1,540 Readings

Have Cold Hump and Bough

 Has cold humped your bough? Who knows how much home for that? Have grand hand thee? I will my head his heart instead, and weave it in there tough.

Like that woven one, that white man that the varnish made act like the variegated marble found reproduced in Somiligare. Who the varnish made wish. Woven thusly over the boy hardening with hope from the sincerity you have believed had gone.

That runaway, from the rundown rubdown commune in the dunes.
Like good food, fanned and blown. His one unfolded fan, his one sun-tanned nip.

Man, that white varnish hardens too, man. Shipped in hulls to Samothrace, bought by white man to brush over their pricks. Induce a fateful mawn till sunups. How about a toast?

Here’s to thine admixtured recipes of wait for it –
“fffooorrr eeevvveeerrr mmmooorrreee”
Here’s to that risk of poignancy and gamble.

Here’s to cracking open that notion of devotion –
“fffooorrr eeevvveeerrr mmmooorrreee”
Here’s to us waking, with our nadels flushed and full.

I know what you do down there, Somiligare. Believe me, we all do.

Bough as shoulder and bough as gallow. We can say bough as buff, like tough, we can and it turns us on and the poem means another thing altogether. Like rubbing something, or as a man can be. This man made of white varnish could be called bough. He’s the shoulder of this poem upon which this arm rests. The adhesiveness is, as the varnish is - thick. Whitman uses the term adhesiveness to talk of the poignant love between men. That handsome bond. That act of resting an arm on another’s shoulder, bough, or hand on hand, about tying your rope to that high, strong main branch. That creates a different kind of bond, another type of adhesion.
Picture that beautiful setting American sun shining on that beautiful setting American face. Is that a face I see? Only phantom? Well… Shall this poem have more to do with this than that then? Mine eye say yes, apparently. This one while being writ and read has become ghostly vapor, and more than that has left me a haunted fool.
Finding the note one gave to you, to give to me, saying: “Eat up, dance, and be merry, please. This is that night. Let’s let it be that night indeed. There is no need to brace, and there is no need for these comments! This pome shoulde instead cloze up with a delectable harmony of Hautboiz, Shalmz, and oother such looud muzik” that you had stuffed inside your pocket.
Okay, I’ll say. Good and it will be, and I’ll believe it to be right.

Posted 12/04/09
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