shimmering chickenwire octagons keep out
chickens and anything larger than a chipmunk
but not the predatory fingers of raccoons
nor chipmunks themselves
leaden hardware cloth squares keep out
the smallest rodents (even chipmunks)
and birds, but not bugs except praying
mantids and probably tarantulas
what’s needed is screening, no longer
made from wire but pressed or extruded
petrol-polysomething, to keep all visible
annoyances at a safe distance
Hello,
At the urging of the food vendors, the University
intends to begin tearing down the Case Building on June 1.
Obviously,
the English and Theatre Department
needs to be out of the building by the end of May.
I can confirm that they intend to place us in Mattox, and so far
there are no long term plans
for us.
We expressed our concern about the marginal location of the building.
Below is the message that we received when we inquired
about help with our packing.
It seems that Facilities Services is not going too be forthcoming after all,
so it may be prudent for us
to make our own arrangements.
“It would help expedite things and save some money
if everyone packed themselves.
I understand that it was stated that packing would be available
and I’m not going to be the one to recant that statement.
So, yes it is still available but it would be most helpful
if items were boxed and ready to be moved.”
The following programs were identified with the anticipation of possibly
sun-setting some
academic curriculums with low enrollments:
Apparel Design & Merchandising
& Social Intelligence and Leadership & French
& Geography & Comparative Humanities
& Horticulture & Journalism & Philosophy & Religion & Theatre
Sorry, and thanks!
Epilogue:
We boxed up our books. Before demolition, we dug up
wood poppy from the courtyard, living memories
of a gone space. Mattox, new to us but
merely a repurposed 56-year-old men’s dorm
greeted us in the spirit of Dali.
Poem 4, June 4
Text from Ange
Happiness is short lived
in the human world;
in our very own world.
Live for the moment
and embrace life
whether it is at its finest
or at its worst.
Life is short
in its journey.
We have no promise
the sun will always
rise in the morning.
Fear not the dark.
If it fades, know the sun shines,
giving life a full, new meaning.
first world stumbles on its warmth
swaddled to suffocation
counting credit scores like lovers
roofing every building
so that from above
you discern ownership
first world devours itself
having consumed the rest
skin to ribs eye to gods
hotsauce on the chin swagger
dripping from the elbows
a dipping bowl for everything
first world calls itself
first world not knowing
multitudes worlds inhaled exhaled
collapsed like beehives
swarming to blot the sky
only to settle elsewhere
first world paints its nails
electric blue sparkle power
hides the fungal colony growing
a revolution underfoot the stench
fills your nostrils
with old factory lies
first world raises its fist
yearns for fabled past
of Tom Sawyer whitewashing
a three hundred foot wall
a better time of straw hats
the slow movement of slaves
first world recedes by degrees
lapping at the shore of your comfort
splash fun at first but soon you drown
or bob head first first world fetal
into an ocean that devours worlds
with a ton of hotsauce
you made flowers in yourself
to watch me grow.
you watered me
and directed me into sunlight.
you set me on a pedestal
regarding an endless amount of care.
you sacrificed you’re everything
to ensure id bloom.
you planted me into a garden
drenched in admiration
until I blossomed
into a different version of you.
you picked the flower
and put it in a vase
that rested in the crevices
of your ribcage.
you set me free
under the supervision of your love.
you harnessed me to make sure
id never fall.
flowers are fragile
but nothing is as delicate
as your mind.
you sealed the delicacy
in concreted cement
to make sure i would strive,
even at the expense of your sanity.
you taught me how to flourish,
and its only thanks to you.
that i breathe content
of your care and grace.
What is it worth to write in form
With ancient English so proper and worn
Trying to give birth to what’s already born
While eyes buffer to fetishized word porn
What is it worth to rack up awards
From high-browed high horses on all fours
Saying that which must’ve been said before
In the name of waxing antiquated gourds
What is it worth to write like the holy canon
Who wrote when literacy was mandatory famine
For so many with potential met with abandon
When a wealth of tongue was but for mammon
What is it worth to be a timeless voice
When so many were buried without a choice
