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I feel your gaze Walt Whitman,
just like Al, Neal, and Old Bull did too.
Like blades of grass brushing
up against my calliphygian self.

Not like these glamourous trees of today,
whose salivating leers make me cringe.
No, your furtive leaves are close to the root,
bunched together on a salient rainbow knoll.

What color are my leaves?
What color is my grass?
Certainly not green,
but not rainbow either. - Sorry.

But, whatever color it is
(probably a brilliant gray)
I'm still stuck on this isle mound,
gazing at a vast ocean of
American green.

Where are my "comrades," Walt Whitman?
Am I going to die like you?
Cause I'm hurt'n here,
stuck on this solitary mount
searching for other promontories,
barely getting by
with the comforts of your iridescent shadows.

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