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Bitter Oleander Press, BITTER OLEANDER PRESS, POETRY, poetry, reading, Poetry,READING,reading,bitter Oleander press, WRITERS, AUTHORS, UNKNOWN POETS, POETS, poets, READING POETRY,Poets,readers,writers,authors,unknown poets, Writers

OUR EDITOR'S NOTE

As it appears in our Spring 2010 issue:

So, this is it. The afternoon growing darker, a silver sun splitting in half along the horizon and what was once something we wondered about is now suddenly upon us. We can no longer run from it. Our fears have all been absorbed by the sheer terror of never again having what we once had. All that was so convenient, so approachable, tangible and available has pretty much vaporized. Although there are those who scavange for bits and pieces in hopes of reassembling all that's crumbled apart, their hopelessness seems matched only by their ignorance.

We've all seen way too many others walking just off the highways. Whole families of them. Cars loaded with necessary possessions and animals tethered alongside burdened with what will never be their own. Some walking toward the north sun. Others, more weary from having already done so, passing us on their way south. Some say that at night from a distance, you can see rural blazes around which unwashed children sit slack-jawed with their dreams and deepest wishes breaking down into the last gray mosaic of a still-formed ash. Wild with loss, angered by this transience and perhaps too much sour mash, crack and/or marijuana, the adults are all too tired to decide amongst themselves where life begins again.

Inside the ruined cities, existence threads through changing traffic lights strung for miles down trash-blown, potholed and abandoned boulevards. Boarded up grocery stores, the last bastions of foodstuffs and morality, are holding out from social predators who think nothing of trading their young children in for beer or wine. Vigilantes and mutated gangs hiding under tattoos peeled off an absence of moonlight, slink into garbage filled corners, incessantly puffing their violent intentions from twisted cigarette butts.

A few of us have chosen to stay behind. Those who don't are asked where they're going to which their only reply is always the same where things no longer fall down. Knowing no place like this in our atmosphere, we can only wonder where they might end up. But because there's still silence without us making noise, making other things make noise or other things making us make noise, we are hopeful. Some of us actually believe it will have a Hollywood ending where we're all saved from ourselves. For them, it might seem okay to sit back, relax and enjoy the ride, but since it's not and we shouldn't, all of us had better write ourselves into this new script just as quickly as we can, or not a one of us will be left to live the lives we tried saving for ourselves from the very beginning.

—*from Volume16; Number 1

Bitter Oleander Press, BITTER OLEANDER PRESS, POETRY, poetry, reading, Poetry,READING,reading,bitter Oleander press, WRITERS, AUTHORS, UNKNOWN POETS, POETS, poets, READING POETRY,Poets,readers,writers,authors,unknown poets, Writers

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Fayetteville, New York 13066-9776
http://www.bitteroleander.com
Email: info@bitteroleander.com

© The Bitter Oleander Press - 2001

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