spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little lame baloonman
whistles far and wee
and eddyandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
when the world is puddle-wonderful
old baloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
I love e.e. cummings. I LOVE e.e. cummings. I don't think that I can express that more clearly. I fucking love him.
I love his words.
I love his structure.
I love the way he plays with my brain.
What better poem for my back, right pocket when spring has finally come to us? The trees are a-bloomin' and the New York City streets are a-buzzin'. And I'm standing in Union Square Park, the sun is shining, the pollen is making everything sort of hazy, sort of dreamy, and I lean on my right hip, tucking my right hand in my back pocket, content in watching the people walk up and down, up and down, with their little french bulldogs. "in Just - / spring"