The Dream of Buying a Coffee With Bitcoin Is Dying, If It’s Not Already Dead

Click on the bonsai for the next poem. Project The Dream of Buying a Coffee With Bitcoin Is Dying, If It’s Not Already Dead, a huge collection of books as text, produced as a volunteer enterprise starting in 1990.

Tina Blue’s Beginner’s Guide to Prosody, exactly what the title says, and well worth reading. Epicanthic Fold: “If a guy somewhere in Asia makes a blog and no one reads it, does it really exist? Lewis and Clark College in Portland, Oregon. 1, a Portland, Oregon, exhibit, Aug. For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. Hoping to cease not till death.

Nature without check with original energy. The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it. I am mad for it to be in contact with me. Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? Have you practis’d so long to learn to read? Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

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You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self. But I do not talk of the beginning or the end. Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now. Always the procreant urge of the world. Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of life. To elaborate is no avail, learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is so. I and this mystery here we stand.

Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul. Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn. I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself. Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is ahead? But they are not the Me myself. Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.

I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait. And you must not be abased to the other. Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice. And reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my feet.

A child said What is the grass? How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he. Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

And here you are the mothers’ laps. Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths. And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing. What do you think has become of the young and old men? And what do you think has become of the women and children?

And ceas’d the moment life appear’d. And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier. Has any one supposed it lucky to be born? I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it. The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good. They do not know how immortal, but I know.

For me children and the begetters of children. And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away. I peeringly view them from the top. I mind them or the show or resonance of them–I come and I depart. The armfuls are pack’d to the sagging mow. And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps. Falling asleep on the gather’d leaves with my dog and gun by my side.

My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from the deck. You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle. I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean’d in the corner. Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.

She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window. Which of the young men does she like the best? Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her. Where are you off to, lady?

You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room. The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them. Little streams pass’d all over their bodies. It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.

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They do not think whom they souse with spray. I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down. They do not hasten, each man hits in his place. I go with the team also. Absorbing all to myself and for this song.

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It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life. They rise together, they slowly circle around. And the look of the bay mare shames silliness out of me. Find its purpose and place up there toward the wintry sky. I see in them and myself the same old law. They scorn the best I can do to relate them.

I can eat and sleep with them week in and week out. And of these one and all I weave the song of myself. Prisoner, fancy-man, rowdy, lawyer, physician, priest. And am not stuck up, and am in my place.

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The palpable is in its place and the impalpable is in its place. If they are not just as close as they are distant they are nothing. This the common air that bathes the globe. Have you heard that it was good to gain the day? I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them. Vivas to those who have fail’d! And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea!

And to those themselves who sank in the sea! And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome heroes! And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes known! There shall be no difference between them and the rest. This the thoughtful merge of myself, and the outlet again. Do you guess I have some intricate purpose? Do you take it I would astonish?

Do I astonish more than they? I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you. How is it I extract strength from the beef I eat? Else it were time lost listening to me. That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and filth. I wear my hat as I please indoors or out.

I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones. And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them. All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means. And if each and all be aware I sit content. I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait. And I know the amplitude of time. And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.

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I show that size is only development. I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night. Press close bare-bosom’d night–press close magnetic nourishing night! Night of south winds–night of the large few stars! Still nodding night–mad naked summer night. Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!

Earth of departed sunset–earth of the mountains misty-topt! Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue! Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river! Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! Prodigal, you have given me love–therefore I to you give love! Dash me with amorous wet, I can repay you.

I am integral with you, I too am of one phase and of all phases. Extoller of amies and those that sleep in each others’ arms. What blurt is this about virtue and about vice? I moisten the roots of all that has grown. Did you fear some scrofula out of the unflagging pregnancy? Did you guess the celestial laws are yet to be work’d over and rectified? Thoughts and deeds of the present our rouse and early start.

There is no better than it and now. The wonder is always and always how there can be a mean man or an infidel. Endless unfolding of words of ages! And mine a word of the modern, the word En-Masse. Here or henceforward it is all the same to me, I accept Time absolutely.

That mystic baffling wonder alone completes all. These mariners put the ship through dangerous unknown seas. Gentlemen, to you the first honors always! I but enter by them to an area of my dwelling. Unscrew the locks from the doors! Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs! And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.

Fog in the air, beetles rolling balls of dung. Voices indecent by me clarified and transfigur’d. Copulation is no more rank to me than death is. This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds. Translucent mould of me it shall be you!

Shaded ledges and rests it shall be you! Firm masculine colter it shall be you! Whatever goes to the tilth of me it shall be you! Breast that presses against other breasts it shall be you! My brain it shall be your occult convolutions!


Mix’d tussled hay of head, beard, brawn, it shall be you! Trickling sap of maple, fibre of manly wheat, it shall be you! Sun so generous it shall be you! Vapors lighting and shading my face it shall be you! You sweaty brooks and dews it shall be you! Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me it shall be you!

The air tastes good to my palate. Seas of bright juice suffuse heaven. The mocking taunt, See then whether you shall be master! If I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me.

We found our own O my soul in the calm and cool of the daybreak. With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of worlds. Walt you contain enough, why don’t you let it out then? Do you not know O speech how the buds beneath you are folded? I crowd your sleekest and best by simply looking toward you. With the hush of my lips I wholly confound the skeptic.

To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute toward it. They go to guard some corpse, the flag-tops are draped with black muslin. It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast. Ah this indeed is music–this suits me. The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full. To be in any form, what is that? If nothing lay more develop’d the quahaug in its callous shell were enough.

They seize every object and lead it harmlessly through me. To touch my person to some one else’s is about as much as I can stand. Then all uniting to stand on a headland and worry me. They all come to the headland to witness and assist against me. I went myself first to the headland, my own hands carried me there. Unclench your floodgates, you are too much for me.

Blind loving wrestling touch, sheath’d hooded sharp-tooth’d touch! Did it make you ache so, leaving me? Rich showering rain, and recompense richer afterward. Landscapes projected masculine, full-sized and golden. What is less or more than a touch? The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul. Only what nobody denies is so.

And until one and all shall delight us, and we them. And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels. But call any thing back again when I desire it. I follow quickly, I ascend to the nest in the fissure of the cliff. I stand and look at them long and long. Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth. Did I pass that way huge times ago and negligently drop them?

Picking out here one that I love, and now go with him on brotherly terms. Eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving. His well-built limbs tremble with pleasure as we race around and return. Why do I need your paces when I myself out-gallop them? Even as I stand or sit passing faster than you.