Me and Walt Whitman .. .

..

We grew out of Long Island, Manhattan
It is where my father died, I am not afraid
to speak of it, my father wrote of Watergate
me and Walt we wrote it down together

Walt and I we covered so much ground
the two of us wit’ a pair of dark lurcher hounds
Long Island is pretty skinny like those dogs
down the road to Nassau County and Ronkonkoma

I saw fishermen mending nets by Peconic Bay
it wasn’t Galilee or Gethsemane, the Peconic River
one guy called Peter he was a kind of rock
I thought I’ll write my story written round about it

another guy called John kept cropping up
he wore an artistic smock, lay his head down
on Jesus breast, out here that’s considered cute
it took me a long while to get here but I made it

I made it through to Montauk Point then out to sea
to catch a Bluefin Tuna out of Babylon in a schooner
I saw guys on the pier fishing despite what they knew
my brother was a sailor, a quarterback, a pitcher

You’re cutting the ropes Natasha, set yourself free
i’ll fix you a drink of long island tea on ice
he’ll settle down with a good book and a cocktail gin
Treasure Island, Tales of Ulysess, Moby Dick

I’ve really had enough of living on the land
I’ll live out on the sea as an old man like Hemmingway
Walt Whitman, me and Bobby McGee, dreamed I
made love to Janis Joplin in Saratoga, U.S.A.

I walked as long a while as down Jones Beach
where the sand is soft to touch, as a Kanthalloor peach
where people gather to stretch out, have fun, play ball
where multitudes gather in the sun

I walk with Whitman, Adeline, my sight hound, is a picture
I set her off the lead, she runs and runs, later she returns
there my uncle Art I see he is fishing with a lure for fluke
bluefish, blackfish, striped bass, he so better than my father

My father and Walt they never met, not that I ever knew
knew this or that, that hangdog moon, the august sun’s cravat
its hot as hell but Walt Whitman is a clever fellow
he tries to teach me words have value, they have rhyme

I’ll walk wi’ Whitman night or day he does not mind
he would take my arm when I have no sight, walk on towards the light
the sun above Patchogue when we are brothers
enjoy lunch at the Oyster Bar, dressed crab and piquant peppers

I walk with Whitman to my fathers grave we bow, we talk
we wonder, what gets upside a man’s head
that makes him act unkind, what demons live inside his mind
blinded souls, there are seabirds, herring gulls on Long Island

Life trips by, O the sadness of the human condition
the constant fight to wrestle down the bleakness of traditions
father took a journey to Manhattan west of Paumonok
he was following a dream that left us floating in slipstream

I been floating ever since around the headland
in a canoe with Walt Whitman and a Seatauket indian
indigenous and free as my father wished to be
the day he left our mother, Boo, the mockingbird and me

                                          ©edenbraytoday14.10.2021