[I'm] not afraid to speak my lonesomeness...because not only my lonesomeness, it's ours, all over America, oh tender fellows. And spoken lonesomeness is prophecy.
It's not the empty sky that hides the feeling from our faces. All we do is for this frightened thing we call love, want and lack.

Oh, but how many in their solitude weep aloud like me? Almost in tears to know how to speak the right language. I search for the language that is also yours. Almost all our language has been taxed by war.

I claim my birthright. Joy! A lone man, talking to myself. No house in the brown vastness to hear. Imagining the throng of selves that make this nation one body of prophecy; language by declaration as pursuit of happiness.

I call all powers of imagination to my side...to make prophecy. Come to my lone presence into this vortex... I lift my voice aloud, make mantra of American language now.

I here declare the end of the war.
Let the States tremble.
Let the Nation weep.
Let Congress legislate its own delight.
Let the President execute his own desire.

This act, done my own voice, 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.

Excerpt from Wichita Sutra Vortex by Alen Ginsberg

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