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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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