Whitmanesque, yep, though like if Walt had been infected with a strain of Southern Gothic. "The nagleria eating the convolutions from the black pulp of thought", yech.

Brothers and sisters;
lovers and children;
great mothers and grand fathers
whose love-times have been cut
already into stone; great
grand foetuses spelling
the past again into the flesh's waters:
can you bless - or not curse -
whatever struggles to stay alive
on this planet of struggles?
The nagleria eating the convolutions
from the black pulp of thought,
or the spirochete rotting down
the last temples of Eros, the last god?
- from There Are Things I Tell to No One ( )

Clearly great and yet not quite for me. Another day, another mood...