When I am with you Buster, it as though I am with
myself and I sing, myself, innit.
Let Rothko be jealous, I keep no account of
I have known so few experiences and yet:
I know: I am Kaiya. A kosmos.
To be here, living, to be here
alive. I am: many.
I am top and I am bottom and I am all up and
in between that shit.
Through me the afflatus surging and surging, through me the
current and index.
But what is it to know, Buster? Tell me:
what is it to know?
TAGS: Buster | DailyKaiya | Dogs | Poetry | Song of Myself | Walt Whitman