unbeingdead isn't beingalive

Don't listen to this song. I mean, unless it's the kind of thing you're in to.
But I didn't put it up there to be listened in it's 6 minute entirety.

You need to listen from 3:15 to 3:38.

Hear it?

Good



Do listen to this song.

.....Hear it?

Good.

Now we can move on to the more serious and important.

Every poet I read is my favorite poet.
Out of thewaythatis, not out of desire or trickery.
I don't have the memory or the chops to keep a revolving list of favorite poetsauthorsbands in my head at any given time.

I can barely remember who wrote what when.
I haven't read enough (read: all) poetry to hold my own in a choices-competition, a Top 5 provesyourightproveshimwrong.

When someone asked me how my first "real" winter had gone, I automatically responded that I didn't know - I didn't have any other one to compare it to.

That's rational.
My brother got real mad.
I'm still figuring out how he can be a poet.

I bet he's read more poets than I have.

So for this week, and forever since I've read him.

E.E. Cummings is my favorite poet.
I suppose it's too mainstream to build any beatstreetcred off of, but by adding this sentence pointing that out I've managed to circumvent that nicely.

People tend to call him "e. e. cummings" because he signed a poem that way and people are people.
Me calling him by his regular name is just symbolic enough to be understood by everybody, but only if they know the previous fact.
So I also have to introduce that caveat whenever I talk about E.E. Cummings.

Those two necessary injections are why I don't talk about poetry a lot, I guess.

I think if I had to make a wish I'd want my life to, in the end, have the same flavor as his poetry.

Unfortunately apparently he says, "nothing is quite as easy as using words like somebody else. We all of us do exactly this nearly all of the time —and whenever we do it, we are not poets."

Which sort of cancels out my traditional strategy of greatnessthroughmimicry.

But anyway, Dang, man, E.E. Cummings.

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom