Walking Through Medaille With Walt Whitman

Mar 26, 2008 - 12:58 PM PST

I.

Mr. Whitman, may I call you Walt? Walt Whit? You’re such a man of wit; let’s sit on this bench, though the seat’s snow seeps into our jeans.
What marvelous winter days we experience here, straddled between so-called seasons, one day full of flustered flurries, the next soaked by sprinkler heads, but come and let us observe the beautiful sights and sounds around us.

II.

Crinkled leaves cry as they cradle their hopes that die on the grass that gasps on a frigid fall afternoon, and I wonder why leaves need to die so soon,
Because only months passed since they startled awake that one green day when the breeze still lingered in a yawning way.
Crinkled eyes cry on a doorstep still when I abandoned her for a failing thrill, and I wonder why her eyes seem to slowly die as they watch me walk away,
Because only months passed since I fastened sail on these creaking boards of frill-less fancies, while its body sways drunkenly into a hazy hangover that I’ll appropriately title, “Too Much Too Soon”

III.

Dull dorm room doors covered by pictures and glitter may seem sweet as home, but if a plain girl wears makeup she’ll still be plain at the end of the day when the easy breezy beautiful cover girl washes down the drain.
They can’t fool me; this house stuffed in a drawer fosters despair in its corners,
Where Singledom seethes in the open sores that heartstrings cut into more and more,
Where catastrophic breakdowns mark the front page of a rag-mag that sits outside an open door,
Where disillusioned dreamers let their desires soak through their brains and refuse to believe that reality has drowned them all,
Where painters color their blood on college canvases with the wistful wish that they’ll sell their souls for more than twenty bucks a pop,
Where professors preach naivety with degrees in dementia while brochures babble about success as defined by the college’s curriculum,
These dull room doors covered in glitz may hold you now, but they can’t fool me.