where the katy-did works her chromatic reed on the walnut-tree over the well.

Through patches of citrons and cucumbers with silver-wired leaves. Through the salt-lick or orange glade, or under con- ical firs. Through the gymnasium—through the curtained saloon—through the office or public hall. Pleased with the native, and pleased with the foreign —pleased with the new and old. Pleased with women, the homely as well as the handsome.

Pleased with the quakeress as she puts off her bonnet and talks melodiously. Pleased with the tunes of the choir of the white- washed church. Pleased with the earnest words of the sweating Methodist preacher, or any preacher—Impressed seriously at the camp-meeting.

Looking in at the shop-windows of Broadway the whole forenoon—flatting the flesh of my nose on the thick plate-glass. Wandering the same afternoon with my face turned up to the clouds. My right and left arms round the sides of two friends, and I in the middle.

Coming home with the silent and dark-cheeked bush-boy—riding behind him at the drape of the day. Far from the settlements, studying the print of ani- mals' feet, or the moccason print. By the cot in the hospital, reaching lemonade to a feverish patient. By the coffined corpse when all is still, examining with a candle. Hurrying with the modern crowd, as eager and fickle as any. Hot toward one I hate, ready in my madness to knife him.

Solitary at midnight in my back yard, my thoughts gone from me a long while. Walking the old hills of Judea, with the beautiful gentle God by my side. Speeding through space—speeding through heaven and the stars. Speeding amid the seven satellites, and the broad ring, and the diameter of eighty thousand miles. Speeding with tailed meteors—throwing fire-balls like the rest.

Carrying the crescent child that carries its own full mother in its belly. And look at quintillions ripened, and look at quin- tillions green. My messengers continually cruise away, or bring their returns to me.

Through the clear atmosphere I stretch around on the wonderful beauty. The enormous masses of ice pass me, and I pass them —the scenery is plain in all directions. The white-topped mountains show in the distance— I fling out my fancies toward them.

We are approaching some great battle-field in which we are soon to be engaged. We pass the colossal out-posts of the encampment— we pass with still feet and caution. Or we are entering by the suburbs some vast and ruined city. The blocks and fallen architecture more than all the living cities of the globe. How the skipper saw the crowded and rudderless wreck of the steam-ship, and Death chasing it up and down the storm.

How he knuckled tight, and gave not back one inch, and was faithful of days and faithful of nights. And chalked in large letters, on a board, Be of good cheer, We will not desert you.

How he followed with them, and tacked with them— and would not give it up, Cut It (Out) (Live) - Dreadlock Pussy (2) - Leaves Of Grass (CD). How the lank loose-gowned women looked when boated from the side of their prepared graves. How the silent old-faced infants, and the lifted sick, and the sharp-lipped unshaved men. All this I swallow—it tastes good—I like it well— it becomes mine. The mother, condemned for a witch, burnt with dry wood, her children gazing on.

The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the the fence, blowing, covered with sweat. The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck —the murderous buck-shot and the bullets. Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the marksmen. I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinned with the ooze of my skin. Taunt my dizzy ears, and beat me violently over the head with whip-stocks. I do not ask the wounded person how he feels—I myself become the wounded person.

My hurt turns livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe. Heat and smoke I inspired—I heard the yelling shouts of my comrades. They have cleared the beams away—they tenderly lift me forth. White and beautiful are the faces around me—the heads are bared of their fire-caps. The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches. They show as the dial or move as the hands of me— I am the clock myself.

The cries, curses, roar—the plaudits for well-aimed shots. Workmen searching after damages, making indis- pensable repairs. The fall of grenades through the rent roof—the fan-shaped explosion. The whizz of limbs, heads, stone, wood, iron, high in the air.

He gasps through the clot, Mind not me — mind — the entrenchments. Nine hundred lives Cut It (Out) (Live) - Dreadlock Pussy (2) - Leaves Of Grass (CD) of the surrounding enemy's, nine times their number, was the price they took in advance. Their colonel was wounded and their ammunition gone. They treated for an honorable capitulation, received writing and seal, gave up their arms, and marched back prisoners of war.

Large, turbulent, generous, brave, handsome, proud, and affectionate. Bearded, sunburnt, dressed in the free costume of hunters.

The work commenced about five o'clock, and was over by eight. Some made a mad and helpless rush—some stood stark and straight. A few fell at once, shot in the temple or heart—the living and dead lay together. The maimed and mangled dug in the dirt—the new- comers saw them there. These were despatched with bayonets, or battered with the blunts of muskets.

A youth not seventeen years old seized his assassin till two more came to release him. The three were all torn, and covered with the boy's blood. That is the tale of the murder of the four hundred and twelve young men. Did you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars?

His was the English pluck—and there is no tougher or truer, and never was, and never will be. On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first fire, killing all around, and blowing up overhead.

The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined in the after-hold, to give them a chance for them- selves. They saw so many strange faces, they did not know whom to trust. We have not struck, he composedly cried, We have just begun our part of the fighting. One was directed by the captain himself against the enemy's main-mast. Two, well served with grape and canister, silenced his musketry and cleared his decks. They all held out bravely during the whole of the action. The leaks gained fast on the pumps—the fire eat toward the powder-magazine.

One of the pumps was shot away—it was generally thought we were sinking. He was not hurried—his voice was neither high nor low. His eyes gave more light to us than our battle- lanterns. Two great hulls motionless on the breast of the darkness. Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking—preparations to pass to the one we had conquered.

The captain on the quarter-deck coldly giving his orders through a countenance white as a sheet. Near by, the corpse of the child that served in the cabin. The dead face of an old salt with long white hair and carefully curled whiskers. The flames, spite of all that could be done, flickering aloft and below. The husky voices of the two or three officers yet fit for duty. Formless stacks of bodies, and bodies by themselves —dabs of flesh upon the masts and spars.

Cut of cordage, dangle of rigging, slight shock of the soothe of waves. Black and impassive guns, litter of powder-parcels, strong scent. Delicate sniffs of sea-breeze, smells of sedgy grass and fields by the shore, death-messages given in charge to survivors. The hiss of the surgeon's knife, the gnawing teeth of his saw.

Wheeze, cluck, swash of falling blood, short wild scream, and long dull tapering groan. This is mastering me! Through the conquered doors they crowd. I am possessed. What the savage at the stump, his eye-sockets empty, his mouth spirting whoops and defiance. What stills the traveller come to the vault at Mount Vernon. What sobers the Brooklyn boy as he looks down the shores of the Wallabout and remembers the Prison Ships.

What burnt the gums of the red-coat at Saratoga when he surrendered his brigades. These become mine and me every one—and they are but little. I am less the jolly one there, and more the silent one, with sweat on my twitching lips.

My face is ash-colored—my sinews gnarl—away from me people retreat. Rise extatic through all, sweep with the true gravita- tion. Stand back! Give me a little time beyond my cuffed head, slum- bers, dreams, gaping. That I could forget the trickling tears, and the blows of the bludgeons and hammers! That I could look with a separate look on my own crucifixion and bloody crowning. The grave of rock multiplies what has been confided to it, or to any graves. Inland and by the sea-coast and boundary lines, and we pass all boundary lines.

The blossoms we wear in our hats are the growth of two thousand years. I see the approach of your numberless gangs—I see you understand yourselves and me. And know that they who have eyes and can walk are divine, and the blind and lame are equally divine. And that my steps drag behind yours, yet go before them.

And are aware how I am with you no more than I am with everybody. Is he waiting for civilization, or past it and master- ing it? Is he Kanadian? Is he from the Mississippi country? Iowa, Oregon, California? They desire he should like them, touch them, speak to them, stay with them. Slow-stepping feet, common features, common modes and emanations.

They descend in new forms from the tips of his fingers. They are wafted with the odor of his body or breath —they fly out of the glance of his eyes. You light surfaces only—I force surfaces and depths also. I might tell how I like you, but cannot. And might tell what it is in me, and what it is in you, but cannot. And might tell that pining I have—that pulse of my nights and days.

I do not give lectures or a little charity. I am not to be denied—I compel—I have stores plenty and to spare. You can do nothing, and be nothing, but what I will infold you. This day I am jetting the stuff of far more arrogant republics. Hang your whole weight upon me. I and they keep guard all night. Not doubt—not decease shall dare to lay finger upon you. I have embraced you, and henceforth possess you to myself. And when you rise in the morning you will find what I tell you is so.

And for strong upright men I bring yet more needed help. The most they offer for mankind and eternity less than a spirt of my own seminal wet. Lithographing Kronos, Zeus his son, and Hercules his grandson. In my portfolio placing Manito loose, Allah on a leaf, the crucifix engraved. With Odin, and the hideous-faced Mexitli, and every idol and image. Taking them all for what they are worth, and not a cent more.

Admitting they were alive and did the work of their day. Admitting they bore mites, as for unfledged birds, who have now to rise and fly and sing for them- selves.

Accepting the rough deific sketches to fill out better in myself—bestowing them freely on each man and woman I see. Discovering as much, or more, in a framer framing a house. Putting higher claims for him there with his rolled- up sleeves, driving the mallet and chisel. Not objecting to special revelations—considering a curl of smoke or a hair on the back Cut It (Out) (Live) - Dreadlock Pussy (2) - Leaves Of Grass (CD) my hand just as curious as any revelation.

Those ahold of fire engines and hook-and-ladder ropes no less to me than the Gods of the antique wars. Minding their voices peal through the crash of destruction. Their brawny limbs passing safe over charred laths— their white foreheads whole and unhurt out of the flames. By the mechanic's wife with her babe at her nipple interceding for every person born.

Three scythes at harvest whizzing in a row from three lusty angels with shirts bagged out at their waists. The snag-toothed hostler with red hair redeeming sins past and to come. Selling all he possesses, travelling on foot to fee lawyers for his brother, and sit by him while he is tried for forgery.

What was strewn in the amplest strewing the square rod about me, and not filling the square rod then. The supernatural of no account—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.

Putting myself here and now to the ambushed womb of the shadows. Come my boys and girls, my women, household, and intimates. Now the performer launches his nerve—he has passed his prelude on the reeds within. I feel the thrum of their climax and close. Folks are around me, but they are no household of mine.

Ever the eaters and drinkers—Ever the upward and downward sun—Ever the air and the cease- less tides. Ever myself and my neighbors, refreshing, wicked, real. Ever the old inexplicable query—Ever that thorned thumb—that breath of itches and thirsts. Ever the vexer's hoot! Ever the bandage under the chin—Ever the tressels of death.

To feed the greed of the belly, the brains liberally spooning. Tickets buying, taking, selling, but in to the feast never once going. Many sweating, ploughing, thrashing, and then the chaff for payment receiving. A few idly owning, and they the wheat continually claiming.

Whatever interests the rest interests me—politics, markets, newspapers, schools. Benevolent societies, improvements, banks, tariffs, steamships, factories, stocks, stores, real estate, and personal estate.

Every thought that flounders in me, the same floun- ders in them. I know my omnivorous words, and cannot say any less. And would fetch you, whoever you are, flush with myself. This printed and bound book—but the printer, and the printing-office boy? 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? Sermons, creeds, theology—but the human brain, and what is reason? 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, powwowing 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 pro- cession—rapt and austere in the woods, a gymnosophist. Drinking mead from the skull-cup—to Shastas 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, or the puritan's prayer rising, or sitting patiently in a pew. Ranting and frothing in my insane crisis, or waiting dead-like till my spirit arouses me. Looking forth on pavement and land, or outside of pavement and land.

Frivolous, sullen, moping, angry, affected, disheart- ened, atheistical. I know every one of you—I know the unspoken interrogatories. How they contort, rapid as lightning, with spasms, and spouts of blood!

The past is the push of you, me, all, precisely the same. And what is yet untried and afterward is for you, me, all, precisely the same. 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 poor-house, 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 anything in the earth, or down in the oldest graves of the earth. Nor anything in the myriads of spheres—nor one of the myriads of myriads that inhabit them. I am sorry for you—they are not murderous or jeal- ous upon me. All has been gentle with me—I keep no account with lamentation. On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between the steps.

Afar down I see the huge first Nothing—I know I was even there. I waited unseen and always, and slept through the lethargic mist. And took my time, and took no hurt from the fetid carbon. They sent influences to look after what was to hold me. My embryo has never been torpid—nothing could overlay it. Monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths, and deposited it with care. Ever-pushed elasticity! Jostling me through streets and public halls— coming naked to me at night. Crying by day Ahoy!

Calling my name from flower-beds, vines, tangled under-brush. Or while I swim in the bath, or drink from the pump at the corner—or the curtain is down at the opera, or I glimpse at a woman's face in the railroad car.

Noiselessly passing handfuls out of their hearts, and giving them to be mine. O welcome, ineffable grace of dying days! And all I see, multiplied as high as I can cipher, edge but the rim of the farther systems. And greater sets follow, making specks of the greatest inside them. If I, you, the worlds, all beneath or upon their sur- faces, and all the palpable life, were this moment reduced back to a pallid float, it would not avail in the long run.

We should surely bring up again where we now stand. And as surely go as much farther—and then farther and farther. Count ever so much, there is limitless time around that.

The Lord will be there, and wait till I come on per- fect terms. My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods.

But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll. My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents, and a plain public road. Perhaps you have been on it since you were born, and did not know. Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch as we go.

And in due time you shall repay the same service to me. And I said to my Spirit, When we become the enfolders of those orbs, and the pleasure and knowledge of everything in them, shall we be filled and satisfied then? And my Spirit said No, we level that lift, to pass and continue beyond. I answer that I cannot answer—you must find out for yourself.

But as soon as you sleep, and renew yourself in sweet clothes, I will certainly kiss you with my good-bye kiss, and open the gate for your egress hence. You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light, and of every moment of your life. To jump off in the midst of the sea, rise again, nod to me, shout, and laughingly dash with your hair. He that by me spreads a wider breast than my own, proves the width of my own.

He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher. Wicked, rather than virtuous out of conformity or fear. Unrequited love, or a slight, cutting him worse than a wound cuts.

First rate to ride, to fight, to hit the bull's-eye, to sail a skiff, to sing a song, or play on the banjo. Preferring scars, and faces pitted with small-pox, over all latherers, and those that keep out of the sun. I follow you, whoever you are, from the present hour. My words itch at your ears till you understand them. It is you talking just as much as myself—I act as the tongue of you. And I swear I will never translate myself at all, only to him or her who privately stays with me in the open air.

The nearest gnat is an explanation, and a drop or motion of waves a key. The woodman, that takes his axe and jug with him, shall take me with him all day.

The farm-boy, ploughing in the field, feels good at the sound of my voice. In vessels that sail, my words sail—I go with fisher- men and seamen, and love them. The driver, thinking of me, does not mind the jolt of his wagon. The girl and the wife rest the needle a moment, and forget where they are. And I have said that the body is not more than the Soul. And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one's self is. And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy, walks to his own funeral, dressed in his shroud.

And I or you, pocketless of a dime, may purchase the pick of the earth. And to glance with an eye, or show a bean in its pod, confounds the learning of all times.

And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it may become a hero.


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