you.and.i.the.lungs

I was secretly raised by Walt Whitman among the orange groves and long coasts of California, my legs and arms climbed trees 'til I was walking on telegraph wires and calling the whole country my own.I gave it to you, my young love; yr face split open in a big wheel of flashing lights and the fireworks of summer when you realized my gift. We left our small town and wandered in our new love; we walked across states, our shoes became dust, our shoulders covered with the knapsack of the moon; and when we got tired, we rested by the sides of rivers, pulling apples and honey from that white light stretched across our angel bones. Yr smile was our grace as we sat before our food.Our way of walking was the way of buffalo left so long without chase they had forgotten mankind and we too lived in the world of tall grass. We spoke as ravens, using their ninety-seven ways to say I love you and we did this until our throats were raw and our hands became wings reaching into the sky for air and water. We remained in the plains states for as long as it takes bone to turn to granite. We drank water from cupped hand; one eye on the sky, watching for something we couldn't name.At night, as we would lie covered by our thin blanket, you used the holes between warp and weave as a telescope to view far past Pluto so we could hear the grinding of giant satellites as they turned on their axis. The music of their orbits was how we mapped out where we were going next, as the sailor steers ship by the north star.In that jamboree of summer, we came to Walt whenever he called. Like young bison stamping at his feet, our breath was the steam of the train and Walt's old shaggy head was our guide, our father, our hallelujah. In our joy at being reunited, sometimes we would race the engine, head to ground, laughing as the cowcatcher imitated us in our running.I edited my profile with Thomas' Myspace Editor V4.4