Today is hot as balls in Fecal Creek.  Day two of triple digits, dear reader, and its technically not even June!  All the prognostications, scientific and otherwise, indicate that this is going to be a violently and punitively hot summer.  As I may have mentioned before, I’m actually going to try to lean into the heat this year.  Sort of an “if you can’t beat it, join it” resignation, I suppose.  To that end, I may road trip to Death Valley this summer.  If I’m feeling really ballsy, I might even book a stay at the notorious Tarantula Ranch.  After a couple of days dealing with scorpions and vipers in 120F+ heat, coming back to The Creek will feel downright autumnal.  Such drastic measures may be ill advised though…even a couple of days in those sorts of conditions can permanently scramble a person’s mind, even if it doesn’t kill him.  Rumor has it that Charles Manson was a pretty reserved, well-adjusted dude before he decided to take up residence in Death Valley.  I dunno.  We’ll see.

There’s no getting around the fact that aside from personal misery and discomfort and swamp ass, this heat makes life around here difficult.  I’m pretty much stuck in the Safe House for the time being…the asphalt on the street outside is so hot that it causes tires to melt completely in a couple of blocks.  Regrettably, I didn’t stock up on booze before the heat wave hit, so I’m shit out of luck in the tequila and whiskey department.  The heat seems to block satellite signals, so there’s no reliable internet connection.  The garage door quit working, though that might be due to demonic possession rather than extreme heat…who knows.  No one’s talking.  Even my Mexican puppy, who was whelped in the brutal Tijuana heat, finds the present conditions untenable.  She’s on strike, refusing to even be cute until the situation improves.

But never mind all that…today is massive on the Dead Poets Society calendar.  On this wild, untamed day—May 31, 1819—a raw force of nature roared into being in West Hills, New York. Walt Whitman, the untethered soul who’d soon carve his name into the beating heart of poetry, came kicking and screaming into the world. This isn’t our usual birthday nod, dear reader…it’s a full-throated howl for the man who’d become the father of free verse, a literary outlaw who tore through the stuffy rules of his time with the reckless abandon of a storm. His work, sprawling and sweaty like Leaves of Grass, doesn’t play nice with polite society—it’s transcendental, sure, but it’s also got the grit of realism, the kind of voice that makes you feel the dirt caked under your nails and the thrum of your own pulse.

Whitman’s words aren’t here to coddle you. They’re a call to the wild, a dare to embrace the messy, beautiful chaos of the human spirit and the body electric. His poems still get hauled into classrooms, thank Christ, not because they’re tame or safe, but because they’ve got the kind of fire that makes you feel alive, line after line. It’s the sort of fearless, in-your-face brilliance that keeps poetry kicking through the ages.

To demonstrate Whitman’s current cultural significance, remember, dear reader, that it was Walt Whitman who ultimately brought down Walter White.  If it hadn’t been for Uncle Walt, Breaking Bad would likely be into its 10th amazing season by now.

So here’s to Whitman, the rugged bard who showed us how to sing our own song, unapologetically, with every ounce of our being. Let’s raise a glass (unfortunately the strongest thing on hand is lemonade) to the man who’s been shaking things up for over two centuries—may his spirit keep us restless, always.

N.P.: “The Heat” – The Bones of J.R. Jones