Origins of Life

OH:

A young child is curious about the origins of life. She asks her mom and learns about Adam and Eve. She asks her dad and learns about evolution. Confused, she returns to her mother and says: “Dad said that we are evolved from monkeys. That’s not what you said.”

Her mother replies: “I was talking about my side of the family.”

Dear Abby

Learning a lot of history now that I’m situated in the bread basket of the Civil War. Found this yesterday in a May 7, 1776 letter from Abigail Adams to her hubby.

He had shown her a draft copy of The Declaration of Independence and her response throws some shade:

“I can not say that I think you very generous to the Ladies, for whilst you are proclaiming peace and good will to Men, Emancipating all Nations, you insist upon retaining an absolute power over Wives. But you must remember that Arbitary power is like most other things which are very hard, very liable to be broken — and notwithstanding all your wise Laws and Maxims we have it in our power not only to free ourselves but to subdue our Masters, and without violence throw both your natural and legal authority at our feet.”

My poem would have

Remembering a Jim Daniels poem from the mid-eighties that articulated who I met and loved while working in kitchens. Still love the last line. Never put her down.

May’s Poem

“I want to write a poem
about something beautiful,”
I tell May, the cook.
On my break from the grill
I stand against the open kitchen door
getting stoned.

“That shit make you stupid.”
May wrinkles her forehead
in waves of disapproval.

“I don’t need to be smart
to work here.”
The grease sticks to my skin
a slimy reminder
of what my future holds.

“I thought you was gonna be
a writer. What about that
beautiful poem?”

I take a long hit
and pinch out the joint.
“You’ll end up no good
like my boy Gerald.”

“May, I’m gonna make you
a beautiful poem.” I say
and I turn and grab her
and hug her to me
pick her up
and twirl her in circles
our sweaty uniforms sticking
together, her large breasts
heaving in my face
as she laughs and laughs
and the waitresses all come back
and the dishwasher who never smiles
makes a noise that could be
half a laugh.

But she’s heavy
and I have to put her down.
The manager stands there:
“Play time’s over. Break’s over.”
Everyone walks away
goes back to work.

This isn’t my beautiful poem, I know.
My poem would have no manager
no end to breaks.
My poem would have made her lighter.
My poem would have never put her down.

Critter log: April 14, 2016

Happy to see that Marcus the groundhog has survived the winter. He has either cloned himself, fathered a fully grown groundhog, or imported his long lost brother, Quartus, to his roadside domain. Not a lot of green grasses to munch at the moment. Conspicuously missing from view this spring is Caecilius, the wild turkey that, for two years, has traversed the ridge as a lone crusader. Has he made nice-nice with the flock? Is he their new storyteller? Or is he still solo and on some spring walk-about?