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Joyce Kilmer
B. 12.6.1886 New Brunswick, New Jersey / D. 7.30.1918 France
German Gunfire

So you know Iím not so happy in my job these days on account of having to repeat myself and repeat and repeat, every quarterly cycle every year itís the same same same. Routine scours my brainpan with steel wool. Iím empty, Iím finished and empty. What I need is a new stew to feed on, one full of savory root vegetables (or are those meats, or marrows?) and strange herbs; one or two ingredients that sing when plucked from the ground ought to do it. Truly, I need a change.
I look out the bus window on the ride back from Boston and the thought returns: I love
trees. Each one is different, theyíre all almost equally lovely, they take such a long time to grow, they donít talk on the phone
Could I possibly, somehow, I wonder, get a new job writing copy for
The National Arbor Day Foundation or something, Iíll look it up on the internet, see if theyíre hiring; I could write the text for new brochures, better brochures, the kind that when theyíre around well-informed people donít ask themselves, Does the sponsoring organization exist? Taking them
to the next level
with vivid prose that burrows, chigger-like, into the conscience
mine; yours, theirs. Trees
(ďoxygen factories,Ē for instance) everywhere, getting fat on the time my words buy them, ungrateful wretches, they canít do a thing for themselves. . .oh
and here comes Christmas, again.

Consolation Site: Plaque on wood

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