Max is NOW!

From ee cummings’s “Days of Innocence”:

who are you, little i

(five or six years old)
peering from some high

window; at the gold

of november sunset

(and feeling:that if day
has to become night
this is a beautiful way)

The world is an ugly placee, it is said, a very ugly place: full of anger and hate and filth and garbage. But in the quiet, early mornings, in the soft places we find our rest, there is the seedlings of beautiful things. Before we fully wake, between the dark sleep and the bright day, moments, fleeting moments, where dreams are forever and was is being. Like children, without limits or rules or obligation. The heavy words of who we are, suspended in confusion, lost in the void between consciousness and nothingness. All that could be is. Everything is beautiful, the world is all things. For centuries we live in happy tiny moments from each breath to next, within that time of waking. And then we remember, like reality being ripped, we remember all the things we aren’t and can’t and don’t. We remember the hate, the anger, the garbage, and the filth. The world is painted once again with our ugly, deformed view.

From ee cummings’s “Adult Nursery Rhymes”:

What a wonderful thing
is the end of a string
(murmurs little you-i
as the hill becomes nil)
and will somebody tell
me why people let go