I am larger, better than I thought,
I did not know I held so much goodness.1
I am waiting for Walt Whitman to arrive. He is slow on the open road. Dazzled by wildflowers and the
enthusiasms of people moving to and from cities, shouting hellos.
I am waiting for Walt Whitman to lift me up. I am searching for the right words and he seems to have so
many of them. I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell.2
Sticks and stones. I write and sometimes heaven pours out but mostly the words are gravel paving a
hard path. I can’t fear what I love. I will not fear what I love.
Still, a greedy man in my head holds sway over the cells, sparks and synapses. He is the chemist who
turns my brain into an empty room. He is just a man, I tell him.
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.3
I have been here before, empty-handed and begging. Walt, Walt. Say allons to me. The words I write are
premixed, packaged, shelved. Or they are stuttered, muffled, silenced by the greedy chemist.
I write anyway. I will not fear what I love.
I will love the words, choked as they are in the back of my throat. I will love them and feed them. I will
teach them about justice and forgiveness. I will give them room to play. I will let them breathe.
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the
passing of blood and air through my lungs,4 I am writing.
1Whitman, Walt. “Song of the Open Road.” Poetry Foundation. Poetry Foundation, n.d. Web. 21 July 2015.
2“Song of the Open Road.”
3Whitman, Walt. “Song of Myself (1892 version).” Poetry Foundation. Poetry Foundation, n.d. Web. 21 July 2015.
4“Song of Myself.”