Here's another bit of the poem -- almost done. When I have the whole thing formatted I'll create another entry with the entire thing. I start this with an excerpt since initially it doesn't seem to do much with the site, but clearly the long passages of looking at the sky, revelling in erotic bodily pleasure, etc., play the non-abstracted self against the seemeingly otherworldly machinations of the Congress. The rhetoric still seems too self-consciously Whitmanesque to me

"I lift my voice aloud,
      make Mantra of American language now,
                  I here declare the end of the War!
                        Ancient days' Illusion!-
            and pronounce words beginning my own millennium.
Let the States tremble,
      let the Nation weep,
            let Congress legislate its own delight
                  let the President execute his own desire-
this Act done by my own voice,
                              nameless Mystery- "

...

I'm an old man now, and a lonesome man in Kansas
      but not afraid
            to speak my lonesomeness in a car,
            because not only my lonesomeness
                  it's Ours, all over America,
                                    O tender fellows-
                  & spoken lonesomeness is Prophecy
                  in the moon 100 years ago or in
                        the middle of Kansas now.
It's not the vast plains mute our mouths
                        that fill at midnite with ecstatic language
                  when our trembling bodies hold each other
                        breast to breast on a mattress-
      Not the empty sky that hides
                              the feeling from our faces
      nor our skirts and trousers that conceal
            the bodylove emanating in a glow of beloved skin,
                  white smooth abdomen down to the hair
                                    between our Legs,
      It's not a God that bore us that forbid
            our Being, like a sunny rose
                        all red with naked joy
            between our eyes & bellies, yes
All we do is for this frightened thing
            we call Love, want and lack-
      fear that we aren't the one whose body could be
            beloved of all the brides of Kansas City,
            kissed all over by every boy of Wichita-
      O but how many in their solitude weep aloud like me-
            On the bridge over Republican River
                  almost in tears to know
                        how to speak the right language-
            on the frosty broad road
                  uphill between highway embankments
            I search for the language
                              that is also yours-
            almost all our language has been taxed by war.
Radio antennae high tension
      wires ranging from Junction City across the plains-
      highway cloverleaf sunk in a vast meadow
                  lanes curving past Abilene
                        to Denver filled with old
                                    heroes of love-
                  to Wichita where McClure's mind
                        burst into animal beauty
                        drunk, getting laid in a car
                              in a neon misted street
                                    15 years ago-
      to Independence where the old man's still alive
      who loosed the bomb that's slaved all human consciousness
                  and made the body universe a place of fear-
Now, speeding along the empty plain,
            no giant demon machine
                  visible on the horizon
      but tiny human trees and wooden houses at the sky's edge
            I claim my birthright!
                  reborn forever as long as Man
                        in Kansas or other universe-Joy
            reborn after the vast sadness of War Gods!
A lone man talking to myself, no house in the brown vastness to hear,
            imaging the throng of Selves
                  that make this nation one body of Prophecy
                        languaged by Declaration as Pursuit of
                              Happiness!
I call all Powers of imagination
      to my side in this auto to make Prophecy,
                                                all Lords
            of human kingdoms to come
Shambu Bharti Baba naked covered with ash
            Khaki Baba fat-bellied mad with the dogs
Dehorahava Baba who moans Oh how wounded, How wounded
      Sitaram Onkar Das Thakur who commands
                                    give up your desire
Satyananda who raises two thumbs in tranquillity
      Kali Pada Guha Roy whose yoga drops before the void
            Shivananda who touches the breast and says OM

Srimata Krishnaji of Brindaban who says take for your guru
      William Blake the invisible father of English visions
      Sri Ramakrishna master of ecstasy eyes
            half closed who only cries for his mother
Chaitanya arms upraised singing & dancing his own praise
      merciful Chango judging our bodies
            Durga-Ma covered with blood
                  destroyer of battlefield illusions
            million-faced Tathagata gone past suffering
      Preserver Harekrishna returning in the age of pain
Sacred Heart my Christ acceptable
            Allah the Compassionate One
                              Jaweh Righteous One
                        all Knowledge-Princes of Earth-man, all
      ancient Seraphim of heavenly Desire, Devas, yogis
                        & holymen I chant to-
                              Come to my lone presence
                                    into this Vortex named Kansas,
I lift my voice aloud,
      make Mantra of American language now,
                  I here declare the end of the War!
                        Ancient days' Illusion!-
            and pronounce words beginning my own millennium.
Let the States tremble,
      let the Nation weep,
            let Congress legislate its own delight
                  let the President execute his own desire-
this Act done by my own voice,
                              nameless Mystery-
published to my own senses,
                  blissfully received by my own form
      approved with pleasure by my sensations
            manifestation of my very thought
            accomplished in my own imagination
                  all realms within my consciousness fulfilled
      60 miles from Wichita
                              near El Dorado,
                                    The Golden One,
in chill earthly mist
      houseless brown farmland plains rolling heavenward
                                                      in every direction
one midwinter afternoon Sunday called the day of the Lord-
      Pure Spring Water gathered in one tower
                  where Florence is
                        set on a hill,
                  stop for tea & gas