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HOME 2003-10-13
Joyce Kilmer B. 12.6.1886 New Brunswick, New Jersey / D. 7.30.1918 France German Gunfire So you know I’m not so happy in my job these days on account of having to repeat myself and repeat and repeat, every quarterly cycle every year it’s the same same same. Routine scours my brainpan with steel wool. I’m empty, I’m 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. Trees I look out the bus window on the ride back from Boston and the thought returns: I love trees. Each one is different, they’re all almost equally lovely, they take such a long time to grow, they don’t talk on the phone Could I possibly, somehow, I wonder, get a new job writing copy for trees? The National Arbor Day Foundation or something, I’ll look it up on the internet, see if they’re hiring; I could write the text for new brochures, better brochures, the kind that when they’re around well-informed people don’t ask themselves, Does the sponsoring organization exist? Taking them (trees) to the next level me with vivid prose that burrows, chigger-like, into the conscience mine; yours, theirs. Trees (“oxygen factories,” for instance) everywhere, getting fat on the time my words buy them, ungrateful wretches, they can’t do a thing for themselves. . .oh and here comes Christmas, again. Consolation Site: Plaque on wood
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