May its roots weep black and refuse to be comforted. He suspects me of calling 0. Walt, I go to poetry readings, featured reader, my whole life schizoid, get fifteen bucks for feature, lose a hundred missing work. Walt, they talked of poetry, here, in this college bar, Neruda's collected works plump and glossy on the barstool next to a blonde in black. Walt, they mention you.
Someone asks how Whitman's beloved workers became such mindless, soulless, overweight redneck shits.
I walk away too tired to defend. Outside the moon has risen. Winter has shined the shoes of heaven black, black and clean, stars clear and stainless blue. I stand under the weight of your poems, Walt, and feel betrayed. I tell you it is Kali, the great destroyer, her voice singing amidst butchery and hate.