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Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1855.

Faces

SAUNTERING the pavement, or riding the country by-road—lo! such faces!
Faces of friendship, precision, caution, suavity, ideality;
The spiritual, prescient face—the always welcome, common, benevolent face,
The face of the singing of music—the grand faces of natural lawyers and judges, broad at
the back-top;
The faces of hunters and fishers, bulged at the brows—the shaved blanched faces of
orthodox citizens;

The pure, extravagant, yearning, questioning artist’s face;
The ugly face of some beautiful Soul, the handsome detested or despised face;
The sacred faces of infants, the illuminated face of the mother of many children;
The face of an amour, the face of veneration;
The face as of a dream, the face of an immobile rock;
The face withdrawn of its good and bad, a castrated face;
A wild hawk, his wings clipped by the clipper;
A stallion that yielded at last to the thongs and knife of the gelder.
Sauntering the pavement, thus, or crossing the ceaseless ferry, faces, and faces, and faces:
I see them, and complain not, and am content with all.




2
Do you suppose I could be content with all, if I thought them their own finale?
This now is too lamentable a face for a man;
Some abject louse, asking leave to be—cringing for it;
Some milk-nosed maggot, blessing what lets it wrig to its hole.
This face is a dog’s snout, sniffing for garbage;
Snakes nest in that mouth—I hear the sibilant threat.

This face is a haze more chill than the arctic sea;
Its sleepy and wobbling icebergs crunch as they go.
This is a face of bitter herbs—this an emetic—they need no label;
And more of the drug-shelf, laudanum, caoutchouc, or hog’s-lard.
This face is an epilepsy, its wordless tongue gives out the unearthly cry,
Its veins down the neck distended, its eyes roll till they show nothing but their whites,
Its teeth grit, the palms of the hands are cut by the turn’d-in nails,
The man falls struggling and foaming to the ground while he speculates well.
This face is bitten by vermin and worms,
And this is some murderer’s knife, with a half-pulled scabbard.
This face owes to the sexton his dismalest fee;
An unceasing death-bell tolls there.

Those then are really men—the bosses and tufts of the great round globe!
Features of my equals, would you trick me with your creased and cadaverous march?
Well, you cannot trick me.


I see your rounded, never-erased flow;
I see beneath the rims of your haggard and mean disguises.
Splay and twist as you like—poke with the tangling fores of fishes or rats;
You’ll be unmuzzled, you certainly will.
I saw the face of the most smeared and slobbering idiot they had at the asylum;
And I knew for my consolation what they knew not;
I knew of the agents that emptied and broke my brother,
The same wait to clear the rubbish from the fallen tenement;
And I shall look again in a score or two of ages,
And I shall meet the real landlord, perfect and unharmed, every inch as good as myself.


The Lord advances, and yet advances;
Always the shadow in front—always the reached hand bringing up the laggards.
Out of this face emerge banners and horses—O superb! I see what is coming;
I see the high pioneer-caps—I see the staves of runners clearing the way,
I hear victorious drums.
This face is a life-boat;
This is the face commanding and bearded, it asks no odds of the rest;
This face is flavored fruit, ready for eating;
This face of a healthy honest boy is the program of all good.
These faces bear testimony, slumbering or awake;
They show their descent from the Master himself.





Of the word I have spoken, I except not one—red, white, black, are all deific;
In each house is the ovum—it comes forth after a thousand years.
Spots or cracks at the windows do not disturb me;
Tall and sufficient stand behind, and make signs to me;
I read the promise, and patiently wait.
This is a full-grown lily’s face,
She speaks to the limber-hipped man near the garden pickets,

Come here, she blushingly cries—Come nigh to me, limber-hipped man,
Stand at my side till I lean as high as I can upon you,
Fill me with albescent honey, bend down to me,
Rub to me with your chafing beard, rub to my breast and shoulders.


Music written and arranged by Chris Cunningham
Poem by Walt Whitman (from Leaves of Grass- 1866)

Vocals: Joe Horton
Guitars: Chris Cunningham
Bass: Chris Bates
Drums: Greg Schutte
Baritone Sax: Cole Pulice
Tenor Sax: Jared Jarvis
Alto Sax: Ivan Cunningham
Flute: George Adzick
Trumpet: Noah Ophoven Baldwin

Recorded at Bathtub Shrine Recording and MCTC studios, MPLS, MN
Engineered by Greg Schutte and Chris Cunningham

painting: The Temptation of the Victor by Ernst Fuchs— 1949

credits

from FOTHOU​-​Time To Play, released October 24, 2016
Music written and arranged by Chris Cunningham
Poem by Walt Whitman (from Leaves of Grass- 1866)

Vocals: Joe Horton
Guitars: Chris Cunningham
Bass: Chris Bates
Drums: Greg Schutte
Baritone Sax: Cole Pulice
Tenor Sax: Jared Jarvis
Alto Sax: Ivan Cunningham
Flute: George Adzick
Trumpet: Noah Ophoven Baldwin

Recorded at Bathtub Shrine Recording and MCTC studios, MPLS, MN
Engineered by Greg Schutte and Chris Cunningham

painting: The Temptation of the Victor by Ernst Fuchs— 1949

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FOTHOU (Fall of the House of Usher) Minneapolis, Minnesota

FOTHOU (Fall of the House of Usher) is:
a collective of musicians and composers in Minneapolis, MN.
Many are in the same family.

FOTHOU has been described as:
lifting from the world's deepest groove pockets- East, West, and North African, 80's No Wave funk, Sun Ra, and more.

The solo albums by Chris Cunningham (Neverwas) are from the same vein of the mine, with more acoustic folk influences.
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