Examination of species: Homo sapiens sapien

The wretched philosoph, Duncan Björn Pettibone III once quipped before the academy of sciences, "Where there is reflection, you will find man. Hate, likewise. But where there is bullfighting, you'll find a matador."

I think that these words of Doctor Pettibone's ring especially true for the denizens of the Elm City and its neighboring bergs, what with the fantastic actions of New Haven Writer's Club. NHWC has seen its fair share of triumphs and pitfalls, but it has grown only stronger from the struggle. There is the tale of young Siri Lakshmi, alone in the swamp and enfeebled by a dose of moldering antibiotics, wandering from mangrove to mangrove, all the while uttering simply, "My work visa has been declined. My women's briefs are soiled and rotten." And what of brave Beverly, her hair aflame with madness and c'est pour vivre, howling to the Great Den Mother as she gobbled up her children, all of them crying, "Dear lord, our guts are being shorn from our lives!" And lest we forget, dear reader, our wicked and profound Urf, the moon-dove's cry and the tribal man's mystery, her many eyes glaring across the sea, shining equilibrium and praise in her song "Wallao-Wallao, for the Cnidarian's Weep," which has been etched into leaf by the poet Essarr the Senior:

Lo! What surf has collided with mine breast,
the wake has folded me beneath,
and now,
lost and destitute,
I clutch the bivalves for their sympathy and stolidness,
drunk on crocodile's nectar,
gangrenous with pitiable

masculinity
femininity
yin
yang

sweaty in-betweens
swollen tissues
bloody
such bloody
hearts

[end bard's song]

Take heed of these trials, my intrepid reader and connossieur, for you may be the only one to pass them ever along.