T-boned by a carjacker who had overdosed on opium, I rolled over, as shearing forces shredded my stomach walls into vulnerable straw;
My raw extremities were bereft of an outstretched finger which has always been frescoed but is now intangible to me.
Frisking the sidewalk for an anchor, my fingers ended up dog-earing leaves of grass, whose roots nourished my bone marrows like filtrated milk. Walt Whitman is why my stylus bleeds daily and I don't.
His free verses of himself grafted my limbs to my own trunk without any yoking charges; Whitman is the wanderlust of weathered hands, All who adore outdoor air walk on his open road.
His phrases shielded my brains from a blitzkrieg of rubrics which wrung awe by cutting branches of curiosity into wrongs and rights to climb; His songs boomerang like the rings of Saturn, whose Olympic range exceeds the bar of every ladder, ruler, and graduated cylinder.