I Still Remember Walt Whitman

Was is you Jack Kerouac? walking next to me down the street on a brisk September evening beating around America and Mexico? Was it you Walt Whitman, I saw traveling through the woods? Listing to the quiet sounds of America while still conquering city streets? While still roaming the halls of the forest? But why did you Mr. Poe trade a pen for a vice indefinitely, cease your soul of poetry and your mind of interpreting? Or was It you – Emily Dickinson? I heard, – waiting – silently without a Word, without a way out? And yet Robert Frost, how can I not feel the embrace of a New England Fall while watching a wall mend itself in Michigan? And how is it that something changed in America? Left the body like a fleeing spirit, blinded by a neon sign displaying a continuos sale of the American dream, not listening to the voice that used to be the role of identity. Yet it used to be that America knew the soul that lies within. Spoke the voice of value even with the hint of sin. It used to be the writers and poets alike who commanded the land and shaped the sky. It used to be that America knew itself, but know it knows nothing not even that it is lost.