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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
and here comes Christmas, again.
Consolation Site: Plaque on wood