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P, Kasino trier programm , zhk, Racing For Pinks hedelmäpelit netissä ,: A biography of Sheriff D. Boston and New York: Houghton, Mifflin and Company.
The first written record and definitive study of the Cajun Language as spoken by the people in Vermilion and surrounding parishes. Harcourt, Brace and Company.
Traditional Cajun Dance Music. Louisiana State University Press. The Limits of Cajun political rhetoric. A Sensory Tour of Cajun Culture.
Junior League of Lafayette. A glossary of Louisiana French figures of speech. Renouveau Publishing First Edition. The Complete Tales as told by Julius Lester.
University of Chicago Press. Moity et al So. Louisiana State bar Association La. Public Affairs Research Council.
Harper Brothers, Publishers, and London: New American Library Penguin. Identity and Authenticity in Cajun Music and Dance.
University of California Press. The Life of an Artist. Exhibits to US Government Printing Office. Case for Conspiracy with the C. I remind my readers and guests, as I did in the introduction to this essay, that I might violate the genteel rules of grammer so as to convey the similarity between cooking and writing as mutually analogous metaphors.
There are also a few Texas tangents. Now, jambalaya is made from elements at hand much like myths which use the method of bricolage , that is taking elements readily available and assembling them in new ways.
The assemblage is guided by a set of rules. This appetizer you are now reading conveys those rules on how to cook jambalaya.
If you understand these rules, the number of kinds of jambalaya you can cook will be limited only by your imagination. I cook the jambalaya a certain way, but that way is only one of many ways as different cooks composes dishes to suit their readers.
Some other storytellers cook their jambalaya in other ways. You will hear many different versions of the same tale and you might be tempted to argue about which kind of jambalaya is the real one.
Be assured that as along as you follow the rules established in this essay you will tell real stories.
If you want to more than just a little taste jambalaya presented below, then read the remainder of the essay: There are two major varieties of Louisiana Jambalaya, kind-a-sort-a-like brothers: Cajun jambalaya from rural Louisiana and the urban New Orleans jambalaya.
The singular supposed difference is the use of tomatoes in New Orleans and its lack in the Prairies. This sounds like a rule meant to inhabit or inhibit your creativity.
Please break this rule and it will lead to surprising results. The five categories of jambalaya ingredients are meat, vegetables, rice, seasonings, and water.
I will give some general advice on the selection of these elements, what kind of pot to use, and then proceed to a simple jambalaya recipe, that I hope everyone can tell.
First off, note that the meat is optional. If animal protein is used, then it is browned on high heat to burn slightly in the pan. Although the pan is used, think of an open fire burning the meat.
The pan will be deglazed during a simmering chapter to turn the white rice to a brown color and add flavor. You can use seafood, but that food is placed in the pot when simmering begins.
In no case should you mix seafood and animal protein. Fish and pork chops are an abomination. You can avoid this issue by simply putting in no meat or seafood — you can go vegetarian.
There are three essential vegetables: Feel free to add some of other vegetables that range from eggplants to hot peppers to black eye beans to green beans.
Buy local and fresh if you can. And yes, you can add tomatoes even though you are cooking Cajun jambalaya.
Just say that it is Creole when you use tomatoes and you will sound like an expert. Repudiate the New Orleans myth as well as the trinity. Rice is the most important element.
Buy the best you can find. As in the case of vegetables, quality matters. The best rice grown in South Louisiana for jambalaya is a variety called Toro, a long grain.
If you can find it, buy basmati. It the same rice, but it tells slightly a different story with a Texas accent.
Some people prefer sticky jambalaya, but I prefer a jambalaya in which the goal is each grain of rice is separated. You might like sticky.
To help you embrace sticky, I will even tell you about distant jambalaya cousins who use short grains. In any case, you need to buy whole grains, not cracked grains.
So tell the whole story, not just a part of it. When I was a boy, rice that was cracked in half was fit for only chicken feed.
Now some of that rice is being sold for human consumption. Be sure as well that the rice is white without a trace of the brown hull. Jambalaya can be made from brown rice, but that is for a master cook, not for an apprentice as these instruction assume.
Let me tell you where I learned this tale. My father was a cook of some renown. As I write these lines, he would be over years old if he were alive.
In his time, there was no such thing as a caterer. There were men and some women who you could hire for a private party like a political dinner or you could ask to contribute their time for a fund raiser.
Their pay was meager: I still meet people today who remember meals that my father cooked some 40 years ago in his prime.
I did not so much learn how to cook from my father; for it was naturally expected that all men cook. Rather, I learned how to eat from my father.
He only used two primary seasonings: He also grew a bay leaf tree and would use those when he remembered.
No black pepper, that too is an abomination. Many cooks today call themselves Cajun by adding extreme amounts of pepper.
This I believe is a marketing strategy to sell more red pepper to the unsuspecting. But when it came to salt, my father knew few limits.
Imagine the taste of seawater diluted just enough so that you could taste the hint of vegetables in the pot. I believe he cooked with a lot of salt as a strategy to make you drink more beer, especially at political suppers where drinking was heavy.
The leftovers he brought back home after cooking for other kinds of dinners was far less salty. My father cooked jambalaya in a five gallon circular black cast iron pot with a cypress paddle.
He heated the pot with butane that was given freely by his oil and gas company to their employees. An old, recycled, water heater burner was used to heat the pot.
It can be played by an apprentice or journeyman, but the finesse is just gone. You can just play a much simpler song with simpler lyrics by using a black cast iron pot that is well seasoned.
The pot need not be large. I learned to cook jambalaya on a 15 inch wide skillet, about three inches deep. It has a heavy lid to keep the steam the rice.
To begin, select your vegetables. For every cup of rice, you should use about one and one-half cup of chopped vegetables. If you are preparing vegetarian jambalaya, then increase that mixture to two to two and a half cups of chopped vegetables to one cup of rice.
If you like a lot of vegetables and are adding meat, then use the vegetarian mix. Here is a tangent about vegetarianism, Cajun cooking, and environmental diversity: Cajun cooking is the cooking of the peasantry.
Peasants always eat a lot of vegetables because by definition a peasant is one who grows his own food and participates sparingly in the moneyed economy.
Meat is used sparingly because it is expensive in that kind of economy. Or so the story goes. Cajuns are somewhat of the exception here.
They were peasants who lived in the land of Louisiana, a bountiful place when it was first settled and continues to be despite the environmental disasters of recent years.
The place has a wide variety of food because so many ecological niches overlapped and border one another.
Diversity is the basis of this bountiful place. This diversity is represented in their ethnicity and their cooking, particularly jambalaya.
Some people may say that vegetarian jambalaya is not traditional. But in Talk About Good But more about this subject latter. The first step is to break some traditional rules.
My father never precooked his rice. He added his rice raw at the end of the preparation. I discovered that you can add about three-fourths of a table spoon of cooking oil to one cup of rice.
Each oil imparts its own flavor and this flavor will be serve as the premise of the story. The oil will allow the individual grains of rice not to stick to other grains of rice.
So cook the rice and oil on high heat stirring constantly until the grains turn white. When that is done, remove the rice from the pot.
The next step is to cook the meat using high heat stirring constantly. As I alluded to above, imagine an open fire and you are trying to salvage it from being burnt or breaking apart and falling into the fire.
You can use what is at hand or go out and hunt and gather. I like to use smoked sausage from the supermarket. It has a lot of flavor in the oil.
If they are available, the best thing to use is traditional Cajun favorites like andouille sausage and tasso.
I occasionally add the bones to the jambalaya, but this so ultra that I do it only with close family members. The general Cajun populace would consider far too country.
Cook the meat on high heat, stirring constantly. You want to create a pot that has nearly burnt bits of meat that will be deglazed later on in the cooking process when you add the water.
This will transform white rice to a brown color, if you have not added tomatoes. If you want your jambalaya to have a red color, add some whole fresh tomatoes to you vegetable mix or one tablespoon of tomato paste to the water for each cup of rice.
The acidic tomatoes will remove the seasoning from the cast iron post and ruin it for a while until you cook some more in it.
You can also cook jambalaya out of crawfish, shrimp or redfish. You can even use dried shrimp like Woody does in the book.
Each of these foods are tough and so hold up when cooked. The flesh of catfish or perch is just too soft to hold together when cooked; but you might try and break this rule and find out what works for you.
If you do use seafood, then it is placed uncooked when you add the water later in the preparation process. Remember that if you add a fish with a lot of bones, it will be difficult to separate the fish from the bones and the rice.
So consider using fillets. But you can be ultra and use bones as I have said above. They will add flavor; but you may have to hide them form your guest as any good trickster would do.
In this recipe, use about one pound of meat or seafood. As I said above, you can skip this step if this fit your taste. Next for the vegetables: Ideally, the onions should be clear when the meat is dark brown.
Continue stirring until you swear you are going to burn the pot and then stop. 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! Broad muscular fields, branches of live oak, loving lounger in my winding paths, it shall be you!
Hands I have taken, face I have kiss'd, mortal I have ever touch'd, it shall be you. I dote on myself, there is that lot of me and all so luscious, Each moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy, I cannot tell how my ankles bend, nor whence the cause of my faintest wish, Nor the cause of the friendship I emit, nor the cause of the friendship I take again.
That I walk up my stoop, I pause to consider if it really be, A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books.
To behold the day-break! The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows, The air tastes good to my palate.
Hefts of the moving world at innocent gambols silently rising freshly exuding, Scooting obliquely high and low. Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs, Seas of bright juice suffuse heaven.
The earth by the sky staid with, the daily close of their junction, The heav'd challenge from the east that moment over my head, The mocking taunt, See then whether you shall be master!
We also ascend dazzling and tremendous as the sun, We found our own O my soul in the calm and cool of the daybreak. My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach, With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of worlds.
Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself, It provokes me forever, it says sarcastically, Walt you contain enough, why don't you let it out then?
Come now I will not be tantalized, you conceive too much of articulation, Do you not know O speech how the buds beneath you are folded?
Waiting in gloom, protected by frost, The dirt receding before my prophetical screams, I underlying causes to balance them at last, My knowledge my live parts, it keeping tally with the meaning of all things, Happiness, which whoever hears me let him or her set out in search of this day.
My final merit I refuse you, I refuse putting from me what I really am, Encompass worlds, but never try to encompass me, I crowd your sleekest and best by simply looking toward you.
Writing and talk do not prove me, I carry the plenum of proof and every thing else in my face, With the hush of my lips I wholly confound the skeptic.
I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of flames, clack of sticks cooking my meals, I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice, I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following, Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the day and night, Talkative young ones to those that like them, the loud laugh of work-people at their meals, The angry base of disjointed friendship, the faint tones of the sick, The judge with hands tight to the desk, his pallid lips pronouncing a death-sentence, The heave'e'yo of stevedores unlading ships by the wharves, the refrain of the anchor-lifters, The ring of alarm-bells, the cry of fire, the whirr of swift-streaking engines and hose-carts with premonitory tinkles and color'd lights, The steam-whistle, the solid roll of the train of approaching cars, The slow march play'd at the head of the association marching two and two, They go to guard some corpse, the flag-tops are draped with black muslin.
I hear the violoncello, 'tis the young man's heart's complaint, I hear the key'd cornet, it glides quickly in through my ears, It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast.
I hear the chorus, it is a grand opera, Ah this indeed is music--this suits me. A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me, The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full.
I hear the train'd soprano what work with hers is this? The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies, It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possess'd them, It sails me, I dab with bare feet, they are lick'd by the indolent waves, I am cut by bitter and angry hail, I lose my breath, Steep'd amid honey'd morphine, my windpipe throttled in fakes of death, At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles, And that we call Being.
Round and round we go, all of us, and ever come back thither, If nothing lay more develop'd the quahaug in its callous shell were enough. Mine is no callous shell, I have instant conductors all over me whether I pass or stop, They seize every object and lead it harmlessly through me.
I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy, To touch my person to some one else's is about as much as I can stand.
The sentries desert every other part of me, They have left me helpless to a red marauder, They all come to the headland to witness and assist against me.
I am given up by traitors, I talk wildly, I have lost my wits, I and nobody else am the greatest traitor, I went myself first to the headland, my own hands carried me there.
Did it make you ache so, leaving me? Parting track'd by arriving, perpetual payment of perpetual loan, Rich showering rain, and recompense richer afterward.
Sprouts take and accumulate, stand by the curb prolific and vital, Landscapes projected masculine, full-sized and golden. Logic and sermons never convince, The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.
Only what proves itself to every man and woman is so, Only what nobody denies is so. A minute and a drop of me settle my brain, I believe the soggy clods shall become lovers and lamps, And a compend of compends is the meat of a man or woman, And a summit and flower there is the feeling they have for each other, And they are to branch boundlessly out of that lesson until it becomes omnific, And until one and all shall delight us, and we them.
I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits, grains, esculent roots, And am stucco'd with quadrupeds and birds all over, And have distanced what is behind me for good reasons, But call any thing back again when I desire it.
In vain the speeding or shyness, In vain the plutonic rocks send their old heat against my approach, In vain the mastodon retreats beneath its own powder'd bones, In vain objects stand leagues off and assume manifold shapes, In vain the ocean settling in hollows and the great monsters lying low, In vain the buzzard houses herself with the sky, In vain the snake slides through the creepers and logs, In vain the elk takes to the inner passes of the woods, In vain the razor-bill'd auk sails far north to Labrador, I follow quickly, I ascend to the nest in the fissure of the cliff.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition, They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins, They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God, Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things, Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago, Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.
So they show their relations to me and I accept them, They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their possession. I wonder where they get those tokens, Did I pass that way huge times ago and negligently drop them?
Myself moving forward then and now and forever, Gathering and showing more always and with velocity, Infinite and omnigenous, and the like of these among them, Not too exclusive toward the reachers of my remembrancers, Picking out here one that I love, and now go with him on brotherly terms.
A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my caresses, Head high in the forehead, wide between the ears, Limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground, Eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving.
His nostrils dilate as my heels embrace him, His well-built limbs tremble with pleasure as we race around and return. I but use you a minute, then I resign you, stallion, Why do I need your paces when I myself out-gallop them?
Even as I stand or sit passing faster than you. My ties and ballasts leave me, my elbows rest in sea-gaps, I skirt sierras, my palms cover continents, I am afoot with my vision.
I visit the orchards of spheres and look at the product, And look at quintillions ripen'd and look at quintillions green. I fly those flights of a fluid and swallowing soul, My course runs below the soundings of plummets.
I help myself to material and immaterial, No guard can shut me off, no law prevent me. I anchor my ship for a little while only, My messengers continually cruise away or bring their returns to me.
I go hunting polar furs and the seal, leaping chasms with a pike-pointed staff, clinging to topples of brittle and blue. I ascend to the foretruck, I take my place late at night in the crow's-nest, We sail the arctic sea, it is plenty light enough, Through the clear atmosphere I stretch around on the wonderful beauty, The enormous masses of ice pass me and I pass them, the scenery is plain in all directions, The white-topt mountains show in the distance, I fling out my fancies toward them, We are approaching some great battle-field in which we are soon to be engaged, We pass the colossal outposts of the encampment, we pass with still feet and caution, Or we are entering by the suburbs some vast and ruin'd city, The blocks and fallen architecture more than all the living cities of the globe.
I am a free companion, I bivouac by invading watchfires, I turn the bridgroom out of bed and stay with the bride myself, I tighten her all night to my thighs and lips.
My voice is the wife's voice, the screech by the rail of the stairs, They fetch my man's body up dripping and drown'd.
I understand the large hearts of heroes, The courage of present times and all times, How the skipper saw the crowded and rudderless wreck of the steamship, and Death chasing it up and down the storm, How he knuckled tight and gave not back an inch, and was faithful of days and faithful of nights, And chalk'd in large letters on a board, Be of good cheer, we will not desert you; How he follow'd with them and tack'd with them three days and would not give it up, How he saved the drifting company at last, How the lank loose-gown'd women look'd when boated from the side of their prepared graves, How the silent old-faced infants and the lifted sick, and the sharp-lipp'd unshaved men; All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it becomes mine, I am the man, I suffer'd, I was there.
The disdain and calmness of martyrs, The mother of old, condemn'd for a witch, burnt with dry wood, her children gazing on, The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence, blowing, cover'd with sweat, The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, the murderous buckshot and the bullets, All these I feel or am.
I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs, Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the marksmen, I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinn'd with the ooze of my skin, I fall on the weeds and stones, The riders spur their unwilling horses, haul close, Taunt my dizzy ears and beat me violently over the head with whip-stocks.
Agonies are one of my changes of garments, I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person, My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe.
I am the mash'd fireman with breast-bone broken, Tumbling walls buried me in their debris, Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling shouts of my comrades, I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels, They have clear'd the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth.
I lie in the night air in my red shirt, the pervading hush is for my sake, Painless after all I lie exhausted but not so unhappy, White and beautiful are the faces around me, the heads are bared of their fire-caps, The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches.
Distant and dead resuscitate, They show as the dial or move as the hands of me, I am the clock myself. I am an old artillerist, I tell of my fort's bombardment, I am there again.
Again the long roll of the drummers, Again the attacking cannon, mortars, Again to my listening ears the cannon responsive.
I take part, I see and hear the whole, The cries, curses, roar, the plaudits for well-aim'd shots, The ambulanza slowly passing trailing its red drip, Workmen searching after damages, making indispensable repairs, The fall of grenades through the rent roof, the fan-shaped explosion, The whizz of limbs, heads, stone, wood, iron, high in the air.
Again gurgles the mouth of my dying general, he furiously waves with his hand, He gasps through the clot Mind not me--mind--the entrenchments.
Retreating they had form'd in a hollow square with their baggage for breastworks, Nine hundred lives out of the surrounding enemies, nine times their number, was the price they took in advance, Their colonel was wounded and their ammunition gone, They treated for an honorable capitulation, receiv'd writing and seal, gave up their arms and march'd back prisoners of war.
They were the glory of the race of rangers, Matchless with horse, rifle, song, supper, courtship, Large, turbulent, generous, handsome, proud, and affectionate, Bearded, sunburnt, drest in the free costume of hunters, Not a single one over thirty years of age.
The second First-day morning they were brought out in squads and massacred, it was beautiful early summer, The work commenced about five o'clock and was over by eight.
None obey'd the command to kneel, Some made a mad and helpless rush, some stood stark and straight, A few fell at once, shot in the temple or heart, the living and dead lay together, The maim'd and mangled dug in the dirt, the new-comers saw them there, Some half-kill'd attempted to crawl away, These were despatch'd with bayonets or batter'd with the blunts of muskets, A youth not seventeen years old seiz'd his assassin till two more came to release him, The three were all torn and cover'd with the boy's blood.
At eleven o'clock began the burning of the bodies; That is the tale of the murder of the four hundred and twelve young men.
Would you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars? List to the yarn, as my grandmother's father the sailor told it to me. Our foe was no sulk in his ship I tell you, said he, His was the surly English pluck, and there is no tougher or truer, and never was, and never will be; Along the lower'd eve he came horribly raking us.
We closed with him, the yards entangled, the cannon touch'd, My captain lash'd fast with his own hands. We had receiv'd some eighteen pound shots under the water, On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first fire, killing all around and blowing up overhead.
Fighting at sun-down, fighting at dark, Ten o'clock at night, the full moon well up, our leaks on the gain, and five feet of water reported, The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined in the after-hold to give them a chance for themselves.
The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt by the sentinels, They see so many strange faces they do not know whom to trust. Our frigate takes fire, The other asks if we demand quarter?
If our colors are struck and the fighting done? Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain, We have not struck, he composedly cries, we have just begun our part of the fighting.
Only three guns are in use, One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy's main-mast, Two well serv'd with grape and canister silence his musketry and clear his decks.
The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, especially the main-top, They hold out bravely during the whole of the action. Not a moment's cease, The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the powder-magazine.
One of the pumps has been shot away, it is generally thought we are sinking. Serene stands the little captain, He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low, His eyes give more light to us than our battle-lanterns.
Toward twelve there in the beams of the moon they surrender to us. In at the conquer'd doors they crowd! Embody all presences outlaw'd or suffering, See myself in prison shaped like another man, And feel the dull unintermitted pain.
For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and keep watch, It is I let out in the morning and barr'd at night. Not a mutineer walks handcuff'd to jail but I am handcuff'd to him and walk by his side, I am less the jolly one there, and more the silent one with sweat on my twitching lips.
Not a youngster is taken for larceny but I go up too, and am tried and sentenced. Not a cholera patient lies at the last gasp but I also lie at the last gasp, My face is ash-color'd, my sinews gnarl, away from me people retreat.
Askers embody themselves in me and I am embodied in them, I project my hat, sit shame-faced, and beg. Somehow I have been stunn'd.
Give me a little time beyond my cuff'd head, slumbers, dreams, gaping, I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.
That I could forget the mockers and insults! That I could forget the trickling tears and the blows of the bludgeons and hammers!
That I could look with a separate look on my own crucifixion and bloody crowning. I remember now, I resume the overstaid fraction, The grave of rock multiplies what has been confided to it, or to any graves, Corpses rise, gashes heal, fastenings roll from me.
I troop forth replenish'd with supreme power, one of an average unending procession, Inland and sea-coast we go, and pass all boundary lines, Our swift ordinances on their way over the whole earth, The blossoms we wear in our hats the growth of thousands of years.
Eleves, I salute you! Continue your annotations, continue your questionings. Is he waiting for civilization, or past it and mastering it?
Is he some Southwesterner rais'd out-doors? Is he from the Mississippi country? Wherever he goes men and women accept and desire him, They desire he should like them, touch them, speak to them, stay with them.
Behavior lawless as snow-flakes, words simple as grass, uncomb'd head, laughter, and naivete, Slow-stepping feet, common features, common modes and emanations, They descend in new forms from the tips of his fingers, They are wafted with the odor of his body or breath, they fly out of the glance of his eyes.
You light surfaces only, I force surfaces and depths also. Man or woman, I might tell how I like you, but cannot, And might tell what it is in me and what it is in you, but cannot, And might tell that pining I have, that pulse of my nights and days.
Behold, I do not give lectures or a little charity, When I give I give myself. You there, impotent, loose in the knees, Open your scarf'd chops till I blow grit within you, Spread your palms and lift the flaps of your pockets, I am not to be denied, I compel, I have stores plenty and to spare, And any thing I have I bestow.
I do not ask who you are, that is not important to me, You can do nothing and be nothing but what I will infold you. To cotton-field drudge or cleaner of privies I lean, On his right cheek I put the family kiss, And in my soul I swear I never will deny him.
On women fit for conception I start bigger and nimbler babes. This day I am jetting the stuff of far more arrogant republics. To any one dying, thither I speed and twist the knob of the door.
Turn the bed-clothes toward the foot of the bed, Let the physician and the priest go home. I seize the descending man and raise him with resistless will, O despairer, here is my neck, By God, you shall not go down!
I dilate you with tremendous breath, I buoy you up, Every room of the house do I fill with an arm'd force, Lovers of me, bafflers of graves.
Sleep--I and they keep guard all night, Not doubt, not decease shall dare to lay finger upon you, I have embraced you, and henceforth possess you to myself, And when you rise in the morning you will find what I tell you is so.
I heard what was said of the universe, Heard it and heard it of several thousand years; It is middling well as far as it goes--but is that all?
Come my children, Come my boys and girls, my women, household and intimates, Now the performer launches his nerve, he has pass'd his prelude on the reeds within.
Easily written loose-finger'd chords--I feel the thrum of your climax and close. My head slues round on my neck, Music rolls, but not from the organ, Folks are around me, but they are no household of mine.
Ever the hard unsunk ground, Ever the eaters and drinkers, ever the upward and downward sun, ever the air and the ceaseless tides, Ever myself and my neighbors, refreshing, wicked, real, Ever the old inexplicable query, ever that thorn'd thumb, that breath of itches and thirsts, Ever the vexer's hoot!
Here and there with dimes on the eyes walking, To feed the greed of the belly the brains liberally spooning, Tickets buying, taking, selling, but in to the feast never once going, Many sweating, ploughing, thrashing, and then the chaff for payment receiving, A few idly owning, and they the wheat continually claiming.
This is the city and I am one of the citizens, Whatever interests the rest interests me, politics, wars, markets, newspapers, schools, The mayor and councils, banks, tariffs, steamships, factories, stocks, stores, real estate and personal estate.
The little plentiful manikins skipping around in collars and tail'd coats I am aware who they are, they are positively not worms or fleas, I acknowledge the duplicates of myself, the weakest and shallowest is deathless with me, What I do and say the same waits for them, Every thought that flounders in me the same flounders in them.
I know perfectly well my own egotism, Know my omnivorous lines and must not write any less, And would fetch you whoever you are flush with myself.
Not words of routine this song of mine, But abruptly to question, to leap beyond yet nearer bring; This printed and bound book--but the printer and the printing-office boy?
The well-taken photographs--but your wife or friend close and solid in your arms? The black ship mail'd with iron, her mighty guns in her turrets--but the pluck of the captain and engineers?