We don't talk of the Oversoul in this country.
We're still enamored by Emerson, taken by Margaret and Hank and the Alcotts. We can throw Whitman in too by association, but we left them at Gettysburg.
We killed the movement, the start of our Enlightenment. We left it fallow and limp, calling it indescribable, or too individual to be of any good. Then the two Roman Numeral Wars came and what's a Transcendentalist for?
The Reverend Doctor reminded us of the power of the American Enlightenment. We rode his Dream, then let it crash and burn when complacency seemed better enough.
We got lost in the puzzle for so long and forgot the poetry. The poem of the act of the mind he said. And we left ourselves there to spin.
Soul. We beg for soul. We plead for it. The soul calls for its own. We don't know how.
Our poems have lost themselves in spin dizzy puzzling. Sudoku when what we want is to sing the dog! Wag our own tails. Dance crazy because it's raining and puddles and squirrels and look a bee… and you! ...I know you!
I waited so long to publish because the world, this world, the way today is, is not a safe place to raise a soul. I've put more value on my own safety and so neglected my duty in neglecting to share my voice.
"Why do you homeschool your children?" They ask.
"Because school children get sprayed-ripped open in art class with semi-automatics."
And it sounds absurd, like hyperbole gone sadistic, but it's Monday morning news again.
I don't hear enough poetry of soul. I hear puzzles. I don't say it's not here. I don't say the good people of the world are not here either.
It's just what we're showing. It's what we're choosing to put forth, to publish in all senses of the word.
Our news stopped being new. Ratings are ratings. Even news crews have to pay the bills.
We can't see ourselves because we don't say ourselves. And so we don't share ourselves, our everyday actual reality.
Poetry, honest poetry for all of us, gets shut out by institutions the way the honest news of the day gets white washed by corporations who call their stories real news.
The Networks have real news. The Universities have real poetry.
There's as much soul in this country as there ever was. More actually. But where are the poems?
I know where they are.
In the poets, in you.
The one's writing the puzzles trying to find the most intelligent way to sound your soul.
Enough with your brain! Shutdown Sudoku and sing the soul. Shout it! Whisper it! Tiptoe or Stomp! Just Do It Out Loud. And for God sake do not apologize for your lack of New York Times Crossword etiquette.
There is nothing wrong with a puzzle poem if your soul sings in puzzles. Most do not. And thank God for my tastes.
The poem of the act of the mind is mindless and only minded by the high-minded spinning near nevermind.
Don't mind it.
Let it be!
Set the poem free!
Sing the Poem of the Act of The Soul.
Let it Rock!
Let it Roll!