The Ontological Boy

Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.

WHOEVER you are, holding me now in hand,
Without one thing, all will be useless,
I give you fair warning, before you attempt me further,
I am not what you supposed, but far different.
Who is he that would become my follower? 5
Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections?
The way is suspicious—the result uncertain, perhaps destructive;
You would have to give up all else—I alone would expect to be your God, sole and exclusive,
Your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting,
The whole past theory of your life, and all conformity to the lives around you, would have to be abandon’d; 10
Therefore release me now, before troubling yourself any further—Let go your hand from my shoulders,
Put me down, and depart on your way.
Or else, by stealth, in some wood, for trial,
Or back of a rock, in the open air,
(For in any roof’d room of a house I emerge not—nor in company, 15
And in libraries I lie as one dumb, a gawk, or unborn, or dead,)
But just possibly with you on a high hill—first watching lest any person, for miles around, approach unawares,
Or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach of the sea, or some quiet island,
Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you,
With the comrade’s long-dwelling kiss, or the new husband’s kiss, 20
For I am the new husband, and I am the comrade.
Or, if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing,
Where I may feel the throbs of your heart, or rest upon your hip,
Carry me when you go forth over land or sea;
For thus, merely touching you, is enough—is best, 25
And thus, touching you, would I silently sleep and be carried eternally.
But these leaves conning, you con at peril,
For these leaves, and me, you will not understand,
They will elude you at first, and still more afterward—I will certainly elude you,
Even while you should think you had unquestionably caught me, behold! 30
Already you see I have escaped from you.
For it is not for what I have put into it that I have written this book,
Nor is it by reading it you will acquire it,
Nor do those know me best who admire me, and vauntingly praise me,
Nor will the candidates for my love, (unless at most a very few,) prove victorious, 35
Nor will my poems do good only—they will do just as much evil, perhaps more;
For all is useless without that which you may guess at many times and not hit—that which I hinted at;
Therefore release me, and depart on your way.


Friday, February 8, 2013

6195  Those who think they are realists because they blog about, about grounding appearances in the Collapsing Void somewhere out there in the Nowhere are clearly wrong.  The nothing-at-all will surely not brook such an attempt to substantial-eyes it.  Also, if I may be so  bold as to think my own thoughts, there is not one Reality before which or whom we must all bent our aching knee.  There are many.  Nor is there one past leading up to this moment nor one future leading out.  There are many.  That many is surely infinite.  And furthermore, none (not one speck) of that is merely the positing of forgetful minds or The Mad Absolute Mind, aka pure puerile consciousness or the (air)plane of immanence.  The whole fucking shebang in its appearing infinitude is real.  And when it finally breaks apart into all those shining ontological jewels that the narcissistic god who rules our days and nights puts on his cheek then  … then nothing.  We're paralyzed in amazement.  Void schmoid, he's right there hard and hardly collapsing.

Then, after the oblivion of orgasm has worn out and you have come back home from that job you sort of like and you sort of hate, he stands very tall and still in your darkened room and you just know you'll give in  one  more time. 

Bloggers are simply marking time with their magic marker until the next time.

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