46 I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured and never will be measured.
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.
Where are you off to, lady?
In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn less, And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them.And I say to mankind, Be not curious about God, For I who am curious about each am not curious about God, (No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God and about death.) I hear and behold God.I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!) My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods, No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair, I have no chair, no church, no philosophy, I lead no man.To cotton-field drudge or cleaner of privies I lean, On his right cheek I put the family kiss, And in my soul I swear I never will deny him.You there, impotent, loose in the knees, Open your scarf'd chops till I blow grit within you, Spread your palms and lift the flaps of your pockets, I am not to be denied, I compel, I have stores plenty and to spare, And any thing.
I resist any thing better than my own diversity, Breathe the air but leave plenty after me, And am not stuck up, and am in my place.
Gentlemen, to you the first honors always!
What is a man anyhow?
A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my caresses, Head high in the forehead, wide between the ears, Limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground, Eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving.
I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracy, By God!
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you.Copyright The DayPoems web site, t, is copyright by Timothy.Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me it shall be you!I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won.You light surfaces only, I force surfaces and depths also.The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom, I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol has fallen.9 The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready, The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon, The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged, The armfuls are pack'd to the sagging mow.My brain it shall be your occult convolutions!(Round and round we go, all of us, and ever come back thither If nothing lay more develop'd the quahaug in its callous shell were enough.