Blog Post / Fall 2016 / Poetry 2016 / Volume 47

Stop Thinking about It and Eat Some More Damn Churros: An Ode to the Imagist–Anton Jones

If you look at poems of those initially written in cuneiform, you will only find poems of the extremely important. If you’re not divine or a king (hell, might as well be both), then you probably didn’t receive an honorable mention. And I don’t think it was because the concept of the individual wasn’t yet invented by an attention-deprived individual. We suddenly jumped to writing about anything at all. I trip over yarn trying to figure out why—whether it be that we have so many more shiny things or that the ancients left no room to talk about God. Can you blame them? They didn’t have any stuff. All they had was this cosmic rock that found lots of ways to kill them, and themselves in general. But who the hell would want to talk about us? We who boil kids in their mother’s milk (baby goats that is, we’re not savages); we who make children embrace flaming statues (wait, we did that?); we who committed genocide before it was a word (okay, maybe we are savages). So to avoid talking about our shit, shit being the euphemistic metaphor to bear the weight of our actions, we scapegoat and talk about our shiny things: roads in woods and red wheelbarrows if you’re lucky, cats and cancer if you’re not. I’m sure someone somewhere has already sat down and written one about the world’s most efficient form of churro, i.e. the toaster churro. Once talking about the Clockmaker now talking about the clock, all the while trying to hint at the one frantically checking the time. We’re only awarded a semblance of mind to know that some dude once said that the divine attributes are revealed to us through the things It created. But that too, should either makes us feel warm and fuzzy, or deeply troubled, since the Imago Dei continues to do terrible things, but, on the bright side, also discovered churros. So maybe I should write about the sleek elegance of a toaster until I find God in the spring-loaded tray that launches heavenward my perpetually burnt churros instead of dwelling on all the life my offspring will kill to sustain themselves.

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