spring, beauty, flowers, poetry
voices to voices,lip to lip
i swear(to noone everyone)constitutes
undying;or whatever this and that petal confutes...
to exist being a peculiar form of sleep
what's beyond logic happens beneath will;
nor can these moments be translated:i say
that even after April
by God there is no excuse for May
-bring forth your flowers and machinery:sculpture and prose
flowers guess and miss
machinery is the more accurate, yes
it delivers the goods,Heaven knows
(yet are we mindful,though not as yet awake,
of ourselves which shout and cling,being
for a little while and which easily break
in spite of the best overseeing)
i mean that the blond abscence of any program
except last and always and first to live
makes unimportant what i and you believe;
not for philosophy does this rose give a damn...
bring on your fireworks,which are a mixed
splendor of piston and of pistil;very well
provided an instant may be fixed
so that it will not rub,like any other pastel.
(While you and i have lips and voices which
are for kissing and to sing with
who cares if some oneyed son for a bitch
invents an instrument to measure Spring with?
each dream nascitur,is not made...)
why then to Hell with that:the other;this,
since the thing perhaps is
to eat flower and not to be afraid.
e.e. cummings (tulips & chimneys XXXIII)
Now, because we are also beginning a new baseball season, I want to take a moment and remember someone who was not only the finest songwriter I've ever known, he was a good and decent guy. He wrote some of the best songs in the American songbook. Like he lived his life, he wrote them quietly, he was almost embarrassed when he'd perform them. Still, he would touch some great beauty. Steve Goodman and I for a few years when I was in San Diego made a little tradition of attending each other's home opener together. I was able to introduce him to the joys of fish tacos from a pushcart by the beach, he pointed out the guys in the left field bleachers at Wrigley who, in the fifth inning of an opening day unfurled a "Wait Till Next Year!" sign. Steve, very early in his life was diagnosed with leukemia. At the age of twenty he knew what was going to kill him, and he knew it would kill him soon. I loved that guy. I've told many people when I explain how much I hate traveling on the wrong side of the Pecos river that I've only known one person in my life from Chicago that wasn't an asshole, and he died young. This is Steve Goodman, a good man, a cub fan, refusing to go down without letting us know what was on his mind. . .
Finally, because one good Goodman truly deserves another, this is my favorite song of his. This was the last song he and I played together. There isn't a recording or any film of our performance, but this is one of his best done by him at his best.
I miss you buddy. Bring on Spring!