A Writer’s Lament or Ten Years Among the Wordmongers
Dedicated to David Shumate and Tracy Mishkin
by Mac Greene
So, here I am, a word bumbler trying to transform into an emerging writer, crawling through the smashing surf onto one of the endless islands in the Archipelago Poetico. My Grand Canyon poem washes up in Hawaii. The zombie piece rots on Deadman’s Rock. Several haiku gardens blossom in Japonesia. I land a Christmas tree and a raft of ravens on Wilderness Isle, just as waves slam me down and pull me back to sea. My chapbook lights up the phosphorescentalgae, and then fizzles in the pounding waves. Drums and orators vociferate around all-night campfires on SlamBam as my rap poem bobs in a craft beer bottle. I steer clear of the broken crags and ivory towers of MFAland, especially Solipsism Reef and Overly Mannerd.
Writers emerge from water spouts and whirlpools, only to be dragged back into the surf, sand in the crotch of our swimsuits, fighting against rip currents and flesh-eating jellyfish. I hear the mad cackling of Prosapomia Absurdia, where Neruda opened his briefcase and the room filled with seagulls and porpoises suck strawberry daiquiris at poolside bars. The Poet Laureate asks Ronald for directions to McDonalds and reserves an Air B&B with a chatty fox squirrel. She is serenaded by a cello full of bumblebees, while ants build empires beneath her feet. Forever emerging, I retreat on a shark-bitten surfboard searching for the mythical Sanity Isles in the Peach Glow Sea.
Flying Island, April 2017