By the East River and the Bronx
boys were singing, exposing their waists
with the wheel, with oil, leather, and the hammer.
Ninety thousand miners taking silver from the rocks and children drawing stairs and perspectives. But none of them could sleep, none of them wanted to be the river, none of them loved the huge leaves or the shoreline's blue tongue. By the East River and the Queensboro boys were battling with industry and the Jews sold to the river faun the rose of circumcision, and over bridges and rooftops, the mouth of the sky emptied herds of bison driven by the wind. But none of them paused, none of them wanted to be a cloud, none of them looked for ferns or the yellow wheel of a tambourine. As soon as the moon rises the pulleys will spin to alter the sky; a border of needles will besiege memory and the coffins will bear away those who don't work. New York, mire, New York, mire and death. What angel is hidden in your cheek? Whose perfect voice will sing the truths of wheat? Who, the terrible dream of your stained anemones? Not for a moment, Walt Whitman, lovely old man, have I failed to see your beard full of butterflies, nor your corduroy shoulders frayed by the moon, nor your thighs pure as Apollo's, nor your voice like a column of ash, old man, beautiful as the mist, you moaned like a bird with its sex pierced by a needle. Enemy of the satyr, enemy of the vine, and lover of bodies beneath rough cloth... Not for a moment, virile beauty, who among mountains of coal, billboards, and railroads, dreamed of becoming a river and sleeping like a river with that comrade who would place in your breast the small ache of an ignorant leopard. Not for a moment, Adam of blood, Macho, man alone at sea, Walt Whitman, lovely old man, because on penthouse roofs, gathered at bars, emerging in bunches from the sewers, trembling between the legs of chauffeurs, or spinning on dance floors wet with absinthe, the faggots, Walt Whitman, point you out. He's one, too! That's right! And they land on your luminous chaste beard, blonds from the north, blacks from the sands, crowds of howls and gestures, like cats or like snakes, the faggots, Walt Whitman, the faggots, clouded with tears, flesh for the whip, the boot, or the teeth of the lion tamers. He's one, too! That's right! Stained fingers point to the shore of your dream when a friend eats your apple with a slight taste of gasoline and the sun sings in the navels of boys who play under bridges. But you didn't look for scratched eyes, nor the darkest swamp where someone submerges children, nor frozen saliva, nor the curves slit open like a toad's belly that the faggots wear in cars and on terraces while the moon lashes them on the street corners of terror. You looked for a naked body like a river. Bull and dream who would join wheel with seaweed, father of your agony, camellia of your death, who would groan in the blaze of your hidden equator. Because it's all right if a man doesn't look for his delight in tomorrow morning's jungle of blood. The sky has shores where life is avoided and there are bodies that shouldn't repeat themselves in the dawn. Agony, agony, dream, ferment, and dream. This is the world, my friend, agony, agony. Bodies decompose beneath the city clocks, war passes by in tears, followed by a million gray rats, the rich give their mistresses small illuminated dying things, and life is neither noble, nor good, nor sacred. Man is able, if he wishes, to guide his desire through a vein of coral or a heavenly naked body. Tomorrow, loves will become stones, and Time a breeze that drowses in the branches. That's why I don't raise my voice, old Walt Whitman, against the little boy who writes the name of a girl on his pillow, nor against the boy who dresses as a bride in the darkness of the wardrobe, nor against the solitary men in casinos who drink prostitution's water with revulsion, nor against the men with that green look in their eyes who love other men and burn their lips in silence. But yes against you, urban faggots, tumescent flesh and unclean thoughts. Mothers of mud. Harpies. Sleepless enemies of the love that bestows crowns of joy. Always against you, who give boys drops of foul death with bitter poison. Always against you, Fairies of North America, Pájaros of Havana, Jotos of Mexico, Sarasas of Cádiz, Apios of Seville, Cancos of Madrid, Floras of Alicante, Adelaidas of Portugal. Faggots of the world, murderers of doves! Slaves of women. Their bedroom bitches. Opening in public squares like feverish fans or ambushed in rigid hemlock landscapes. No quarter given! Death spills from your eyes and gathers gray flowers at the mire's edge. No quarter given! Attention! Let the confused, the pure, the classical, the celebrated, the supplicants close the doors of the bacchanal to you. And you, lovely Walt Whitman, stay asleep on the Hudson's banks with your beard toward the pole, openhanded. Soft clay or snow, your tongue calls for comrades to keep watch over your unbodied gazelle. Sleep on, nothing remains. Dancing walls stir the prairies and America drowns itself in machinery and lament. I want the powerful air from the deepest night to blow away flowers and inscriptions from the arch where you sleep, and a black child to inform the gold-craving whites that the kingdom of grain has arrived.