Today I drove out toward Mt. Doom with an unmitigated manic wildness that had nothing to do with the fact that now, several hours before the contest closes, I have no poems to submit to Meridian's stupid poetry editor's prize. Sometimes I feel like UVA in all of its incarnations exists only to offer me various glimpses of things I might like, only then snatch them away after deeming me worthy of consideration, but ultimately too mediocre. They didn't care for my shit too much when they nominated me last year and had D.A. Powell on hand to scrutinize and dismiss my poems, so I doubt my chances are much better now. But you know, I had the occasion to read one of Mr. Powell's poems in the October edition of Poetry and I didn't care for it. Actually, I didn't care for it very much at all. So there you are.
At any rate, tearing around the backwoods, I found a little park at Augusta Springs. I wanted to go for real hiking, but the hunter's access trails were all occupied by...you know, hunters. Anyway, it's a wetlands trail over what used to be an old turn of the century hotel built on these great springs. I don't know what kind of eccentric millionaire builds a resort out past Buffalo Gap, but its crumbling remains in the woods were sort of cool to pick over. That, and the bluebirds were apparently migrating through there. I saw about fifteen of them.
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