"pity this busy monster, manunkind...."

 "pity this busy monster, manunkind,

not. Progress is a comfortable disease:

your victim (death and life safely beyond)

 

plays with the bigness of his littleness

--- electrons deify one razorblade

into a mountainrange; lenses extend

unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish

returns on its unself.

                          A world of made

is not a world of born --- pity poor flesh

 

and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this

fine specimen of hypermagical

 

ultraomnipotence. We doctors know

 

a hopeless case if --- listen: there's a hell

of a good universe next door; let's go

 "

e. e. cummings

 

Just because. I happen to think of e.e. cummings as one of the world's greatest sonneteers.  Yes, sonnets. Those fourteen line poems Shakespeare wrote. How can I count the lines? Check out cummings' poetry more closely. It's a lot more than crazy spelling and typography.

 And really --- listen: there's a hell

of a good universe next door; let's go


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