The Thingularity

my barber asked if I believed in evolution
“I didn’t come from no ape,” he said

I told him he came from his mother
that we all come from our mothers
although it is the paternal line
that everyone seems to focus on

my own mother, Christian, a Catholic
settled the matter when she said
that God used evolution to create us

she was a peace-maker, not a theologian

I do not have the body of my ten-year-old self
any more, but it does look a lot like
the one I had yesterday

the world of appearances percolates up
from somewhere, one supposes, in
a kind of maternal line with things
pregnant with the possibility

of thing-cum-thing, of change itself
whatever on earth that means

I get suspicious of things
when they start to seem too important
and I remember, one day a stranger

saw me all worked up and rushing around
in an aggravated bustle
and said, “relax”

Cattle, Egret

On a drive to Smith Point hawk watch a couple of years ago, still early in the day. Most livestock does not have it this good. If you can call being raised to the slaughter a good thing.

We like our steaks.

I bet cows have some poems in them, or maybe some blues tunes. I think of time passing I think of the poems that slip away unwritten.

A wordless moment, with the sun in back, and low. Cattle egret waiting for a bull to move and stir up some insects, or maybe a grass snake.

They like their snakes.

Omerta

among the driftwood, bits of plastic
a length of rope, a desiccated flip-flop
a tiny plastic shovel, a bottle cap
an age of unbridled thing-mongering
leaves a death bed confession on
a beach strewn with the corpses of
the defectors who threatened to talk