Occasions are never the what we want from before or the what it is but what is made by the photograph, cameraphone, runner.

A naked man showed up on my doorstep from 1865. He said, The war is over.

Because he was naked I had a difficult time believing him, as difficult a time as I have believing in God. Today I was embraced alongside the faithful. And still many parts of me cry out to be cynical as is their nature.

Their nature I have manufactured from words and paralysis and the type of thought which follows from those places but perhaps not from a jete.

In my house three boys chattered about the snow, more important a change than anything happening now but hundreds of miles away. We do not have a yard of size. The angels possible in our yard are smallish angels, angels for everyday use, angels of bread and thread and pencils.

They could not run to the inauguration, certainly not when it's so cold, not when they would stop every few feet to stoop then scoop and pack a tight-powdery ball of white to lob at one another. The boys do this, not the angels. The angels are only the negative space where boys have lain in snow. They do not craft ice-balls, angels. They maybe should as I bet they are bored inside the perfect.

Watching the boys battle in joy I do not remember such battles. I did not have them or the ice hurt, but battle is also play. I should remember that and too to be the teacher. "Only some violence is allowed," I'll say, "Only the violence that results in pleasure for the involved." That's what I would mean but not how to say it.

I think often, Isn't everyone involved? Shouldn't battle be verboten. Left for angels with swords of ice (for I remember my Milton now, and they do fight). And I think everyone is. And also I think they are not. Like today. Some sorrow some hurt is happening and I should acknowledge it in the poem. There are such things as bitter angels, their impressions in the snow that look frighteningly like salt. Frozen there as they look back. Bitter, backwards looking angels.

There, how much better to get to this place of cynicism. Finally.

I have never sought to be a happypoet. Cup runnething--cup a runny thing. Never wanted to overflow my cups all blowsy all breasty motherearthy hippie-sort. A sport. Never ached to be a gleepoet a me-poet a poetaster all ecstatic with the universing-song and the blessings and length of days. You know, all of them.

I'm not usually all full or even half with wonderment, doublemint, bubble lishessness, slavering cuppy love, slovenly is what I think of all that goo. That honey. I was born under the sign of watergate and hate even mentioning my birth as if I matter to my poem.

I don't want to matter.

But trying to invoke the yeasty zeitgeisty thoughts I've been lately having makes me a bit of that lout the happypoet. As does mentioning boys angels and just snow. Here I am, Jenny, here I am! Do you see me? I am a guerilla poet now... breathing big and all that, running marathons one hundred and fifty three years long and ending up at the end of the day that began in a mall.

I will not embrace it. The joy.

But today the snow is soft and the white flies apart through the air. Have you noticed how white flies apart through the air?

Like ash and ironies, and all other attempts at selves and stance that cannot hold. I love my boys. I am glad this day for them.