now

since feeling is first

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other; then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

-- e. e. cummings

e e cummings is probably my favorite poet. My Dad's best friend Woody was a poet and he would introduce me to poets -- e e cummings (who never capitalized), Richard Brautigan -- numerous others whose names I don't remember.

I remember the attention he gave me and the fun we had with words, and I remember that I love the beat and the rhythm of language. That's probably why I write lyrics and sing them, that and a craving for immediate gratification. But I digress.

I struggle, these bleak days, with being in the present. Distracted from the now, I find myself gnawing old bones, polishing the cold stones of my resentments, rehearsing my responses to anticipated conflicts.

What I love about this poem is how entirely present it is.

Last night Caitlin wanted to be with her boyfriend and we forbade her to travel on the icy roads and so the intrepid young man drove to her in his jeep and we tried to leave them alone. I read and fell asleep early, to some television show linking secret symbols on the dollar bill to the "new world order" and probably the trilateral commission or something. I don't know because I fell asleep. I'm probably dead meat, trilateral commission-wise.

In any event, I awoke especially early this morning, at about 5 a.m. I've been reading the new Atlantic and drinking good strong coffee. Soon Tye will give in to his bladder and climb off Caitlin's warm bed. Robyn and the kids will be up in a while.

I'm going to try, this weekend, to pay less attention to the syntax. Keeping score is for suckers, right?

And stay away from T. S. Eliot. He's really gloomy.