Whitman after 10PM

Another Saturday night

We also ascend dazzling and tremendous as the sun,

We found our own my soul in the calm and cool of the daybreak.

My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach,

With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of worlds.

Speech is the twin of my vision . . . . it is unequal to measure itself.

It provokes me forever,

It says sarcastically, Walt, you understand enough . . . . why don't you let it out

then?

Come now I will not be tantalized . . . . you conceive too much of articulation.

Do you not know how the buds beneath are folded?

Waiting in gloom protected by frost,

The dirt receding before my prophetical screams,

I underlying causes to balance them at last,

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.

My final merit I refuse you . . . . I refuse putting from me the best I am.

Encompass worlds but never try to encompass me,

I crowd your noisiest talk by looking toward you.

Writing and talk do not prove me,

I carry the plenum of proof and every thing else in my face,

With the hush of my lips I confound the topmost skeptic.

I think I will do nothing for a long time but listen,

And accrue what I hear into myself . . . . and let sounds contribute toward me.

I hear the bravuras of birds . . . . the bustle of growing wheat . . . . gossip of flames

. . . . clack of sticks cooking my meals.

I hear the sound of the human voice . . . . a sound I love,

I hear all sounds as they are tuned to their uses . . . . 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-pedlars and

fruit-pedlars . . . . the loud laugh of workpeople 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;

[[[[[[[

I honestly do not know anything about the SF Bay Lit scene. Nor anything outside it. Time is not jumbled up but unfolded in each head. Thus the Surreal.

https://monoskop.org/images/7/70/Sharpley-Whiting_T_Denean_Negritude_Women_2002.pdf#page=138

Let's talk seriously: If this lack of Negroes is not explained by the hardships of the tropical climate to which we have adapted, and still less by I know not what inferiority, it is explained, I believe, as follows, by: (1) the horrific conditions of being brutally transplanted onto a foreign soil; we have too quickly forgotten the slave ships and the sufferings of our slave fathers. Here, forgetting equals cowardice. (2) an obligatory submission, under pain of flogging and death, to a system of "civilization," a "style" even more foreign to the new arrivals than the tropical land. (3) finally, after the liberation of people of color, through a collective error about our true nature, an error born of the following idea, anchored in the deepest recesses of popular consciousness by centuries of suffering: "Since the superiority of the colonizers arises from a certain style of life, we can access power only by mastering the techniques of this 'svy\t in our turn." Let's stop and measure the importance of this gigantic mistake.