I've written a few lines about the dead. They are full of blood and mush. Talking about the end is in itself a type of slurry.
There is nothing concrete about the passing of time- only the physical that changes. For me and you this means lines and stretching and growing noses and ears. The trees gain rings and knots of wisdom. They produce leaves and then we pile them up. Our new land a vast blacktop that coats the soil in a slick our car tires can tune to.
I ramble a bit. I ramble on to public transportation. I ramble about nature and the forgetting of nature and the ignorance of nature to the human condition. How nice it must be to be a tree and see all things from all heights. A tree that can be protected by the perimeter of central park, or doomed like the development across the street.
So the deadline for poetry is December 1st. Our open-mic is December 9th. I can't even write poem 6 for Meena Alexander's class. This is the truth. I have written some lines here and there. They are dead dead dead. Syntax hollow. Roots like ginger in swamp water. Endstops like speedbumps that grow as you approach them.
All the pretty comparisons. Nothing will be Fall 2009 again. I remember Fall of 2006. I didn't think I'd make it in these hallways. open faced sandwiches. gloved and ungloved shaking of hands. We are certainly never circles freehand.
Before I get too blustery, I urge all of you to either read Whitman (Song of Myself) or Thoreau (Walden) this winter. This is my usual recommendation. Stay true to your stomachs and don't go off the deep end. Rip everything to shreds and start over again. Evolve and grow your rings and give rings and break them.
Editors: Final meeting emails will be sent the second 1/2 week of December, check the emails you provided.
Senior Poetry Editor,