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Scott Alexander Jones
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The hum of the refrigerator & wind, so let's pretend Shipbuilders & so what if the coastlines can't last— Stamps at the post office. The American poet That comes to mind is: I'm fine If prayer's cowering To stare into the yellowshot Age Man 800 & debate rainfall on ferns & not Guns or I'm so
__ Years ago, I read Carl Sagan's Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors, and I can't get it out my head that most of our species' existence was spent like the other animals out there, breathing heavily and chasing and being chased. Around the time I wrote this poem, some friends and I made a strange calculation. Say you're sitting in your living room and your father walks in through the front door and then out the back door. Immediately behind him is a vast procession of your grandfather, followed by your great-grandfather, then your great-great-grandfather, and so on. They're spaced out so that one of them walks past you every second: one one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand. How long would it take until you start seeing hunched-over ape-men grunting and howling and not looking a whole hell of a lot like us? Turns out it's about as long as watching Apocalypse Now Redux, which is a lot faster than I would have guessed. This poem was also inspired by the [human origins exhibit] at the Smithsonian in DC and [the one at the Natural History Museum in NYC], both of which could also be called atheist Vaticans. |