“I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn’d over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue
to my bare-stript heart,
And reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my feet.”
-Walt Whitman, Song of Myself
Was the NY Post taking their version of the high ground by not running a cover headline about Obama’s endorsement of gay marriage, and instead running one about John Travolta soliciting gay sex?
Gotta love the Post. Gotta “love” the Post.
Point being, I wish Walt Whitman were still around. I wish this for so many reasons, but mostly because if he were, we could have his words on this political issue, every political issue, every moral issue, every moral code, everyone, everything we’re trying to cram into our sixty seconds of history. And I bet he wouldn’t openly support anyone for President.
Since Whitman, it seems like attempts to weave current events into art tangle quickly and usually get worse from there (with apologies to Dylan and “Guernica”). Do we get a “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d”?
May 11, 2012