Whitman.

I was reading poetry tonight.  I was going to post some of it here.  I was thinking...

... these improvs are a little bit like my own poetry.
... these poems don't really express what I'd like to express right now.
... the thrill of the ride makes it fun.
... does that mean that the journey is what it's all about, and yes, that's really cliche.
... the Russians.  They get it.

Here we go, Day 62: https://ia600707.us.archive.org/30/items/Improv101511/10_15_111_28Pm.mp3
and Day 62, Part 2: https://ia700707.us.archive.org/5/items/Improv2101511/10_15_118_15Pm.mp3

All truths wait in all things,

They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it,

They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon,

The insignificant is as big to me as any,

(What is less or more than a touch?)

Logic and sermons never convince,

The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.

(Only what proves itself to every man and woman is so,

Only what nobody denies is so.)

A minute and a drop of me settle my brain,

I believe the soggy clods shall become lovers and lamps,

And a compend of compends is the meat of a man or woman,

And a summit and flower there is the feeling they have for each other,

And they are to branch boundlessly out of that lesson until it becomes omnific,

And until one and all shall delight us, and we them.