dear walt

its that time again... writers block hit full force but i'm fighting. take the book, feel the pages & open for advice.. crazy how 'dead on' it always is.

"leaves of grass - first and 'death bed' editions" -walt whitman pg. 560

'with ray of light, steady, ineffable, vouchsafed of thee, light rare untellable, lighting the very light, beyond all signs, descriptions, languages; for that O God, be it my latest word, here on my knees, Old, poor, and paralyzed, I thank thee.

my terminus near, the clouds already closing in upon me, the voyage balk'd, the course disputed, lost, I yield my ships to thee.

my hands, my limbs grow nerveless, my brain feels rack'd, bewilder'd, let the old timbers part, i will not part, i will cling fast to thee, O God, though the waves buffet me, thee, thee at least i know.

is it the prophet's thought i speak, or am i raving? what do i know of life? what of myself? i know not even my own work past or present, dim ever-shifting guesses of it spread before me, of newer better worlds, their mighty parturition, mocking, perplexing me.

and these things i see suddenly, what mean they? as if some miracle, some hand divine unseal'd my eyes, shadowy vast shapes smile through the air and sky, and on the distant waves sail countless ships, and anthems in new tongues i hear saluting me.'