in front of ee cummings' home, perhaps a deep yellby Tim J. Brennan
in front of ee cummings’ home, perhaps a deep yell from Dylan Thomas’ tavern table, back in 1988, i stood duskly staring at his iron gate, the cul-de-sac circular drive, the crumbling sidewalk) it was really drama i was there studying with Howard Stein, a nice man from Columbia who Jewishly believed) people do not really want happiness they just endure until it is time. so i just stood in front of the iron gate, locked, and stared down his sidewalk, wondering what time my time would let me know and even if i did know perhaps i would yell and kiss girls i didn’t know; let them wonder what kind of crazy bastard would do something their menfriends had never thought of doing. in front of ee cummings’ home, shades drawn, makes a person think all kinds of thoughts: the girl walking away from me just then reminded me of the girl, soft hair like a kitfox) i shared a swing with (back in wisconsin. i did not marry that girl but by god the girl who walked away from me in front of ee cummings’ home sure could have been she) perhaps i should have yelled her name (or perhaps i should have written about the way she walked) right then the same way she walked away that night so long ago so many swings ago; no) just other thoughts, standing in front of ee cummings’ home: i remember the blandness of color, like indian grass, like a writer waiting in ambush with a line, a mark of punctuation) so subtle, so silent that when read aloud it truly mattered) when on paper more like a mosquito: unfelt, unseen, brushed away with the passing of a hand) like the thought of a girl walking, just walking, like my thoughts standing in front of ee cummings’ iron gated, shades drawn, cul-de-sac circular crumbling sidewalk. i waited hoping, even dead, he might open the door, trod down the walk, clasp my hand and put parenthesis on either side of my breath); either that or invite me in for strong, black coffee. i needed to ask him about girls and swings and how long one needs to write before scar tissue forms on a thought; how many punctuation marks) does a life really need before becoming a poem; how many capital letters does one delete from his list of friends, from names of the past. standing in front of ee cummings’ home perhaps a deep yell away before the girl disappeared, i knew i would never see her again and another thought crossed my mind, a thought i’ve always about wondered what i really want to know is how do you like your blueeyed boy Mister Death? © 2007 by Tim J. Brennan. All rights reserved.