2/12/15. Missing e.e. cummings
“The little lame balloon man”
Has given up on whistling.
It is his brain gone
Addled and saddled
He straddles virtue
And rides her into the ground.
“bettyandisabel” hop with their scotch
While “eddieandbill” have lost their marbles.
Peeking over the hedge funds
We seek each other as opportunity
Making piracy our way of life.
The Celebrity Actors applaud us
For our thoughtless performance watching.
Climate’s curtain, out of control,
Lowers itself day by dismal day.
The abyss covers its eyes.
Summer seeks shelter from the sun
And winter sends snow storms
Into just spring.
No longer luscious,
All its promise has turned to mud.
The weather or not man
Looks at the color of his nails while
He draws maps of pretense
And past tense.
All the lame brained
Goat like governors
Goad each other into the helpless, carelessness
Of their gated communities.
Out. At what remains.
e.e. cummings was one of my favorite poets. He functions as a counter balancing book end to T.S. Eliot. Just by looking at the way they presented their names you can almost see where they differed and were similar. Eliot winters in my soul; cummings springs into my heart.
The poem I’ve written above is an odd kind of tribute to him. I have begun the contradictory process of a stumbling consistency: to use pieces of what I’ve read, and written, as thematic starters to new pieces of writing. I seem to believe that we think in dimly visible patterns. Odd ambiguities appear, as they do in the previous sentence, and peek up or down at me from a familiar but distant perspective. I am inclined to follow this trail.